By Peggy Sturdivant

At first glance it might seem like just one of many interesting pairings on the dance floor for the Monday night Waltz, Etc. at Lake City Way Community Center. A woman about whom absolutely nothing is ordinary, widely known for her real-time reports from the police scanner dancing with the shorter 100 year-old man. Interesting doesn’t even scratch the surface.

At the invitation of Ballard’s Lauri Miller, better known as Silver, I left Ballard after dinner on a Monday to witness just one of many birthday celebrations for Bob Dreisbach’s 100th birthday. She’d hooked me with the words, “He wrote the book on poisons.” I was hoping that would be written on the Larsen’s sheet cake.

I arrived during the birthday dance. Family members and dancers were in a circle watching as woman after woman cut in on the small, dancing man in the middle. When a man approached the birthday boy pushed them away. After all it was Dreisbach’s dance, even if it was four hours short of the big day. Miller said he’s her favorite partner, especially on Monday nights at the Waltz, Etc. Miller is half of Dreisbach’s age but he doesn’t hold it against her as a dance partner.

Dreisbach really did write the book on poison, “Handbook on Poisoning.” Since the advent of poison control hotlines his book, in its 13th edition since 1955, has been the go-to resource. His daughter shared an anecdote about the time she needed to call the hotline because she couldn’t reach her dad and her son had eaten something he shouldn’t. Her son, now 35 survived, as did Bob Dreisbach, even though he did things like test strychnine doses on himself. He managed to achieve the dose necessary to temporarily paralyze his legs. “Your legs aren’t frozen now,” someone yelled.

Miller says the reason Dreisbach is one of her favorite partners is that he talks while they dance. He tells her stories about his life, in which his successes seem accidental and his sense of humor as charming as his life. He claims writing “Handbook of Poisoning” was just two years of summarizing abstracts and “unmerciful padding.” His daughter who took the microphone from him during a birthday tribute to add his honorary membership from British Crime Writers (helping them to kill of so many) and family parties interrupted by detectives needing his advice.

An avid hiker and bicyclist Dreisbach also wrote “Outdoors Seattle.” Since being widowed, and losing his companion Virginia, Dreisbach, called just Bob by everyone, lives next door to his favorite dance venue in Lake City. He also takes the bus or gets a ride to other dance nights; he’s a regular at Century Ballroom’s Waltz Café downtown.

On the eve of Dreisbach’s birthday the dance floor was filled with friends and family members, all the way down to a great-grandchild. There was an actual line of women waiting to dance with him. Dreisbach would waltz a bit and then sit down, but briefly. Given the microphone by dance master Zachariah Cassidy he was happy to share yet more stories, but there wasn’t time for all the ones Miller had previewed for me, the cow intubation, Stanford teaching days, camping by Mt. St. Helens just before the blast, hiking in Europe, an accident with an axe, pranks galore.

When Miller finally got her chance to dance with him, after the cake and the speeches, they demonstrated a move they call the Dreisbach Whiplash. There was no slow motion for me to be able to capture it on camera or even describe it better. I can only say they’re both very light on their feet, the twirl part makes Miller’s skirt flare out and sudden stop does cause the neck to jerk. I suspect “Dreisbach’s Handbook on Dancing” could be in the works, if Bob Dreisbach ever gets enough time between partners.