When my mother died, she left behind boxes of minutiae and memories, among them: programs from every play I’d done, all her driver’s licenses, birthday cards, an early letter of employment, and Dad’s faded company ID. There were old bank books, mortgage records, hundreds of photos, and tiny newspaper clippings of obituaries for people I never knew. And, my record collection.
As a little kid, I had a collection of 45-inch children’s records with titles like “The Syncopated Clock”, “Here We Go Loopy Loo” and “The Little Blue Man”. After my mother did the housework, she sometimes put one of my records on our stereo console. Then I climbed into her soft aproned lap and we listened together. “The Little Blue Man”, on the record’s A-side, was about a small blue guy who stalked a woman, insisting he “wuved” her. She tried to ditch him which was weird because he was imaginary. At the end of the song, she threw him off a roof, and he shouted “I don’t wuv you anymore” as he fell to his imaginary death. My parents thought it was cute. My mother played that side the most, certain that I loved it too.
But I really loved the B-side: “Mighty Like a Rose” sung by Paul Robeson. I didn’t understand why my mother hesitated when I asked her to play it. Maybe it was because the song made me cry. The moment Robeson’s liquid baritone opened with - “Sweetest little fella, everybody knows. Don’t know what to call him but he’s mighty like a Rose” - my insides melted and my eyes welled up. His silky voice was the most delicious thing I’d ever heard. By the song's end, my mother’s apron bib was soaked and I was utterly wrung out. It was cathartic. And I wanted more.
I begged my mother to replay the song. Occasionally she did. Once I got her to play it three times. But right after that, she slid me off her lap, closed the record player, and said firmly “No more, enough now”. I sat beside the silent stereo, an ache in my chest. How could she stop the music when we were having such a good time?
Puberty descended on me like a fire curtain. My mother seemed more distant. I knew my parents were proud of me, their only child. I brought home good marks in English Lit and History. I played the piano for guests when asked. But my mother and dad seemed as lost as I was when raging hormones sent me on emotional roller coaster rides. Discovering the drama room and school plays gave me a new outlet for my furies and hopefully, temporary relief for my parents.
At the same time, I discovered my Dad’s beer. After he and my mother were in bed, I snuck some down to the basement rec room where I drank to Joni Mitchell’s “River”. I imagined myself skating away from it all down a cold frozen river, even though I hated skating. I enrolled in a college theatre program and started smoking. One of my special talents was crying on cue
I fled from my parents’ place to a moist basement apartment on Vancouver’s east side complete with two roommates and an army of centipedes. Now I drank whenever I wanted. Over glasses of red, when the others were out, I played Janis Ian’s “At Seventeen”, for hours on the living room turntable. “I learned the truth at Seventeen, that Love was meant for beauty queens”. Janis knew how disappointing life was.
Playing regional theatres across the country and living out of a suitcase in my twenties left me untethered. When “Fast Car” was released, it became my new anthem. Tracy Chapman’s hit about young dreams dashed by reality and a drunken partner was the cautionary tale I wish I’d learned before I rushed headlong into a doomed early marriage.
Looking for practical solutions to my inner chaos, I switched from wine to Scotch. Unlike my mother, Scotch didn’t draw the line and tell me to go dry my eyes. Scotch said, c’mon, let’s go again, we’ve only just gotten started. Scotch was always there, and not in a good way. Scotch and I finally broke up in the early 90s. Finally, isolated, empty, and bankrupt, I knew it was over between us. Scotch had become my Little Blue Man. And like, the woman on the record, I threw him, with the help of some trusted friends, right off a roof.
I found that same record still in its ragged paper sleeve among my mother’s things. Though the turntable was long gone, I looked them up online. Robeson’s version of “Mighty Like a Rose” was still beautiful. But I didn’t cry and I didn’t need to replay it endlessly. Now there were other songs I loved as well.
I also found a small apron in that box. My mom made it for me - a miniature copy of her Sunday Best with the same cheery blue cornflower pattern and puffy skirt. Every Sunday evening, Dad cued up Mantovani’s “Greensleeves” on the stereo and sat at the table. And Mom and I served him Roast Beef dinner in our matching aprons.
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