Collections

When I think about my childhood my memories get lost in songs. Sometimes it’s an entire album of songs – like Paul Simon’s Graceland, which reminds me of driving to Wisconsin every summer with my mom and little brother. I can still see the inside of mom’s old Buick. I remember arriving at Aunt Mary’s house in Green Bay amidst the overwhelming birth of the Bay flies. Mom had to turn the windshield wipers on to clear their buggy guts from the glass.

Other times it’s just one song, like Leon Russell’s A Song For You. My parents were going out somewhere some night, to a party that required dressing up and the proper application of cologne and perfume. Dad was ready to go, mom was not. I sat curled up in one of the chairs in front of the speakers in our back room and watched my dad smoke a cigarette while the song played. I remember how long and wavy his hair was, and how he smelled of Old Spice, and the falling notes of Leon Russell’s opening piano.

I remember how, at age four, I danced around that same back room to Pat Benatar’s All Fired Up while wearing my tulip embroidered tutu. I couldn’t dance too wildly, otherwise mom’s record would skip.

I remember getting scared watching Thriller with my dad and running to hide under my bed. I was only three then. I eventually came out of my room in time to see Michael’s scary yellow eyes at the end. My dad still loves that song.

I remember the day mom and dad got their new mattress delivered. The box spring and mattress were on the floor in the family room while mom swept and mopped their bedroom floor. I laid down on the new mattress, still enclosed in its protective plastic, and she played Phoebe Snow’s Poetry Man over and over and over again.

I remember cranking Lenny Kravitz’s Fly Away while driving down some Florida highway in mom’s Chevy Astro, with my brother in the passenger seat. We needed some time away from the parents that vacation. I wonder if he remembers that?

Recently I went through my parents’ vinyl collection. They have not owned a functioning record player in almost two decades, but they still have their albums. Looking at their library I could see a bit of what each of my parents must have been like before they met, before they got married, before they had babies. I could see a bit of what they were like when they were each my age. I could see how they’ve each had their influence on me. Mom wasn’t allowed to listen to The Beatles as a kid, so she had things like The Boston Pops Play The Beatles! The 60s version of Kidz Bop, I imagine. She also had Gordon Lightfoot and Carole King and Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin and actual Beatles albums, acquired after age eighteen I’m sure. Dad had Jimi Hendrix and lots of Santana and Robin Trower and Chaka Kahn and The Who.

I wonder who will look at my collections someday, attempting to learn a thing or two about me from what I have gathered over the years. Maybe it will be my music, maybe it will be my books, maybe it will be my friends. I’d be fine being judged by any of these things. Now ex-boyfriends on the other hand, is a totally different story. Let’s hope no one ever judges me based on that collection. Let's just stick to the music.