βFurrβs Cafeteria? Every Sunday? You guys are so boring.β
Mom clutched her wounded heart and feigned a fatal blow. I was being a βreal wise guyβ at the dinner table, according to the retired Master Sergeant.
βYour mother had a life before you were born.β Not possible. The ancient silver-haired woman sitting across from me whose idea of a thrilling time was falling asleep watching βPerry Masonβ?
Enlightenment struck with memorable clarity the day I came home early from Myers Elementary to see and hear, through our screen door, the same oh-so-boring golden girl singing and slow-dancing in our living room as Ella Fitzgerald sang βTen Cents a Danceβ on the Zenith.
βI work at the Palace Ballroom, but gee that palace is cheap.
When I get back to my chilly hall room, Iβm much too tired to sleep.β
Mesmerized, I watched her through the gauzy screen as she floated around the ballroom of her imagination, like she was Ginger Rogers or something. Here before me was shocking evidence that she indeed had a life long before I was born, a life she would reveal to me, little by little, βwhen I was old enough to understand.β
βTen cents a dance, thatβs what they pay me,
Gosh how they weigh me down.β
Much to my surprise, Artha Jean had once been a beautiful 16-year old girl. Not possible. And she had been a bad girl who loved to dance so much that she fled Rockaway Beach, hitching rides in Model Ts all the way to California, to join a girlfriend in San Francisco who promised her a job dancing on a chorus line on the vaudeville circuit.
Not possible. My mom was Aunt Bea, not Ruby Keeler. She couldnβt be the same depression-era dame who competed in dance marathons, claiming, βI could dance forever. Weβd sleep standing up. People would throw coins at us! Ha. I didnβt care.β
People threw coins at the woman who made me empty my pockets into every poor box and open hand she saw. Not possible.
βThe chorus line and the marathons werenβt bringing in enough so I become a taxi dancer.β What? A dance hall dime-a-dance girl?
Every Motherβs Day, after I made a miserable breakfast and gave her a hand-scrawled card, the Master Sergeant, a man cursed with two left feet, would move the celebration to our living room, where he had set Glenn Miller loose wailing on the hi-fi. βAsk your mother to dance.β Iβd recoil in awkward horror and then weβd all go to Furrβs. Happy Motherβs Day.
I remember doing homework at the dining table one evening, watching Mom do the dishes, when βTea for Twoβ came on the radio.
βPicture you upon my knee,
Just tea for two and two for tea.β
She sprinkled a shaker full salt on the linoleum and began spinning and sliding gracefully across the salt like she was doing the shim-sham-shimmy at the Savoy Ballroom. I was seeing things. Not possible.
βCome here.β She stood me up next to her and slowly demonstrated the step.
βItβs the old soft shoe. Fred Astaire did it in βTop Hatβ.β She adored Fred. βHe used sand.β The only Fred I adored was named Flintstone. βCan I go now?β
βFind the beat. Try it. One and two andββ
After a few minutes of me frantically hopping about like Gabby Hayes being told to dance by a gunslinger, Mom stopped and sighed.βJust like your father. Well, at least you can draw. We all have our gifts.β
βWhatβs dadβs?β
βRaking gravel.β
The instant Mom heard my senior prom was days away, she asked me what the theme was.
βTheyβre going to have a big swing band and weβre ββ
βCome here. Youβre going to learn the Lindy hop. Youβll like it.β She cued up βIn the Moodβ and spun me around like we were at the Avalon Ballroom.
I stepped on her toes. I fell twice. And I didnβt like it. Mom was a natural dancer and I was simply a maladroit disappointment. Sigh.
In her 65th year, Artha Jean became bedridden and it became my responsibility to help her to the bathroom and back. Three or four times a day I would lift her into a standing position, drape her arms around my shoulders and rock her gently from side to side, as we shuffle-danced across the room.
Days before she left the world, I was waltzing her to her bathroom when she rested her head on my shoulder, like an exhausted marathon dancer, and just stood there, swaying in my arms. I followed her lead, as I had done my whole life, and danced her gently around the ballroom of her imagination. βI love to dance,β she whispered. βMe, too, Mom. Me, too.β