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Happiness in the Age of Innocence
by Beverly Beckham
They are listening to records, not tapes on a Fisher-Price tape player, not CDs on a small boom box, not music that you get at the press of a button.
They are listening to small, plastic 78 records no bigger than a salad plate, some red, a few orange, but most bright yellow, bought by my mother for me more than 50 years ago.
Lucy, my granddaughter, is four and Adam, my grandson, is three. Both are sitting in the dining room on captain's chairs pulled up to a wind-up Victrola, bobbing their heads and kicking their feet, swaying to the tinny sounds the records make.
They are mesmerized by the music, and I am mesmerized by them.
"More. More," they say, whenever a record ends. They hand me what they want "Tick Tock," "Stop, Look, Listen," "Daddy Won't Buy Me a Bow Wow," and "Here Comes Peter Cotton Tail." They know from the picture on the label what each song is.
I crank the Victrola, lift its metal arm, place the needle on the record, and "swoosh, swoosh, swoosh" precedes every beginning. There is no volume control. To lower the sound, you have to close the Victrola's doors. It is not like the stereo in the living room with surround sound, a press of a button and the music starts and stops.
But you would think it was magic by the way they look at me. You would think that I alone caused this big, brown box to sing its wobbly, echoey tunes.
When my children were young, my mother-in-law used to tell me that I bought far too many toys, that they didn't need another game, or doll, or whatever it was I insisted they couldn't live without: A magic set. An air hockey game. Teddy bears and Little People. The newest Fisher-Price toy.
I think of her words often these days.
I still buy too many toys. But 35 years after she began telling me, I am finally beginning to understand what she meant.
Because it isn't just the Victrola that intrigues Lucy and Adam. There are many other things - a big crystal musical ball with sparkles inside - that they beg me to wind up. That they hold gently. That they listen to in silence.
There's a Victorian music box in which impeccably well-dressed little figurines dance. There are photo albums full of pictures of them and people they know. There's the kitchen cabinet where pots and pans are stored, shelves full of Tupperware, magazines and books that they pull off the bookshelves and pretend to read.
The other day we were in the backyard, Adam and I, collecting rocks, picking them up off the ground and putting them into a bucket. He bent down to lift one but couldn't, not because it was heavy but because it was stuck. I took a stick and dug around the rock, then lifted it out and handed it to him.
"See, Adam," I said. "Isn't that amazing?"
And the look on his face told me that to him, it was.
That's the thing with kids. They are so easily pleased. We're the ones who aren't. We're the ones who study the catalogs that come in the mail and lust after a Halloween dragon costume that costs $89. We're the ones who would give up Starbucks for a month to buy a jumbo paint palette and paint brush that you can't even play with, that you just hang on a wall! We're the ones who are crazy for the newest, trendiest things.
Years ago, when my oldest daughter was 4 or 5, I made a dollhouse for her out of an old bureau drawer. We painted it, divided it into rooms, wallpapered, and filled it with tiny furniture.
And she was happy.
But I wanted her to have a real dollhouse. So for Christmas that year I bought her one. We painted it, wallpapered every room, and filled it with tiny furniture.
And I was happy.
Lucy and Adam? They're happy now. They have what they want. "More, please" they chime when a record ends. "I want 'Me and My Teddy Bear' Adam says.
He hands me the yellow plastic and I crank the Victrola and the record plays. And they bob their heads, clap their hands and sing along.
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