She’s Got Rhythm

It’s funny how little things trigger an emotion that pushes the flood gates open wide. I’m of the opinion that most folks think of emotion being unleashed when there is a barrage of tears. I think deep seeded emotions unleash much greater things than that. They sometimes act like a camera and reveal different angles of life and help us focus on the bigger picture – even making sense of things we may never have seen or understood before.

Today I was dust mopping – a menial task – sending a cloud of tiny dirt particles floating in the air. That stirred up memories of my mother. It brought a realization to me that my mother had rhythm. In anything she did, there was a consistent beat. 

We had an old dust mop when I was a kid. I didn’t have to see Mama dust mopping to know what she was doing. There would be a swoosh-swoosh and then a few clicks. She would push the mop, lift it and shake it a little bit. The loose mop head would bobble on the end of the stick and make a clicking noise. Over and over she would push the mop, lift, shake it and go again. I can hear it right now. 

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We waxed floors back then. Mama took a can of paste wax and a rag, got down on her hands and knees and applied wax to the floor in a consistent clockwise motion. We kids were assigned the task of buffing the floor. After we donned a pair of socks, we ran and slid until the wood floor was slick like ice and almost shiny enough to see our reflection. 

It didn’t matter what Mama did, there was rhythm. She was never flippant in any of her actions – there was always a purpose, a rhyme or a reason. If she was reading, she had a constant rhythm as she snapped the lower right-hand corner of the page. It was quite annoying. She would get the old sewing machine going with the consistent beat of the treadles, all movement and humming evenly spaced. She loved to dance, though we didn’t see if often. My granddad would get out his fiddle and make it sing while mama danced the Shoddish, or moved to a tune like “O Dem Golden Slippers” or “Put Your Little Foot.” Mama whistled and liked to sing. Neither were appreciated some of the time, especially early in the morning. Even her handwriting was melodic. 

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It was fascinating to watch Mama make bread. She put ingredients in a big bowl, grabbed a big slotted spoon and started a repetitive motion as she half stirred, half slapped the spoon up and down. I can still hear the rhythm of the spoon as she beat the air into the dough. When she kneaded the dough, it was a very precise beat. She folded over a portion of the dough while turning it counter-clockwise with the right hand as she pushed the dough with the heel of her left hand. Her movements were synchronized, not missing a beat. 

If she had gum – watch out. It would snap, crackle and pop in rhythm. If she was using the mixer or beating egg whites by hand, ironing, curling her hair, bouncing a baby, painting, coloring, writing a letter, or whatever she did, there was that same consistency – that harmonic progression. 

She composed beautiful music inspired by each menial task, the rhythmic works of her hands and heart composing the final cadences that continues to sing its song in our memories.