“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?”
