Looking out my Backdoor: Confessions

Some say confession is good for the soul, and growing up Catholic, I’m a believer. Here is something I seldom talk about. First, though, the catalyst.

For the past week, on my sunrise walk with Lola, I’ve been singing. Here is what you need to understand. I don’t sing. Ever.

I love music. Songs weave through my days, mostly in my head. Silently. I don’t allow the songs to exit my mouth. Unlike bad words which squeak through frequently and often appropriately. My fear of being caught singing is more than any fear of ugly language.

This fear began at an early age. It started with my grandma. In her defense, she had no notion of the damage she was doing. “Don’t sing. You are just like your mother.”

My mother left home for the State Hospital when I was four. That was 1949. State Hospitals in any state were not a nice place to be in those days.

I suspect everybody watched me like a hawk, looking for signs. I lived with that fear. My mother never left State Care. A counselor whom I was seeing in the ’80s explained to me that if I were like my mother, it would have shown up in early days.

You cannot imagine the freedom, the relief, the right to live given to me by that lovely woman that day.

I have my own problems, of course, my own ways of going do-lally. Most of them quite fun.

Back to singing. Grade school, music class. “Honey, maybe you should just mouth the words,” as the teacher stood me in the back row where I wouldn’t be noticed. I noticed. I also noticed the pretty blonde girls with curly hair and starched store-bought dresses in the front row. I have no defense for that.

High school choir in church. I was in the choir loft because I was expected to be. Praying that nobody could hear me as I sang as quietly as possible. One day somebody in the congregation told me, “I heard you singing this morning and your voice is so lovely.”

It wasn’t me. It was Janet. Janet really did have a lovely voice. I don’t remember my reply. I remember the shame.

I sang to my babies. Always. Every day. They didn’t mind. We sang together. Until a certain age.

This singing to the sunrise is a strange anomaly. The first three days it was, “What the world needs now, is love, sweet love.” I knew most of the words.

Following mornings brought forth “Let there be peace on earth,” and we all know the words to that catchy tune.

“Look for the bare necessities, the simple bare necessities,” from “Jungle Book” came next. “Forget about your worries and your strife. The bare necessities of life will come to you.” Words of wisdom from a round bear. This song always makes me want to sing. And dance. Following that bear’s jiggling bottom through the jungle, picking bananas.

Today was Cat Steven’s “Morning has broken, like the first morning.” I love that song. “Blackbird has spoken … .”

Nobody is up and about when Lola and I walk the sun up through the trees. Nobody can hear me. Well, Lola, but like my babies, she doesn’t care. She thinks it is normal. I am glad for the songs and for the singing.

I don’t want you to think I have a sudden case of holy-tosis. I’m still the same petty, critical, flawed old woman.

I’m probably a lot like my mother. I’d like to think so.

In a group situation, should I ever find myself in such, I promise to stand in back and mouth the words.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].