Post by Radrook Admin on Jan 14, 2023 23:10:05 GMT -5
Memory 9: Mother and her Dancing
All of us have our propensities and our weakness. For some, it might be food which could endanger their health via obesity. For others it can be alcohol which slowly damages their liver leading to a premature death. For still others it might be the irresistible urge to take life- endangering risks via mountain climbing. But to my mother it was her inexorable need to dance.
It always baffled me since, although I am a musician, I am totally averse to dancing. One reason is that I am shy and don’t like to draw attention to myself. The other is that I tend to see it as a rather illogical activity. After all, why are the people moving their bodies just because a certain sound is going on?
I sometimes pondered how non-dancing aliens might see us if they beheld us moving that way in response to sound. I imagined them puzzled and unable to come up with a satisfying explanation. So the fervid, and seemingly-unstoppable urge to go dancing every weekend or to suddenly break out dancing to a Rumba or a Mambo, just seemed weird to me.
“You don’t know what you are missing!” my mother would say.
“Dancing is one of the greatest pleasures a human being can experience! I hear a little bit of music, and my legs start to quiver in anticipation and I can barely control them.”
Still, I remained unconvinced and figured that for some people it might be but never for me. The most I ever attempted to dance were Boleros, a very slow dance with extremely minimal foot-movement and lots of hugging. Even then I had trouble.
Now, dancing isn’t usually associated with danger. People dance all the time and unless the entire floor collapses in a heap taking all dancers with it, as it did in Israel during a wedding one time, or unless a fight breaks out, or unless one decides to dance on ice or an extremely slippery floor, there is no problem.
The problem is that we humans tend to create problems when none should be present. For example, my mother used to wear these extremely long high-heeled shoes which she had initially spent weeks learning to walk with. You know, the ones that are extremely tilted upwards at the heel and the shoe heel is very narrow? Well, she became so skilled in dancing with those, that it became second-nature. She’d Merengue, mambo , cha cha, and usually out-dance younger women at the party. It was something she was very proud of and would constantly boast about. Never suffered a fall during those dancing occasions.
Well, it just so happened that my father had invited this fellow-worker to dinner, and the apartment had not been mopped yet. So what does my mother do? She puts on high heels in order to look elegant, and simultaneously begins waxing the floor. But that wasn’t suffice. She needed to put on a long-play record by the then-famous Cuban Mambo king, Perez Prado, who’s signature expression during performances was to yell “Dilo!” which translated means “Say it!”. It really didn’t sound like Dilo! In the fervid heat of the performance, it sounded more like a shouted grunting of “Ugh!”.
Well, she put on the record and began mopping while dancing on high heels. My father quietly observed while frowning for a while, and then began shaking his head.
“You are applying wax to that floor while wearing high heels and dancing at the same time?” he finally said.
“Yes, that is exactly what I am doing. So?”
“So? Hay virgen! You are going to slip and fall, that’s the so! In what human mind does it occur to place wax on the floor and then begin dancing on it in high heels?”
“Well, if I can’t dance while I am mopping, then you will have to mop because I need something to take my mind off the mopping.”
“So you can’t wait? Why don’t you dance after the floor is dried?”
“This is the way I am going to do it, and ya!”
“Okay! You can’t say I didn’t tell you--right?”
“Ah come on! Life has to be lived! Los muertos para el hoyo y los vivos para el pimpoyo” [The dead to the grave and the living to activity!”]
“There he is! He just arrived!" My father said looking down at the housing-projects parking lot from our eleventh-floor window. He had described his son, me, as being only eight years old in order to appear more youthful. Unfortunately, I was eleven and looked eleven. So he didn’t want his friend to see me.
“Go to your room and stay there and don’t come out no matter what until he is gone?” he told me. Of course I felt pretty bad about that since the visit might last maybe two hours. But off I went to my room while my mom continued her effusive dance-mopping combo. The floors were still wet when the guest finally arrived at our door.
“Hey, we were expecting you! Come in come in!” I heard my father say. That was followed by my mother’s welcoming comments. The Mambo music was still blaring. when I heard footsteps in the apartment hallway approaching the main bedroom. I heard Perez Prado yell out “Dilo!” and suddenly: BALLLAAAAM! A tremendous explosion as if from a double-barreled shotgun in the hallways right in front of my bedroom door. True, they had told me not to show my face no matter what, but this powerful sound was just too much and I opened the door to see what the hell was going on.
Well, there, flat on her back, all dressed up in her high heels with the mop lying next to her and with the back of one hand on her forehead and the other on her hip, as if in an effort to look elegant, was my mother with a grimace of agony on her face. A moment later my father and the guest had rushed to her side.
“Que Paso?" What happened my father said. The guest took one suspicious look at me and asked:
“Is this your son?”
“Oh yes this is my son.” my father responded sheepishly.
"He is eight years old?"
"Yes he is eight years old"
“He doesn’t look eight years old!”
“Oh that’s because he is big for his age!”
“Oh really?” the guest said suspiciously.
“Would you have the decency to help me get up!” my mother groaned with a forced smile that resembled a pain-induced grimace while sill maintaining the hand on the hip and the other on the forehead as if trying to look elegant. .
“I told you that you were going to fall if you danced on a waxed floor with those shoes. Didn’t I tell you-eh? But you never listen until your cabeza hits the laja. [ your head hits the flat stone].
“Can we talk about this later? Right now I just want a helping hand to get up?” she said impatiently. The tone was getting angry, so finally, my father decided that to help her to her feet was the course of wisdom.
“Are you OK?” he finally asked.
“You ask me if I’m OK after all that time? I need to go to the hospital.”
“Well sorry about all this” but I have to take her to the hospital,” he very apologetically told the guest. Maybe we can get together some other time.”
The man left, and that’s when all hades broke loose!
“How dare you apologize to him for needing to take me to the hospital! What’s more important? My health or his visit?”
“No, I didn‘t mean--”
“No, you never mean anything, do you Hipolito? Just like you didn’t mean leaving me flat on my back on the floor for all that time while you explained how old Nelson is, right?
“I told you not to dance on that floor! How many times did I tell you that? Eh?”
"I wasn’t dancing when I fell!”
“I saw you taking some mambo-steps in hallway on your way to the bedroom!”
“Bueno, a lo hecho pecho! What’s done is done!” she responded.
With that they went to the hospital, and she was diagnosed with a bruised coccyx. Never again did she dare to dance on a waxed, and wet floor. However, on a dry floor, she remained the rage of the party.
All of us have our propensities and our weakness. For some, it might be food which could endanger their health via obesity. For others it can be alcohol which slowly damages their liver leading to a premature death. For still others it might be the irresistible urge to take life- endangering risks via mountain climbing. But to my mother it was her inexorable need to dance.
It always baffled me since, although I am a musician, I am totally averse to dancing. One reason is that I am shy and don’t like to draw attention to myself. The other is that I tend to see it as a rather illogical activity. After all, why are the people moving their bodies just because a certain sound is going on?
I sometimes pondered how non-dancing aliens might see us if they beheld us moving that way in response to sound. I imagined them puzzled and unable to come up with a satisfying explanation. So the fervid, and seemingly-unstoppable urge to go dancing every weekend or to suddenly break out dancing to a Rumba or a Mambo, just seemed weird to me.
“You don’t know what you are missing!” my mother would say.
“Dancing is one of the greatest pleasures a human being can experience! I hear a little bit of music, and my legs start to quiver in anticipation and I can barely control them.”
Still, I remained unconvinced and figured that for some people it might be but never for me. The most I ever attempted to dance were Boleros, a very slow dance with extremely minimal foot-movement and lots of hugging. Even then I had trouble.
Now, dancing isn’t usually associated with danger. People dance all the time and unless the entire floor collapses in a heap taking all dancers with it, as it did in Israel during a wedding one time, or unless a fight breaks out, or unless one decides to dance on ice or an extremely slippery floor, there is no problem.
The problem is that we humans tend to create problems when none should be present. For example, my mother used to wear these extremely long high-heeled shoes which she had initially spent weeks learning to walk with. You know, the ones that are extremely tilted upwards at the heel and the shoe heel is very narrow? Well, she became so skilled in dancing with those, that it became second-nature. She’d Merengue, mambo , cha cha, and usually out-dance younger women at the party. It was something she was very proud of and would constantly boast about. Never suffered a fall during those dancing occasions.
Well, it just so happened that my father had invited this fellow-worker to dinner, and the apartment had not been mopped yet. So what does my mother do? She puts on high heels in order to look elegant, and simultaneously begins waxing the floor. But that wasn’t suffice. She needed to put on a long-play record by the then-famous Cuban Mambo king, Perez Prado, who’s signature expression during performances was to yell “Dilo!” which translated means “Say it!”. It really didn’t sound like Dilo! In the fervid heat of the performance, it sounded more like a shouted grunting of “Ugh!”.
Well, she put on the record and began mopping while dancing on high heels. My father quietly observed while frowning for a while, and then began shaking his head.
“You are applying wax to that floor while wearing high heels and dancing at the same time?” he finally said.
“Yes, that is exactly what I am doing. So?”
“So? Hay virgen! You are going to slip and fall, that’s the so! In what human mind does it occur to place wax on the floor and then begin dancing on it in high heels?”
“Well, if I can’t dance while I am mopping, then you will have to mop because I need something to take my mind off the mopping.”
“So you can’t wait? Why don’t you dance after the floor is dried?”
“This is the way I am going to do it, and ya!”
“Okay! You can’t say I didn’t tell you--right?”
“Ah come on! Life has to be lived! Los muertos para el hoyo y los vivos para el pimpoyo” [The dead to the grave and the living to activity!”]
“There he is! He just arrived!" My father said looking down at the housing-projects parking lot from our eleventh-floor window. He had described his son, me, as being only eight years old in order to appear more youthful. Unfortunately, I was eleven and looked eleven. So he didn’t want his friend to see me.
“Go to your room and stay there and don’t come out no matter what until he is gone?” he told me. Of course I felt pretty bad about that since the visit might last maybe two hours. But off I went to my room while my mom continued her effusive dance-mopping combo. The floors were still wet when the guest finally arrived at our door.
“Hey, we were expecting you! Come in come in!” I heard my father say. That was followed by my mother’s welcoming comments. The Mambo music was still blaring. when I heard footsteps in the apartment hallway approaching the main bedroom. I heard Perez Prado yell out “Dilo!” and suddenly: BALLLAAAAM! A tremendous explosion as if from a double-barreled shotgun in the hallways right in front of my bedroom door. True, they had told me not to show my face no matter what, but this powerful sound was just too much and I opened the door to see what the hell was going on.
Well, there, flat on her back, all dressed up in her high heels with the mop lying next to her and with the back of one hand on her forehead and the other on her hip, as if in an effort to look elegant, was my mother with a grimace of agony on her face. A moment later my father and the guest had rushed to her side.
“Que Paso?" What happened my father said. The guest took one suspicious look at me and asked:
“Is this your son?”
“Oh yes this is my son.” my father responded sheepishly.
"He is eight years old?"
"Yes he is eight years old"
“He doesn’t look eight years old!”
“Oh that’s because he is big for his age!”
“Oh really?” the guest said suspiciously.
“Would you have the decency to help me get up!” my mother groaned with a forced smile that resembled a pain-induced grimace while sill maintaining the hand on the hip and the other on the forehead as if trying to look elegant. .
“I told you that you were going to fall if you danced on a waxed floor with those shoes. Didn’t I tell you-eh? But you never listen until your cabeza hits the laja. [ your head hits the flat stone].
“Can we talk about this later? Right now I just want a helping hand to get up?” she said impatiently. The tone was getting angry, so finally, my father decided that to help her to her feet was the course of wisdom.
“Are you OK?” he finally asked.
“You ask me if I’m OK after all that time? I need to go to the hospital.”
“Well sorry about all this” but I have to take her to the hospital,” he very apologetically told the guest. Maybe we can get together some other time.”
The man left, and that’s when all hades broke loose!
“How dare you apologize to him for needing to take me to the hospital! What’s more important? My health or his visit?”
“No, I didn‘t mean--”
“No, you never mean anything, do you Hipolito? Just like you didn’t mean leaving me flat on my back on the floor for all that time while you explained how old Nelson is, right?
“I told you not to dance on that floor! How many times did I tell you that? Eh?”
"I wasn’t dancing when I fell!”
“I saw you taking some mambo-steps in hallway on your way to the bedroom!”
“Bueno, a lo hecho pecho! What’s done is done!” she responded.
With that they went to the hospital, and she was diagnosed with a bruised coccyx. Never again did she dare to dance on a waxed, and wet floor. However, on a dry floor, she remained the rage of the party.