I went to my first ceili Saturday night, at the Irish American Heritage Center here in Chicago. The band was my whistle teacher’s new one, The Sprigs. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it turned out to be a fabulously fun night. My 10-year-old son agreed to go along on the condition that he DID NOT have to dance, though my 14-year-old daughter and her friend were willing to try in exchange for several orders of mozarella sticks. But a few rounds of kiddie cocktails loosened up even my son, and by the end of the night he did not even want to leave: “Come on, mom! Let’s do one more!” The mainly very experienced dancers in the room were kindly tolerant of us as we took a corner of the floor and tried to copy what we saw. I loved it all: the spinning, the stomping, the elegance amid the heartiness–and I might add, the surging joy of high fun with the kids. A great night–hope to have lots more like it.
I only know one other ceili story, about a certain whistle teacher of my acquaintance who shall remain nameless, who as a young boy at a ceili decided with a friend of his to place small holes in the bottom of each of the cups stacked up by the water keg, and then watched with not-very-well disguised glee when the unsuspecting thirsty dancers had their shoes sprinkled with water. 
So…any ceili stories to share?
Carol
), but I’ve played at a number of 'em. There was the time when I was the only melody instrument, and fortunately was able to muster volume enough on the flute for the job (this particular céilí is always “unplugged”), and later there arrived a backup player with heart of gold and ears of clay. Even the dancers would pause on occasion and furrow their brows at him. But I just had to play as if he weren’t there, and it worked out in the end. At one point I had to turn to him and say, “[inset name here], I need you to apply your ears! Otherwise it’s not working.” It still hasn’t sunk in…