"R-A-G-G-M-O-P-P! Raggmopp!" Frankie sang. She flicked her heels back and forth across each other and shook her bottom, doing the dance she’d told me was called "The Mashed Potato".
The little AM radio on the counter was tuned to Frankie’s favorite station, the station we listened to every afternoon while we made dinner and rolls and dessert. Soon, The Paul Harvey News would come on. She loved boring Paul Harvey with his foghorn voice and the news stories that sounded an awful lot to me like he was really just reciting stuff from the latest issue of Reader’s Digest. For a few more blessed minutes, though, we had music. Old timey music. The swingy, brassy sort of stuff from Frankie’s childhood. We were dancing along to it in our ankle socks on the kitchen lino floor that Frankie had meticulously swept and mopped and waxed.
Frankie grabbed my wrist and spun me like the miniature ballerina in my jewelry box. My waist-length hair flew out around me, the skirt of my sundress belled out, and I threw my head back and laughed. As I came to a dizzy stop, I pushed off and sock-skated away from her. She followed, gliding gracefully in her socks too, threatening more spins and lots of tickles should she catch me.
Eventually, we collapsed against the center island, sweaty and giggly. “Alright, doll. Let’s see what we have to make for dinner,” she said.
Frankie died from metastatic colon cancer in 1995, just a few days before her 67th birthday. I miss her every day.
For the month of April, I am participating in the Blogging from A to Z challenge. My theme is “Memories.”