The recording You know, my father passed away in 1994, 20 years ago, more than a third of my life I havent heard his voice or seen his face. You know, my mother passed away in 1998, 16 years ago, nearly a third of my life I havent heard her voice or seen her face. Recently, I cleaned out some of the taped up boxes with junk haphazardly piled away after her death, junk I havent taken the time to truly investigate. Back in the day as holed up in my bedroom on Mayberry, I used to record the sounds of Boston, Pink Floyd, Who, Foreigner, Styx, Aerosmith, Doobie Brothers, Eagles, and a whole lot more on cassettes. In this box, was the remnants of the days I rode around on my motorcycle with my Walkman cranking up the sounds of those bands, taking me away as I cruised as free as my youth. I didnt think I had anything left to play the tapes on, long since getting rid of anything resembling a tape player, but there at the bottom of the box was the very Walkman I strapped to my shoulder all those years ago. I rummaged through my battery drawer for two AAA batteries. Finding them, I lost track of time, and purpose, inserting tape after tape, listening and being swept away to a time and place I nearly forgot, the open roads of Lewis County, my youth, my loves, my innocence, me. I chuckled a few times, hmm’ed a whole lot of times, and on one occasion, sat in the middle of the room and wept. I have accepted the death of my parents as life, it happens, it natural. I have moved on and because some of that life wasnt always great, I have left it behind in so many ways, including any reflection for any length of time. But on one tape, something reminded me of so much about my past, of who I am, of me. Tape number 6792, a number that at first threw me, slid into the Walkman with ease, prepped for me. I hit play and a hollow hiss and not music piped through the earphones. It was a recording. The voice said, Dear Kim, its Andrews birthday today, hes so cute and John just loves playing with him. The voice was huskier than I remembered, but it was Mom. She referred to my oldest sons birthday, 6792 would be June 7th, 1992, his 2nd birthday. John was my dad; he did love his grandson; sometimes I envied their relationship. Seems like he was never that understanding with me. She talked to my sister, who lived overseas. The taped letters was a short lived project, sort of like all her projects, great ideas, great beginnings, but short lived. Still, that project which led to a failure to launch was the reason that tape sat in the box. My mother spent thirty minutes telling my sister about her Pacific Northwest garden, our dad, the grandkids, and a host of other events that meant more now than they ever would have 22 years ago; they were destined in some odd way for me to hear. I played the tape again, and again, and again. When my oldest son heard it, he used the recording of his grandmother calling him cute as his greeting on his cell phone, makes me love calling him and getting his message. On that tape was a living voice, a voice that echoed through my soul with time erased, there with me, beside me, telling me that I was her son and no matter what loved. I tossed the tapes with the music in a plastic bag and found them a home in the recycle can in the front yard but the recording I tucked away, a reminder to my youngest boys of what their grandma, someone they never met, years gone before their births, sounded like. As I sat there, reflecting on a time long before their deaths, I felt compelled to pick up the phone and call my sister, call my living relatives, call my friends from yesterday, call them all...and hear their voices. (pic) My mother is the bottom left, Phyllis Jean Brown, my aunt Bev Moore, lower left, and my aunt Tina Hasson standing.
Posted on: Sat, 09 Aug 2014 00:38:58 +0000
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