But How Does It Work?

“No!  Don’t touch that!”  

I screamed at my sixteen-year-old daughter as she reached for the long, skinny black arm on the record player that was stationed as a display at the mall department store.

“What?  Why?” Her hands flung backward as if they had touched a red glowing stove burner.

“There’s a needle in there.  It’ll scratch the record!”

“A needle?  I don’t get it.  How does it work?"

“The needle is what plays the music.  If you grab it, it’ll slide across the vinyl and put a big scratch in it.”

Michelle was born in the nineties.  When my cassettes were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room, right next to the cassette player deck that was hooked up to two bookshelf speakers.  Music arrived monthly in my mailbox via the RCA Music Club.  I vacuumed and dusted to the Beach Boys and Chicago.  Planted on the floor in front of the stereo, I did sit-ups to Jane Fonda’s 30-Minute Workout tape.

In the nineties, my shoulder-length permed hair didn’t require L’Oreal Dark Brown 4N.  It wasn’t spoiled by gray.  Michelle’s brothers played catch with a baseball in our backyard.    And went to Cub Scouts.  I drove a blue Chevrolet Impala.  A far cry from the bright orange Trans Am – complete with the eagle on the hood.

“But, how does the music get on the record?” Michelle asked. 

“I don’t know.  Google it.” I said. 

The 1976 Trans Am was orange.  It was a four-speed – fast and loud.  Sandwiched between the round black volume and tuning buttons on the radio and the cigarette lighter was an 8-track player, factory installed.  My Neil Diamond tape blasted out “I’m A Believer” as I cruised up over the hills and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” carried me down into the nooks and crannies of Gilman Valley to the house we moved to after my Grandpa passed away. 

“I mean – I can understand how music gets put on a CD,” Michelle said.  “I just don’t get the record thing.”

“Figures you would understand that,” I said.  Truth was – I didn’t know how the music got on the vinyl either.

 I didn’t care that the small round, black 45 singles with the big hole in the middle cost ninety-seven cents.  I just wanted to play them all in one big stack.  Nights in White Satin, Twist and Shout, and Good Vibrations.

“Grandpa, could I borrow some money?” I asked.  “I’ll mow your lawn for you all summer and pay you back.”

 Grandpa Eugene tugged on his wallet.  

“What for?” he asked.

“There’s a record player at the Farmer’s Store.  It’s only twenty-three dollars."  At five dollars per mowing in the late 60s, I could pay him back in a month.  I added, “You don’t have to tell Mom.

“Just accept the fact that music can be recorded on vinyl,” I told Michelle. 

“I can’t!” she replied.  “I have to know.”

The 33s were in the closet.  Mom didn't know we were messing with them.  I gawked at the brightly colored jackets that held the pieces of vinyl, revealing Brenda Lee’s dark red lipstick and teased hair, plus Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass of the 50s.  Mom wiggled her toes and bounced her head to the music as she sat in her wheelchair.  Not to Brenda Lee – but to my absolute favorite - The Chipmunks. 

"Maybe your Grandpa will know," I said.  "You can ask him."

Upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's, the old Victrola stood in the corner of the spare bedroom in a walnut cabinet.  I pulled out a thick, black disc. The 78 was a lot heavier than the modern 33s.  I blew off the dust and opened the cover on the Victrola to see a shiny silver metal arm, shaped like a goose neck – with a sharp needle on the end.

“Mom!  I hollered down the staircase.  She wheeled over to the doorway.“How does this old record player work?”

“Put the needle down on the record and crank it."

"No - I mean - how does it work?”

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. No, it wasn’t the ancient oil furnace in the dirt floor basement firing itself up. Although, it sure sounded like it. My pursed lips tried to hold back the snicker that was on the verge of bursting through my mouth. I had to compose myself. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral was a no-no. Getting a case of the giggles at a funeral when you were over forty-nine was really forbidden.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I glanced at my sister Kathy. Our eyes met for just a second. Mistake. The giggles were instant. And explosive. I slammed my hand onto my mouth. Maybe no one noticed as my shoulders rocked up and down. I looked down at the wood floor. Years of varnish had collected in the spaces between the maple boards. The white baseboard along the wall was draped with cobwebs. Kathy once sat in this same pew, her short legs swinging back and forth in anticipation as she waited her turn to file up in front of the pulpit to say her part of the Christmas story. She did a good job. And as soon as the program was finished, she vomited. Stage fright? Or too much Christmas candy?

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I couldn’t look at Kathy again. I grasped my forearm with my two fingers, digging my fingernails into my flesh hard enough to leave a mark. Would that stop the laughing? I winced, and for a second – the uncontrollable laughter bubbling inside me subsided. The picture of Jesus still hung on the wall between the two arched windows in the same place it was forty years ago. Except now the windows were trimmed in peeling white paint. I glanced at the second pew from the back. That was our spot. My cousin Jane and I sat between Grandpa and Grandma that Sunday. Grandpa handed me a cherry lifesaver. “Hold it in the palm of your hand like this,” he whispered. “Then slide it into your mouth.” I did what Grandpa said and coasted the piece of sweet candy between my lips.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Compassion for my brother, as he fought the invasion of the post-cold coughing fit, enveloped me. At the same time the giggling reiterated itself. I put my finger in my ear and pressed it tightly. It was Easter Sunday. We’d just filled our tummies with pancakes and sausages in the church hall next door. My brother David was fiddling with the blue egg-shaped container of Silly Putty that the Easter bunny had left in his basket. He rolled it into a ball and squished it onto his hand, leaving a replica of his fingerprints in the putty. And then he rolled it into a ball again. Kathy tried to grab it. David resisted. The Silly Putty dropped to the floor. And bounced. And then rolled. All six of our eyes peered up over the heads of the congregation as we watched the little ball make its trek toward the pulpit. It stopped next to Oscar, the usher – and then rolled into the corner.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. I bit the inside of my lip until my cheek twinged in distress, focusing my eyes on what extended beyond the window. The teeter-totter was long gone, as well as the summer Bible school kids that took turns going up and down on it. The chocolate chip cookies and the milk for dunking them in hadn’t been around for ages.

Arrghhhh. Arrrrghhh. Water. I wished I could get my brother a drink. But the square oak table in the corner of the entrance was empty. The white enamel, blue rimmed water pail and tin ladle that we took our drinks from had succumbed to days gone by – long ago replaced by a modern kitchen in the church hall. The tiny little church that I grew up in all those years ago is still tiny. The hustle and bustle of the congregation has since moved on.

As a lone tear escapes the confines of my eyelid and slides down my cheek, I foster the fond memories that are still alive in the tiny church.

And no disrespect was meant as I uncontrollably giggled through the solemn funeral service.

In fact, in an odd sort of way – thank you God, for helping me remember a very special time in my life.