Barefoot Tap Dancing

After living in my previous apartment for six years, I knew every corner, creak and quirk of that place. But, when I moved into a new apartment a few months ago, I had to adjust to an unfamiliar atmosphere, particularly its noises. I've gotten accustomed to the traffic outside the window, the furnace kicking on at all hours and even the heavy-footed upstairs neighbors coming home late at night. However, one noise I was not expecting to hear is the sound of tap dancing down the length of my shotgun apartment. Although I had recently dug out my old tap shoes for a Halloween costume, the sound of dazzling dancing wasn't coming from me, it was my cat. My girl cat --not my girrrll, gay Harold, but my actual female cat, (although I wouldn't be at all shocked to find fabulous Harold tap dancing his little homo heart out)-- had gotten tiny pieces of kitty litter stuck in her toes. The sound of the litter gently hitting the hardwood floor as she walked down the hall sounded like tap shoes, and I couldn't help but giggle at the image it brought to mind (and, no, it wasn't "beer club night" - see previous posts.)

The sound of my cat's tapping took me back to the years of dance classes from my youth. But, the sound also reminded me of another cherished memory, my mother's "tap" dancing. As I've mentioned a few times before, my family, including three seemingly-girly girls, has a great appreciation for "inappropriate" jokes, bathroom humor and, as some might call it, a cheap laugh. And, with her amazing sense of humor and incredible creativity, my mom was the queen of comedy. One of her "acts" that got a laugh from us everytime (even during our sullen, unimpressed teenage years) was to tap dance without tap shoes. How? By "tapping" on her bare skin, the palm of her hands on the surface of her cheeks. Her, um, hind-end cheeks...

Yes, she posessed quite a talent, my ass-cheek-tap-dancing mom. The reason it was so funny was because of the determined but noiseless foot steps she mimicked and a sound (not from her feet!) that sounded so real! After sitting through dance recitals year after year, she actually had quite a few of the "steps" and complicated rhythms of a practiced professional. Mom was armed with nothing (no patent leather tap shoes, no glittering sequined costume) but her own anatomy, however her "shuffle" and "time step" could rival those of the great Gene Kelly or Savion Glover (almost.)

What prompted Mom to turn to the dance and invent her unique "style," I don't even remember. Perhaps she sought to live out some unrealized childhood dream of being a dancer. Perhaps all of those years watching dance classes and recitals encouraged her creative expression (in a slightly unorthodox way.) Perhaps she was trying to make her three rule-abiding, approval-seeking daughters  laugh and take life a little less seriously. Whatever her inspiration, Mom has definitely taught my sisters and me to find joy in the unexpected, humor in the ironic and to appreciate those who march to a different drummer... Or, dance with a different tap shoe, as it were...

Hiney

As the third girl and youngest child in my family, I was the lucky recipient of many, many hand-me-downs from my two older sisters growing up. But, before you make me out to be the complaining, spoiled, ungrateful "baby" of the family, I have to admit that I loved being given the trendy clothes that my sisters had outgrown. There was a treasure trove of flats in impractical colors (like turquoise,) "Flashdance"-influenced sweaters that purposely fell off the shoulder and jeans (perfect for tight-rolling) that were the style in 1986 Midwestern small-towns. What awkward, 5 foot, 6 inch, 3rd grader (me) wouldn't love that? So, growing up, my forward-thinking parents perfected the art of economical living, and I grew very accustomed to the "recyled" clothes, supplies and other materials that appeared in my life. That was, until the line was most definitely crossed.

As a survivor of the Depression era and its way of living, my grandma, like many 80+ year-olds, cannot throw away anything without guilt, and that includes the mattress she graciously lent my parents when I moved back into their home after college. Although I was grateful for grandma's kindness, I knew that the borrowed mattress was old, really old, and it wasn't comfortable. Much to my dismay, it had a rock-hard solidness that betrayed its age and a steep right-leaning "grade" like a gravel road through the Appalachian Mountains. One night, my rotund, hard-sleeping beagle, Margaret, who occasionally slept on my bed, actually rolled down the crooked mattress to the floor with a "kerplunk!" loud enough to wake everyone in the household. But, I slept on that recycled mattress for two years until my parents finally gave up on their dreams of emptying their nest and decided to replace the antique mattress with a new one. That's when the real story came out!

When Grandma heard that the old thing was being replaced, instead of arguing to keep it because someone would "find a use for it someday," she quickly agreed that it was time for it to go. Why? Well, Grandma finally revealed the original owner of the mattress. Hiney, the long-dead uncle of my grandma's friend, Clarice. Really, Grandma? The name Hiney, alone, makes me cringe in disgusted wonder. For years, someone named Hiney laid his own hiney in. My. Bed. I can't help but picture an old man wearing his dingy, gray-tinged, ten-year-old BVD's, so old that the elastic around the legs has long given out, with nothing but a thin layer of dirty, white sheets between him and that mattress. Eeww!

Realizing with intrigue and fear that the mattress might actually be older than we even suspected, my mom asked my grandma. As she began to do the math, Grandma replied to the question with, "Well, Hiney died in 1963..."  Wait, you mean, I had been sleeping on a fifty year-old mattress? You know how they say that in ten years time a mattress doubles its weight with dead skin cells and dust mites? I am purposely keeping my mind from truly picturing it, all of the hand-me-down germs, stink and other funk currently residing in my AARP-qualifying mattress. And from a guy named Hiney!

But, despite my horror about the questionable sanitation of the thing, I realized that Grandma meant well in lending me that mattress. She was just doing what her generation did, reusing, repurposing and thinking twice before throwing anything out. However, I only wish she had been a little more forthcoming about its true age and lineage. Afterall, the beloved Hiney, who was the first to rest his weary bones on that mattress more than half a century ago, as it turns out, actually DIED on it too! Awesome. Rest in peace, Hiney.

Aunt Pookie's Babies

The older of my two nephews (my baby boys) recently had his 15th birthday.  With this milestone, I can't help but think back to when my nephews were born, where I was in my own life then and what they've both meant to me.  I haven't talked much about my nephews in this blog because I want to respect their privacy.  As hormonal teens, starting in new schools, the last thing they need is their "Aunt Pookie" telling embarrassing stories about when they were babies.  But, I will anyway...

While lots of friends near my same age are having kids, thinking about kids or, in the case of a few of the gay couples, adopting kids, I find myself in a much different stage. I feel like I've already had my babies... my gorgeous nephews. My oldest sister, their mom, and I have always been close. I've mentioned before that my sister was/is very maternal and has always acted like a parent to me. When she had her babies I was in my late teens-early 20s and fortunate to be there since my parents' house was still my primary residence. Like my sister did for me when I was young, I also found myself helping to take care of her boys. Actually, my entire family pitched in, as only family can.

Since my mom babysat during the week and I was still living at home, we both got to spend a lot of time with my baby nephews. Coincidentally (or not,) this is also around the time we both came to appreciate the happiest time of the day, happy hour. Not to say that my nephews were bad children, it's just that they were/are extremely active, energetic beings, unlike those easy-going kids who sit still long enough to watch Teletubbies for the entire half hour (giving their caregivers enough to time to shower, dress and brush their teeth or, at the very least, finish off the remaining toast crusts and apple juice backwash from the kid's breakfast.) No, there were no such luxuries of quiet time while watching my athletic, argumentative, incredibly hilarious nephews.

With all of the child-rearing experience I gained when my nephews were young, in a lot of ways, I felt like a proud parent. However, my children saw me as anything but a parent or even an adult. Instead, they saw me as a peer, someone closer to their age than the adults in their acquaintance, someone who played games and tee-ball and power rangers with them all day, someone who might as well be their "slow" cousin rather than their "adult" aunt. In fact, there was a time or two when my boys tried telling on me to my mom (their grandma) when they didn't get their way during a game of tee-ball or when their slow cousin/aunt (me) may have uttered a choice four-letter word (ok, so I may have contributed to their fowl language vocabulary.) Little snitches!

As an 18 year-old aunt/slow cousin to two beautiful boys, I feel that my maternal instincts are fulfilled. My nephews, although not my own biological children, are my pride and joy. They are an extension of my family and the ones who will be taking care of me, their old, pickled aunt when she's 80. So, from now on, I better let them win a few games of tee-ball...