When my daughter was in second grade the music program at her school disappeared. I don’t remember if it was a lack of personnel or a lack of funding or a lack of personnel caused by a lack of funding, but for whatever reason, there was no music teacher. Hence, no music classes. In an attempt to make up for this deficit, her teacher asked if I would mind coming once a week just to sing with the kids. Nothing formal or fancy, just 30 minutes or so of song. And of course, I said yes, because back then the word “no” wasn’t a part of my vocabulary. (It has since been added.)
I was pretty sure my song choices would be foreign to most of these unsuspecting children, so in preparation for my first “class”, I put together a book for each of them (now they get reading lessons and music . . .), drawing from my days as a Girl Scout coupled with summers at church camp—if you can even begin to imagine what that combination might yield. It included such ditties as “Prunes”, “Barges”, “What Ya Gonna Do In The Little Canoe (When the Moon Shines All Around)”, “The Watermelon Song”, “Ten In the Bed”, and “The Ant Song”, not to mention “Dickey Bird” (which contains the word “bimsolabimbambasoladosolabim” [pronounced bim-sol-a-bim-bam-ba-sol-a-do-sol-a-bim . . . sung as fast as you possibly can]) and of course the ever popular “Little Bunny Fu-Fu”. I even threw in a couple of Halloween selections and a few Christmas carols. The kids loved it and were always excited when they got to decide what songs we sung and in what order.
Over the years those songs (and a few more I shall refrain from mentioning here . . .) have come in handy. When my children were very young bedtime included song-time where we all snuggled together, one on either side of me, and they decided which songs I sang that night before we each went to our respective corners. And when the Worley Bird Café used to be a thing, we’d go as a family and I’d often entertain the grands as we waited for our food by quietly (very quietly) singing “Goldilocks and the Three Bears” or “Putin’ On the Ritz”. (I tried “Granny’s In the Cellar” once but had to stop halfway through when a member of our party started gagging . . .).
Recently I was cleaning out one of the closets (‘cause I’m on a mission) and came across a copy of that songbook. As I sat down and thumbed through it, all those memories began peeking out from the shadowy recesses of my brain, bringing a smile to my face in the middle of an otherwise frustrating task (as in how in the world did I ever let this closet get in this shape—and where in the world did all this mess come from?!). Later I mentioned to Kathryne that I’d found the book, and she told me she needed it. And I said no because, well, memories. And she said yes because, well, Malcolm. He needs to learn those songs so he can enjoy them now—and someday share them with his children. So, I promised her a copy (which reminds me . . .).
There are so many memories I’ve created with our children and now our grands, like how to make straw paper worms and napkin puppets. Dropping the dirty sheets from the second floor landing to the foyer below where they stood gleefully waiting to be engulfed in fabric. Or trips to the zoo (where our son got his head stuck in the bars surrounding the giraffe pen—in his defense he was quite young and perhaps we’d parked the stroller just a bit too close). Or reading everyone’s favorite books when they came to the house. And with the two oldest grandkids, taking them home after Sunday nights at the Mexican restaurant. “Moon Shadow” and “Hall of the Mountain King” (where they danced wildly in their seats as the music grew increasingly faster) were required listening, always followed by several rousing rounds of Hide-n-Seek once we arrived (a game that is still requested on occasion). Granted, our memories can be a little different from everyone else’s, ‘cause on quiet days we’ve also played Hide-n-Seek in the funeral home (caskets were off-limits as hiding places) and raced up and down the service hall on the church trucks. Not everybody gets to do that.
A lot of these memories have become traditions . . . important life lessons to be passed from generation to generation. I mean, who doesn’t need to know how to entertain a small child with a napkin puppet when the food is slow coming out of the kitchen? Or use straw papers to make worms that will crawl across the table? And years from now, if I’m very, very lucky, these are the moments they’ll recall when they’re standing beside my casket or reminiscing over a holiday meal. These are the moments I want them to remember . . . the ones that will hopefully make them smile. And maybe even laugh.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
