If having your “scalp scratched” conjures up memories for you, this will be an easier journey. When all the elements came together on the first floor of our house, between the kitchen and the dining room…it was sometimes almost magic. Cooking or ironing in the kitchen. There was no door between the kitchen and the dining room, so there were no barriers to the story prompts that floated on the airwaves.
Remember…?
You know who I saw? I forgot to tell you…?
Girl, guess what?
Shhh…did you hear?
Each line enticing the seed of a sentence, a scheme, and ultimately a story, unique unto itself.
And the scratching of the scalp would stop to entertain a concept that demanded an open eyed fully concentrated reception. And the iron would be paused mid air, to free the story teller to punctuate with a gesture, a grunt, even a dance step to bring the point home.
And the children would sit on the floor as the “scratcher” claimed the more comfortable seat.
I felt quite grown when I was handed the comb, designating me to now be the scratcher. Of course I took to my feet as my elder sat in the chair and leaned her head trustingly so I could lift the dandruff that had embedded her scalp. But more importantly, lifted the burdens. The burdens that seemed to likewise rest in those spaces and be somehow likewise lightened with the scoop of the comb, accompanied by the belly laughter that accompanied many of the stories.
Cause when women gather, there will be story.
And the stories I heard in my house.
My grandmother had known such interesting people.
People who’d lived in Baltimore and moved to New York, a serious achievement in my little eyes back then.
A gospel recording artist.
Military people who’d come home with wives from foreign countries and cultures
A mother who rescued her children from a house fire by dragging the offending stove out of the house.
An aunt who’d been Rosie the Riveter during the war, but not so Rosie and with no real mention.
A grandfather who’d been a Pullman porter and shared his own stories to our childish dismay
It was a house of story. Stories while cakes were baked. Stories while clothes were ironed. Stories on Mondays that were laundry days.
That scratching of the scalp.
That phrase was really saying, “Come love me and let me love on you for a while.”
Let me share my life and my love. Let me encourage you and make you laugh.
Let me admonish you and give you a better way.
Let me listen. To hear where your heart hurts.
Come and listen to me because my heart is so full and this is the best way I know to release it so more can flow.
Come get close to me and let me be close to you.
Dorothy Scott Boulware 