BUCKING THE SYSTEM: SOMETIMES THE MUSIC STEADIES YOU.. AND YOU MUST LISTEN

Music was everywhere during my childhood.

My dad made sure we didn't lack for the latest in stereo technology, and there was a radio, component set, record player, boom box or something that played music in virtually every room of the house.

And where there was music, there was a live singing performance waiting to happen.

For example, dish-washing time was my rehearsal hour, and it usually took twice as long because of all the trouble I went through to bring music into the room.

First, I'd bring the huge boom box we owned back then from my bedroom into the kitchen, complete with tapes and a set of headphones that made me look like Mickey Mouse's dumpy sister from behind. I'd place the boom box in a precarious position on top of the microwave (just in front of the nearest outlet) and put in my favorite tape.

From there it was a balancing act that, when handled correctly, resulted in my learning a new song without A) electrocuting myself, B) knocking the cover off yet another button on the boom box, and C) driving my mother crazy with the repetition of the same phrase three dozen times as I tried to get the run just right at the same time she was balancing the church's checkbook.

But that wasn't the only time I'd sing. The early afternoons when I returned from school was diva time. I was one of those girls who'd fold a towel just so around her head (in those days it had to be yellow or red since brown towels didn't match the bathroom decor) and belt my favorite songs into a hairbrush, afro pick or rattail comb while performing a dance routine in front of a mirror.

This worked better when my dad was gone to work or fishing, since I know he associated the yellow towels with blond hair and thought I was ashamed of my skin color or nappy hair.

And then there were the hours spent with Ma Mable, my baby sitter and pseudo-grandmother. Ma Mable who didn't have a good voice but was a great singer single-handedly gave me a love for gospel music during my childhood.

I can still see her silhouette in the kitchen window, where she'd sing under her breath while washing the breakfast dishes. Or sometimes she'd hum softly while sitting at the kitchen table and drinking her morning cup of coffee.

Ma Mable had bad legs and used a cane, then later a walker, to move around. When a song would get good to her, she'd drop that cane or let go of the walker and stand straight up, as if the music held her steady. Sometimes I'd join her, sometimes I'd just watch.

But I always listened.

I didn't understand back then what it was about Ma Mable's singing that I liked, but I think I understand it now. She had her own special sound, and it told of growing up in the South, social injustice and spiritual fulfillment, loving the family and nonfamily she helped raise and loving the Savior she hoped to one day see.

Ma Mable's voice spoke of love and maturity and experience, and it flooded her music in a way that few young people can achieve. It was the sound I tried to achieve when I vamped in front of the mirror or worked to get those runs just right.

I realized in the middle of a solo at church last week that I almost had it. My sound wasn't perfect, but at one point I was standing straight up, almost as if the music was holding me steady.

My voice cracked a little when I felt Ma Mable right next to me. And as I sat down and wiped away a tear, I could almost hear her humming as she sipped on her coffee.

And just as I did as a child, I listened.

Tamara Zellars Buck is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.