The Many Moods of Grandma’s Radio

Growing up, my mom’s parents lived a short drive away on a farm at the fringe of Lebanon. Some of my most fond memories were in that old farmhouse. I remember the way the wood step to the kitchen was worn smooth from use and the way the light filtered through the sheer curtains at the bay window. I could hear crickets and the occasional lull of a car passing by.

It was quiet.

For my paranoid schizophrenic Grandma, this lack of sound was unsettling.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=so7WUf6hMk8

In the front room, hidden behind a door and a curtain, stood what appeared to be a mid century modern buffet. This unsuspecting piece of furniture was Grandma’s secret weapon to combat the isolation, for it contained a built in radio. It released a constant stream of 1960 quality sound and melodic voices that had a way of bringing Grandma back to reality.

For me, being the obsessive-compulsive germ-o-phobe, my favorite past time at the farmhouse was dusting. Grandma would hand me a rag, a bottle of Pledge, and let me go to town while she lounged on her bed. All the while, The Turtles and The Beach Boys were droning softly in the background. I would take extra care cleaning the crevices of the carved wooden box on Grandma’s dresser and at times her fuchsia Clinique lipstick would ‘accidentally’ find its way onto my face. When I finished cleaning, she would give me a paper bag of loose change and a stack of penny rolls. Sometimes my pay out was a couple of cents, but every now and then I got some serious dough. This was how I afforded my most prized Barbie accessories.

As she lay in a daze while I scurried around her, I could sense Grandma’s sadness. I observed as the sounds emitting from the antique speakers altered her mood. I learned that songs like Purple People Eater made her giggle, anything by Dickey Lee left her in a pseudo catatonic state, and Elvis ALWAYS made her happy. To cheer her up, I would get a running start and slide across the hard wood floor with my blankie wrapped around my small frame like a caplet. Raising it up with a simultaneous lip curl and my best Elvis impression, I would perform, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much’. This always made Grandma smile.

And so was born my love of music. No memory is complete without a soundtrack. I can assign a sound to my most vivid memories as a child, my father singing me to sleep, car trips filled with silly songs, and even the days in the countryside, when ambient sound filled the silence.