I read this morning that a fire ravaged the old Brown Hotel up in the Catskills. I can’t recall ever spending Passover or late summer there with my family. In fact I’m pretty sure we stayed at a lesser hotel down the road and would trudge over to the Brown, walk the lobby and check out the evening entertainment. Maybe it was on the parquet floor at the Brown’s hotel where I danced with my father. Wearing new patent leather shoes that pinched and new stockings that felt so strange, I’d be whisked across the floor while a band played a smooth fox trot. We were a team then. My right hand cupped in his, the left side of my rib cage alert to the slightest shift in pressure, saying I’m taking you here now. Here comes a dip. And now, a fancy shuffle move to impress your Mom.