Our grandmother egged us on in the fantasy; the five sisters, and two girl cousins. We did everything in a pack. Of course, there were occasional squabbles and meanness. But overall, there was a sense of solidarity and community. There were enough of us to stage plays, have exciting card games, and play team scrabble. At Mama’s house there were strict rules. No talking during Lawrence Welk. That was how we got the idea. We would be the next Lennon sisters.

The older girls took charge, coming up with the play list, and drawing elaborate costumes. The part about hitting the big time was easy – we just had to sing, loudly, in public, riding in cars, anytime we got the chance. Sooner or later, and this was what would make it a great story, we would be “discovered”.

As the hot Texas summer dragged on we became desperate but not despondent. The most extreme plan was to lie down flat in the street. Lawrence Welk would screech to a halt, and we would jump up and burst into song.

Meanwhile, while we were waiting to become famous, Mama had us practice our singing. She had a flair for the dramatic; gathering us around her elaborately carved Victorian bed. Plumping up the pillows, and arranging her white hair as she lit a cigarette, she gave us our stage directions. “Sara Francis, you stand over there, Mary Ellen, get over on this other side, you little ones get up close where I can see you.”

“ Now when you sing the part about the silver spade, I want to see you really digging, and when you sing about the golden crown, put your hands up high like this, and wave your fingers, like you’re wearing a crown on your head.”

We gathered ‘round and sang her favorite song with all our hearts: “You Can Dig My Grave with a Silver Spade”, (‘cause I ain’t gonna be here much longer!) Mama cried, like she always did, and asked if we could sing it just one more time.

Singing with the Boys

This is still rough, and I probably won't enter it, but I had fun writing it:


My grandsons, Aden and Abram, love to get me to sing. This is funny to me because my youngest son, Eli, used to cover my mouth with his hand when he was little whenever I'd begin to sing!

We'll be driving along, my little boys and I, and Aden will shout, "Sing the Spider Song, Bubbe!" I'll start "The Eencey Weencey Spider," and their sweet little three and four year old voices will join in. From there, it's Abram saying, "Sing the doggie song," which brings about "How Much is that Doggie in the Window."

Eventually, they run out of ideas - but not really."Sing the Daddy Song, Bubbe!" one will say, and I'll reply, "I don't know the Daddy Song- sing it to me instead."

"No," Aden says, "YOU sing it."

Abram will chime in, "You sing it, you sing it!"

So, I'll make up a tune and sing, "Oh, I love my Daddy so, he's the greatest daddy I know. He reads me books; he can even cook. I love my daddy so."

From there, we have to sing the Mommy Song, the Bubbe Song, the Papa Song, the Auntie Song, the Uncle Song, and whatever else they can think of.

One recent day, we also had their little brother, Khalil, in the car. He's right at 13 months, and a tell-tale smell began to emanate from the back seat. Aden said, "Sing the POOP Song, Bubbe!"

Abram began to laugh and mimic his brother, "Yes, sing the POOP Song, sing it, Bubbe!' So what's a grandmother to do? Of course, she must sing the Poop Song:

"My baby brother pooped his pants, poo-pah, poooo-pah.
He's stinking up my bubbe's car, poo-pah, poo-pah.
Aden and Abram are holding their noses 'cause I'm telling you
it doesn't smell like roses!
My baby brother pooped his pants in Bubbe's car today....HEY!"

We laugh and laugh and sing it over and over until everyone knows it. Even the baby "culprit" is cracking up, not really knowing exactly why, but enjoying himself just the same, holding his nose, too.

My daughter and son-in-law, I'm sure, love it when their boys return home and begin to sing, but really, isn't that what bubbes are for?

Singing (my entry to THE SUN magazine)

Singing

It was New Years Eve, 1959. We were traveling a long stretch of highway, and my parents were singing.

After a few regulars we all sang together (“Chattanooga Choo Choo” and “She’ll be Coming ‘Round the Mountain”); after the usual tattling (“He’s on my side! Make him move his foot!”) we back seat riders would fall asleep. Then the love songs would start.

“You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” they’d sing. Their harmony was the soundtrack of every road trip.

“This is something you should be awake for,” our father said, rousing us from sleep. “Right this very minute, a new decade is being born.”

With no seat belts to restrain us, my brother and I turned around and gazed out the back window of the Pontiac. I wanted fireworks,a bright neon light in the sky--something!--to mark the passing of the Fifties and the birth of the Sixties. But the only light on that dark two-lane highway that night was the beam of our own headlights.

I stayed wide awake for the rest of the trip, turning my memories of the Fifties over and over in my mind, saying my own private good-bye to my first whole decade.

Nothing changed that night, but we all agreed--the stars were brighter than ever before. When they began to sing again, their first song of 1960 was the one that reminded us of their stories of wartime romance. “I’ll be loving you, Always. With a love that’s true, Always.” We knew well that this was “their song”--a relic of a decade before we were born.

At the age of 80, our father died of pneumonia. A month earlier, his doctor had assured him he had the “heart of a forty-year-old.” A month earlier, I’d been playing the piano at their house, and he’d stood behind me singing, his voice as strong as his heart.

After the machines were disconnected and the lines on the monitor told us he was leaving, we stood in a circle around his bed, bereft. My throat was too tight to speak, much less sing.

But our mother, saying good-bye to the love of her life, held his hands. “It’s been a great trip,” she told him. And then--incredibly--she began to sing. Her voice was remarkably strong and beautiful. “I’ll be loving you, Always,” she sang. “With a love that’s true, Always.”

The nurses who had cared for him and hoped, along with us, that his lungs would clear, were attracted by the sound of my mother’s singing. They stood with us until the lines on the monitor went flat. One of his friends said, “He was a giant of a man.”

Even when he was unable to sing, she sang for them both. What I heard, what I’ll never forget, is the echo of both their voices, a harmony that I carry with me always.

Hi Everybody!

I can hardly wait to hear about Iowa, Janet and Deb!

I've been away from the blog for a bit--working on a DVD for my mother's 85th birthday. I just posted the piece I wrote today for the READERS WRITE section of The Sun. The topic for this month is SINGING--and you have almost a month to do yours.