The Pitter-Patter of Little Feet
Val, Aunt Lue’s daughter, was the eldest cousin. While our parents exemplified hard work, Val took the baton and showed us how to run a different race.
One day, while we ran shoeless around and around Madea’s house chasing chickens, ducks, geese, and pigs we heard Val’s voice call out, “Hey y’all, come-on round here! I’m setting up a stage. We gon’ have us a talent show!” At the sound of Val’s voice, immediately, the pitter-patter of our dusty little feet could be heard coming around the corner of the house.
Val and her sister Darlene, the two oldest cousins, shared a room at the back of Madea’s house, next to the kitchen. Exiting their room, you’d step out onto a wooden back porch with an old tin roof. To the left was an old white washing machine that shook so hard I always thought it’d jump off the porch. On the right was an old deep freezer where Daddy-Eck stored frozen pork, deer meat, fish, and rabbit. The rest was a plain, dusty wooden porch which would serve as our stage.
Val gathered us around the porch, under the branches of the weeping willow, and organized us into different singing groups like — Cameo, The Temptations, New Edition, The Commodores, and The Gap Band. She called a group of kids up on stage and pointed out who would be the lead singer, handing over a hairbrush to substitute as a microphone. She identified who would be backup singers and dancers, and who would play imaginary guitar. This was our first talent show, but it wouldn’t be the last. We were totally thrilled and enthralled each and every time Val held a talent show featuring us.
There was only one problem — I didn’t participate. I couldn’t do anything — couldn’t sing a lick, and my dancing was even worse. It was horrible! Zero rhythm! None! To top it all off, I wore these big ol’ brown glasses, thick as a Coca-Cola bottle; I got teased a lot and was embarrassed. Eventually one day, Val called me to the back porch while the rest of my cousins were still running around playing.
She asked me, “Tyrone, you wanna be in the talent show?”
“Yeah,” I replied, “but I can’t do nothing! I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I got on these big ol’ glasses, and everybody’s gonna laugh at me.” I wanted so badly to be part of the show, but at the same time the introvert in me was absolutely terrified!
She grabbed my hands, stood in front of me, and said, “Follow me. Do what I do.”
Moving from left to right, she counted, “One-two, one-two.” I followed her steps, shifting from left foot to right.
“Good,” she said. “Now that’s the two-step.”
She then pulled out a record. Val loved music, and had endless vinyl.
After some tinkering with the player she announced, “Tyrone, this is your song, and I want you to learn the words.” I still remember that song like it was yesterday — “When We Get Married,” by Larry Graham.
Several days later, Val yelled out, “Y’all come on ‘round here. I’m setting up a stage, we gonna have a talent show!”
Again, there was that familiar pitter-patter of little dusty feet racing to participate.
“Today we got a special performance,” Val announced with flair, like she was Don Cornelius standing on the Soul Train stage.
“Comin’ to the stage is Tyrone, and he’s gonna sing ‘When We Get Married,’” she yelled out to me and my cousins gathered beneath the willow.
And I came to the stage. And I sang. And I two-stepped like Val taught me. I didn’t care that I had those humongous brown glasses on; I didn’t care that I had on a long sleeve, blue turtleneck shirt in the middle of July; I didn’t care that someone might laugh at my awkwardness. All I knew was that someone was cheering and clapping like I was Teddy Pendergrass. That somebody, of course, was Val.
Just like Madea transformed an old incubator into sustenance for us, Val turned a dusty back porch full of cousins into countless hours of entertainment and enrichment. In a sense, Val was just doing what had been passed down to her — Madea had taught her how to do a lot with a little.
Val ignited something in all of us. She gave us a space that distracted from the rampant, extreme poverty all around us. She helped us forget that we sometimes didn’t have shoes in the summer and sometimes didn’t have enough clothes during the school year.
You see, all we knew was what our parents knew. And because of how our parents grew up, all they knew — learned from their own parents — was the value of hard work. As they made their way from one end of the cotton field to the other, they passed that sense of hard work and determination on down to us.
I hope you enjoyed this post — if you want to connect, you can reach me here via email at ty@typinkins.com or connect with me on social: LinkedIn, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter. Also, you can purchase my book, 23 Miles & Running, on Amazon.
