My Mom Plays the Diggery Doo

... or a story about the things you once knew.

I was walking down Pearl Street, the local downtown / open air shopping center / general hang out area for all sorts and ran across a very talented street musician playing a diggery doo, steel drums with each hand, and cymbals with his foot. And all of a sudden I was struck by the memory of my mom playing the diggery doo in my childhood living room. It was not something I'd even thought of in years, a memory so dusty that it was surprising when the words came out of my mouth. "My mom plays the diggery doo." I think it was also rather surprising to my friends. Not something you expect to hear on a warm summer evening on Pearl Street.

What is even more surprising about this dusty memory is that it's my mom. She was raised as a pretty proper Southern Belle. I'd say she still remains a recovering Southern Belle. Then, sometime in the early seventies while living in Australia, she learned how to play a real Aborigini Diggery Doo. Go Mom!