Imagine if we could “twist again like we did last summer.”
It seems like a million years since I last heard that Chubby Checker song.
And it seems a million more since I last watched my mother lose herself on the dance floor to it. At the opening patter of drums, she’d spring from her seat, arms flailing, fingers snapping.
It didn’t matter if we were at a wedding, a backyard bash or her very last birthday party, when she was recovering from a yearlong case of MRSA and about to be diagnosed with cancer, she danced like no one was watching.
Always, she was joined by my aunt. The two would twist and spin and smile to the heavens. And how I miss watching that.
They say smells trigger fond memories, but nothing takes me back like music.
Perhaps because my mother was more likely to spin records than stir a mixing bowl when we were growing up, I have a deep connection to the music of her era. Gary Puckett and the Union Gap, Frank Sinatra, Aretha Franklin.
I am still moved by that music and still grateful for that. Recently, at a Four Tops/Temptations concert, I sang with abandon in honor of my mother. “Sugar pie, honey bunch…”
Not that she and I always saw eye to eye. We were very different humans. She was often timid and self-doubting. I believed the world was mine to explore.
She was afraid to drive to new places, and absolutely terrified of the expressways. As soon as her back was turned, I was chauffeuring my friends to Great America.
Meeting new people and making small talk made her nervous. I chose a career that would require me to do both on a daily basis.
And while she never acquired a love or affinity for domestic skills, I’ve devoted a lifetime to learning as much as I can about cooking and gardening.
Suffice it to say we were as different as, I suppose, many mothers and daughters are.
But we shared several common interests: A love for reading, for journalism, for “Jeopardy,” for theater and for word puzzles.
And, of course, music.
I have fond memories of her spinning records on the hi-fi, of us watching performances of “Riverdance,” “Wicked” and “Camelot” together at downtown Chicago theaters, and of her getting down at weddings and parties.
One Christmas, at Chicago’s Symphony Hall for “Christmas in Chicago,” she heeded the conductor’s command to sing along, with abandon.
She enjoyed music. And I enjoyed watching her enjoy it.
As kids, we’d often catch her belting out the wrong lyrics. And, as kids are known to do, we’d laugh and then correct her.
“Mom, it’s ‘you can call it another lonely day,’ not ‘you can call it thunder lonely day.’”
Or, “Mom, it’s ‘rock me, rock me, a little while,’ not “doo-wop, doo-wop, a little while.’”
Music serves many purposes. It can comfort, energize, commiserate, and, if you’re a teenager with a mom who doesn’t hold back, embarrass the tarnation out of you.
It’s mortifying to hear your mother belt out Engelbert Humperdinck’s “After the Lovin’” or Barbra Streisand’s “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers,” especially if she and your dad have just had a loud argument.
During our teen years, music became a source of friction between generations.
Although my mother had a broad tolerance for “controversial” topics when it came to books and motion pictures, there was one theme she would not allow: Anything that promoted or normalized drug use. The politics of the day warned repeatedly about the dangers of gateway drugs and, like a DEA agent, my mother was on top of it.
One Saturday afternoon, my brother was playing Blue Oyster Cult in his bedroom.
“Agents of Fortune” spun on the turntable behind a closed door.
In the kitchen, my mother paused her cooking, crooked her head to give a listen and then sprinted to shut this “insanity” down.
Bang, bang, bang on the bedroom door. “Stop that song right now,” she yelled.
My brother cracked the door and asked why.
“I know what they’re saying. I won’t have that kind of music in my house,” she screamed.
I joined the argument in defense of the album.
“What kind of music?” I asked.
“That drug stuff. ‘Come on, baby, let’s go share some reefer!’” she sputtered. “Turn it off now.”
My brother and I burst into laughter, which only made her angrier.
“Turn. It. Off,” she yelled.
“Mom, they’re not saying, ‘Share some reefer,’” my brother said, showing her the liner notes.
They’re saying, ‘Don’t fear the reaper.’”
She scanned the words, paused to consider and silently turned on her heel.
Years later, while I was driving her to the mall, Blue Oyster Cult came on my car radio.
As we turned into the parking lot, I heard my mother croon, “Seasons don’t fear the reaper. Nor do the wind or the sun or the rain.”
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
