Saturday Mornings with Mom (My Own Personal School of Rock)

Most kids in the nineteen seventies and eighties woke up on Saturday mornings to the sounds, sights, and scents of the average American home, complete with a white picket fence and the obligatory two point five children. They scrambled down the stairs in their pajamas, yawning, stretching, hearing the sounds of cartoons and smelling the scent of bacon and eggs encompassing the house - not to mention the hint of a freshly mowed lawn creeping through the open kitchen window. Norman Rockwell would have been proud.
However, that was the not the scene at my house on Saturday mornings. No, my Saturday mornings were much different. For starters, mom and dad were divorced. So, it was just the two of us. No obligatory one point five sibling. Instead of bacon and eggs, there were pancakes made with powdered milk - both provided by our wonderful government in wonderfully bland, unmarked boxes. The peanut butter used as spread (a family staple), along with a few other ingredients, were provided by the church and sat quietly in the refrigerator alongside the cheese. Yes, the cheese that you hear about in songs and comedy routines. The cheese provided by, you guessed it, our wonderful government. To say that we were financially challenged would be an understatement. Oblivious at such a young age, I often commented to her how busy the church must be since they delivered groceries to everyone each week. She didn't have the heart to tell me that we were their only stop on the route.
Oh, but there was music! Yes, there was music of every kind and every genre. I was the only child in my neighborhood that could expound for hours on the heartfelt lyrics of Dylan and Croce while performing my best Michael Jackson moonwalk. From the Beatles to the Beach Boys, Aretha Franklin to Barbara Streisand, Stevie Wonder to the Rolling Stones. You name it, my mom owned it on beautiful vinyl, sleeve and all. Scratchy record after scratchy record was played at the loudest decibel our little Hitachi record player would allow. My Mom and I would sing and dance around the house, each doing our chores for the day. It was common to find myself dusting to Simon and Garfunkel, vacuuming to Elton John, sweeping to Loggins and Messina, and scrubbing the bathtub to the velevet, silky crooning of Marvin Gaye. While my friends were listening to whatever pretty boy happened to be the radio darling of the week, I was listening to raw recordings of Smokey Robinson. Barry Gordy would have been proud.
It's been over twenty-four years since my Mom surrendered to her battle with cancer and I still can't help but think of her each Saturday morning as my two precious inspirations dance about the house, contributing to the household chores, and singing to Grandma's old record collection. Mom would have been proud.