The Grooves of Time

A few years ago, my dad gave me something more valuable than money--his record collection. Not just any collection, my dad was radio DJ for more than half his life, and over that time he amassed a library of wide-ranging titles that span from classic to quirky to I-can’t-believe-that-was-even-made. 

Moving the collection took time. Crate by crate, box by box, we carted the music from his basement to mine, just as we’d carted those records along with speakers, turntables, mixer, wires and that lead heavy Peavey amp into church halls, bars, lake houses, gymnasiums, and everywhere in between so many years ago.  

I've got some CD’s, tapes and even a couple eight tracks. I've even got a few of my father's old air checks from the station that are a blast. But the records, that's what I remember most. And it's even more fun now, watching my son listen and learn. 

It’s something to see, a five-year-old gently setting the needle on the record. He’s got decent taste, too, although the Star Wars arrangement gets most of the play as we dual it out with light sabers. But he digs Michael Jackson and he loves Inner Circle's Bad Boys theme. And Joan Jett, too. It cracks me up whenever I hear him singing I love Rock and Roll…

The of the album cover has a chunk taken out, right at Joan Jett’s elbow. We had this dog, a German shepherd named Samantha. She was a handful, a pure bred runt that I hand picked from the litter. She ate everything, with a particular penchant for wax. One day we caught her chewing on that record, and well, it’s how it still is today.

Pure nostalgia, those records. It’s where I remember and pass along new memories to my kid. It’s where we don’t watch TV. We don’t play on the computer. It’s analog time. No screens and no modem. It’s where we’ve built a clubhouse under the steps, and where we dance like fools because it's what we do. 

The 45’s (those smaller, one song records for those younger readers) are a goldmine. Anything from the twentieth century lurks in those rows of analog treasures lining the makeshift shelves. From Newcleous’ Jam on It, to The Fat Boys w/ the Beach Boys (yep, look it up), to Sinatra to U2, Simply Red, Blue Oyster Colt  and so on, the most random playlist take shape down there. I remember playing We Are the World followed by Heavy D and the Boyz followed by some Boz Skaggs. It’s pure chaos. You really never know.

And the sleeves, with dedications and quickly scrawled requests. Scribbles about times and dates. You can’t find that on Amazon.  Those records have seen more Proms than an old gym coach. Wedding ceremonies, dance clubs, it’s all there, and even a scribbled out time slots of when to play the records at the station. Stickers to show what sides, notes and trial and error scribbles of advice. FADES AT 3:14, or DON’T PLAY BEFORE 4PM! Yep, apparently to DJ’s everywhere, Kool and the Gang’s, Let’s Groove Tonight, was meant to be taken literally. I can also tell you thatPaul Simon’s, Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard was getting some serious play in 1979.

There’s something about the classics. I mean, what is it about The Beatles that even today you can play The White Album and a kid’s head pops up like, That’s somebody. Who is that, Daddy? We rock out to Jimi Hendrix, Van Morrison, Led Zeppelin. Then of course there’s the old standards. Glenn Miller, Artie Shaw, and, Oh my God I must be getting old because I knew Count Basie. But from Big Band, Blues, Jazz. My rap records from the eighties. It’s all down there.

Some of my friends don’t get it, and that’s fine, people are busy, space is limited. Not everyone wants to spend their time in an musty basement, playing the records of yesterday. They say that all these songs come on the radio, and that may be true in some cases. But knowing my dad saved Midnight Serenade from the tile floor of an old AM radio station that is now demolished gives me a little bit of nostalgia that can’t be found on IHeart radio.

It’s that crackle and pop between songs, that dusty groove of Otis Redding or Marvin Gaye. Like I wouldn’t want to fire up those old spray painted Toa speakers, the ones hauled around town every weekend thirty, forty years ago so that he could keep the lights on at home, so that we could have Christmas. Heavy or not, scratches and skips, spray painted or not, I wouldn’t change them for the world.

So I’ll gladly play curator of my past. I’ll turn on the lamp in the radio, flip through the dusty wax and find just the right track. Maybe I’m on Fire by Springsteen, or Take the Five Train by Duke Ellington, whatever it is I’ll take it every time I can get down the steps to relive some magic.

Float the Boat...

The other day we were playing outside when the sky went dark and the rain came pounding. It was a downpour, the kind that’s typical in Virginia after a day of high temps and humidity. Simon and I watched as gushing rapids washed down the curb, carrying leaves and sticks and whatever stood in its way. Suddenly, I had an idea.

I wanted to make a boat.

No, I didn’t want to go build an ark in the backyard. I wanted to take a sheet of paper and fold it into a boat and watch it float down the street. He was all about it. There was just one problem.

I didn’t know how to make a paper boat.

I knew how to make a paper airplane, but boats? Nope. I tried different folds, racing the clock as the sun threatened to return and the rainwater went from gush to trickle. I folded and creased, but all I came up with were wads of nothing. One after another, I hurried through one crumple to the next, using—ahem—an old manuscript I’d been saving to light our next fire pit. 

Nothing. I had nothing. We tried some lopsided catastrophe that turned out to be a much better submarine than boat. Paper submarines. I was great at those. 

The rain let up. Our floodwaters receded. My son lost interest.

Never again. I vowed to be prepared. The next day, on my lunch break. I Youtubed like a mother. I worked out the kinks (folds) and became a master boat builder. Okay, maybe a decent boat builder. Either way, people stopped by my desk to find a man making paper boats like a boss.

That’s right. I spent my lunch break making paper boats.

This may seem like the work of an idle man with plenty of time on his hands. But no, I want my kid to know certain things, Boy Scout stuff. Everything in The Dangerous Book For Boys. Both simple and complicated. Making a paper boat was one of those things.

So now we just need some rain, but in the meantime, we have a bathtub, so…

Happy Father's Day

This morning I woke up early, ready to enjoy  Father’s Day.  Because hey, I’m a father.  It still seems kinda strange....and I still worry how I’m doing.  I’ve gotten much better about the worrying but sometimes, late at night, I still study the ceiling from my bed.  

But this is only the beginning. The beginning of something great.  Smiles are good and I’m getting lots of smiles.  Laughs are even better and I’ve received my share of those as well.  But how can I be a terrific dad?  Maybe I should start by giving my son what my own father gave/gives me.  It's free, it's fun, and it's lot better than genetic abnormalities... I'm talking about Love.

My dad is the greatest and I want to be great so I have little room for error.  Oh, there will be mistakes; even at this stage I am well aware of that.  But mistakes aren't necessarily a bad thing.  (I still laugh at the thought of what my dad did to that grilled cheese.) I’m learning and enjoying the ride.  I guess the biggest change so far has been how much I care about him, I can’t quite describe it.   

And now, thanks to my wife and son, I have this one of a kind reminder of what's really important in life, coffee. I meant family.  So here’s to all of the father’s out there, I hope you have a great day, every day.  

Looking Forward

As I prepare myself for wiping another human’s behind, I’ve found myself thinking more and more about setting a good example for my child.  It may come as a surprise to learn that I’m far from perfect.  In fact, I’m a far from near perfect; I have a lot of bad habits and from what I gather these little critters pick up on these habits awfully young.

It scares me to think that I will be the one that he will look to for advice.  Sure, I can teach him how to tie his shoes and help him with his jump shot, but I’ve never been one to offer advice.  I have no funny anecdotes offering valuable lessons or nuggets of wisdom like the fathers on television.  I’ll have to come up with something.

Once our son is born, my wife will not be the only teacher in the house, as we will both be teachers every day, to our child.  We will be responsible for another human being, and that in itself makes it the most important job I have ever had.  I’m sure it won’t be easy, and I will have to change my entire life, but I can’t wait to do it.

I'm excited to embrace the innocence of childhood, I look forward to Christmas becoming magical again, creating new family traditions while carrying on older customs from our own families.  I look forward to the creative imagination that a child brings to a house, the squeals of excitement, the silliness, the wide eyed look of enthusiasm, and the bond of father and son.

As odd as it may sound, when I was putting together his crib and dresser, I felt somehow connected to him.  I found myself thinking, I’m doing this for my son…it was something I had never felt before.   It was my first fatherly moment.

I understand that I’m naive, that there will be moments when I won’t feel so warm and fuzzy about parenthood.  I know that it will be challenging and unlike anything I’ve done before.  I accept your challenge parenthood; I can’t wait to meet this little guy.

Role Models

As I try to do my part during my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve taken to reading some of the literature that she has brought home from the doctor’s office.  I enjoy looking through the stages of our progress and what each week brings to the baby’s development.

There are also many sections for expectant fathers.  I was reading one article titled The Five Myths of fatherhood.  One in particular stood out from the rest. 

Myth 5:  You’re destined to be just like your own father.

In my case, I hope this one is true.  I have nothing but fond memories of my childhood, most of them due to my father.  We had many fun adventures (getting into some trouble involving motor scooters and park rangers along the way).

The article goes on to suggest looking to other sources of influence as well.  Teachers, coaches, friends, uncles, brothers and so on.

Considering our nines and tens little league football coach once instructed us to “Break his G@! Damn neck!” during a time out, I think I will scratch him off the list.  Sure I had some good teachers, but no role models there.  Uncles are great but their main job is to tease the little snot that is their brother or sister’s child.

For me, the best part of growing up was being at home.  I guess I was lucky, because when I was a child there was nothing more exciting than dear old dad walking through the front door.