Time in a Bottle: Music in My Time

 Salutations, my darling one(s)! 

 

    You might not know me yet. If I am a fortunate man, then you and I have already met by the time you read this! But if not, then this is for you. This is your grandparent Isa! I know you’re probably a pretty cool kiddo (if I’ve wed your grandma and we raised our own little ones, then we love your parents as much as we love you!) There’s a lot I want to share with you if I can to help you in your life. One of the things that has helped me most through life is music. 

 

Funnily enough, I started writing this letter for a school project. Music theory is a fun class, and if you end up being musically inclined, I recommend trying it out! What started as a pretty basic project became a bit more invested the more I considered it. It got me thinking about the future. It got me thinking about you and the other family members I might chance to meet some day. 

 

    As you might imagine, there’s a lot of memories that make a lifetime. So much of that can be traced back to the sensations of being in that moment. There are few that strike you quite like the sound of music. While I cannot speak on all the musical memories that I’ve had (it would be a very long list!) I can share with you some of the most prominent ones that come to my mind at this moment. Right now, at the age of twenty-three, I am hopeful that I have time to experience much more. I hope that, if the world permits it, we can experience some of that music together! If we cannot, the least I can do is leave you with a bit of music to help aid you in this fantastical journey we’ve got. If you’ll indulge me, you can find some of this music listed below to listen to on your own. I’ve assembled a playlist for you, too! (If it’s still there by the time that you read this).

 

The journey began long before I could fully recall when it began, as I’m sure will be the case for you. Many nights I was happily tucked away under my blankets with my plush pig and my parents perched on the end of the bed. There was one CD that had a fixed place in the old boombox radio in our house. The album was called The Celtic Lullaby and remains one of my favorites to this day. From that album, there is always one song in particular that never fails to fill my heart. The song is “Night Night and Einini” and, while it was sung by Tommy Sands on the album, it will always be my daddy’s voice that I hear when I remember this song. When I was young and my eyes grew heavy, I often dreamt of small birds and warm arms holding me whenever I drifted off to this lullaby. If ever you grow feverish in the night, may this song quash every nightmare that dares to haunt you. If I have ever been so lucky to hold you, I hope I can hold you still through this song. I’ll do my best to squash every bedbug that I can.

 

 

For the days when you want your feet to wander to far off worlds and your hands long for walking sticks, I want you to know of this song: “Roads” performed by Glenn Yarbrough for the animated Rankin Bass version of The Hobbit was one of the most important songs in my childhood. From earliest memory, we would watch this film together as a family. Whether it was on the small screens in our old Expedition, Pearl, or if it was recited word for word by my father on a plane flying homeward bound through a storm, this rendition of the tale has always had a special place in the world I’ve known. And this song in particular was the first to elicit goosebumps from me. It sparked a love of adventure and a sort of reverence of life that can be felt in every note. And, of course, a love of Tolkien’s works. Watching those butterflies alight on the boughs of those beautifully painted pines and seeing Bilbo look on in similar wonder was a core memory if ever I’ve known one. I share this song, but one day I hope that you will experience this entire tale for yourselves. I hope that it moves you in the way it moved me once, or at the very least that some story comes along to give you that same sense of wonder and smallness. 

As older I grew, my taste in music began to expand with every new style and song I heard. The first time a song ever made me cry was the first time listening to “Puff the Magic Dragon” in my second grade music class. It was around Halloween and we had been learning some songs for our autumnal season. Among the spooky songs of skeletons in closets, the kindly old Mrs. Sheldon taught us Peter, Paul, & Mary’s saddest song. We all had the lyrics on sheets of paper in front of us. Things started off just fine! A song about a kid and his dragon friend? How rad is that?! And then… then we got to the end of the song. Before I knew it or even really knew why, I started tearing up and hiccuping. Bless Mrs. Sheldon because she saved me in that moment, taking a break to lead me off and get me some water to calm down. I recall being so embarrassed. I was determined to buck up and harden my heart the next time I came into class. I did not want to repeat that scene. So I read the lyrics over and over again. I could cry in the privacy of my own home and not have to worry about doing it in front of my class. Well, that did not pan out as expected. I eventually wound up being able to read through it without crying so long as I did not think about any of the words I was saying. But while I stopped trying to consider how Puff the Magic Dragon was feeling, my mind started wandering to other things. The second time I sang the song I tried to steel myself, but I ended up crying for a different reason entirely. I thought of my beloved dog, Delilah, and I wondered how lonely she must have felt when nobody was home. I wondered if she ever worried that we had forgotten about her. Like Puff without his Jackie. Needless to say there were a lot of belly scratches and table scraps for her that day. I had failed in my quest to avoid any tears, but man did I gain one strong memory! It was that day that I realized the power of storytelling in song and how it could convey love, loss, and imagination with only a few chords and words. 

“If God Made You.” It was on the long drive heading back home on I-4. I recall the way the black seatbelt yielded under my big old head, my cheek pressed up against the warm car window. It was the first time I had ever seen the sky in such a stupendous fashion.  

The universe seemed to expand the bigger I got. More and more was revealed with each passing day. The world was no longer confined to the circle of my closest relations- the revelation that so many stories had been passed down, that so many lives were being actively lived, that so much time had already transpired without my knowledge- and it all began to coalesce in a greater understanding of the human condition. The most inspirational force that I have ever known and that I will ever know is love. It was the first lesson I had ever been taught, and I am lucky to have learned it. When I entered adolescence, I learned that not everyone was open to that love. The reality was crushing. While there was love, there was also pain, and there was fear and hatred. But the songs of love I learned always outshone the anthems of vitriol. I was ten years old when I first heard Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On?” It was that year that I first learned about the Civil Rights movement as well as the ideas of nonviolent protest. My teacher back then was Ms. Monet. She was a fervent believer in love conquering hate. When she was not playing classical music for our class during reading time, she was sharing these messages of inspiration and kindness through various artists who believed in the goodness of the world and shunned the use of hate. She passed away some time ago, but I will always be grateful to her for those most important lessons. She opened my eyes to protest songs and to the strength of the people who sang them. One day you will learn about these figures in your life, and ones that I may never know who come in your time. You yourself may become one. Keep the love of others in your soul and kindness in your heart. When you act without fear or hatred, you will know a peace like no other.

It wasn’t long after fifth grade that the story of this next song begins. It was also my introduction to the world of anime and the knowledge that, yes, the mystical power of friendship is indeed real. Your great-uncle Elijah has always been my best friend. That much is designed by divinity itself. But it was not until our mother, your great-grandmother, first started going back to work long shifts (sometimes fourteen hour days) that he and I began to really get along. We used to combat each other wherever we could. I remember chucking a wooden block at him and lodging it in his forehead! I also remember him pulling my hair a lot, so I figure it was just desserts. But I digress. When things took a turn for the worse in our lives and our familial situation got dire, we were forced to rely on one another. And you know what? Despite it all- the pains and the regrets and the fears back in that time- I am, in a way, glad that we went through it. In our terrible mid-youth crisis, we found true companionship with each other for the first time. The song I wish to gift to you is “Brothers” from the manga/anime Fullmetal Alchemist. Your great-uncle and I consider ourselves to be as the Elric brothers are to one another. We look after each other, no matter the cost or the situation, and we will always love each other. You, too, will find such a bond in your time. You may seek it out, or it may seek you out first. If you don’t think that you’ve found it, don’t fret. As certain as the world will change, you will find that love.

As I grew, so too did my interests. The older I became, funnily, the older the music I was interested in got. Discovering the Andrews Sisters when playing Bioshock as a youngster was just the tip of the iceberg. That music is old, sure, but my tastes started reaching further and further back in time. I was just entering college when I started learning about the fascinating world of anthropology. Just listening to words once recited by ancient tongues was such a thrilling experience. When I discovered Peter Pringle (whose primary expertise and interest is playing ancient and medieval music with mostly period appropriate instruments) it was truly awesome. The first song I heard that he had sung was an excerpt from the Epic of Gilgamesh. I remember sharing it with Elijah, the both of us fascinated as we watched Peter pluck at his gishgudi. The revelation that music from times that the ancients considered antiquity was truly inspiring. Sometimes we forget that we as humans are and have always been the same animal. No amount of time can separate us from our nature. In that nature, we find joys in the act of creation- of art and dance and song.  

Not all music is happy. There are some pieces that elicit complicated feelings. The last song that comes into my mind is a fine example of this. The song, “Wild Mountain Thyme,” has a place in my heart for all the time I have left. It brings a sting that can only be felt when you have loved well and truly. It is this song that summons the sweet days spent with my golden retriever Delilah. She was a good dog- the best, if you ask me- and I’m sure she would have loved you. This is the song I used to sing to her throughout time- from her puppy dog days chasing that old torn up football in the shade of the cherry laurel out front to the times spent sitting on the porch together, her graying muzzle turned to the wind as we ate clementines and listened to the squirrels playing in the trees. To this day, Delilah will always be one of my best friends and by far the best dog anyone could ever have asked for. I hope to meet her again one day if I can. And, if God wills it, I hope that one day you can meet her too. Life can pass by faster than you expect, sweetheart, but every moment is so very precious. When I was younger, I thought that she was immortal. I thought that when she passed, I would simply pass on too. But life goes on, and in it there is so much to live for. I miss her still- I think I always will- and I love her still. In that way she lives on. And every time I hear this song, I think of her. When loved ones pass away in your life, as they undoubtedly will, know that it’s okay to mourn. That pain is part of the love that you feel. Open your heart to it, but do not let your grief overshadow that light that made the love you’ve known shine. Remember that the reason you grieve is because that light- that love- was so strong. As long as you live, my love, you will find love as long as you let yourself. That much is certain. So chin up! If you ever feel lonely, know that I love you too. And remember that we’ll meet again! 

There are songs that linger like the scent of the old SUV or the fingerprints left by an old friend on the window. Like the worn wooden floor where Delilah used to lay, or the way the rain falls sideways on a summer night in Florida. You’re going to have experiences of your own that stain you in all their colors. Music can make grooves in your soul with its sound. So many small ridges that carve their way through your heart and flow with warmth right into the core of you. Embrace it all if you can. The memories that spark fondness, the ones that throb and sting, the ones that are some strange intersection of bitter and sweet- every one of them is important. Don’t be afraid to let yourself feel everyone of them.

    

Know that I love you, forever and always. When I meet you, I will be so glad that you are part of those memories that I have the pleasure of carrying with me. I hope to hear the music of your laughter. I hope to see the joy of your play. And kiddo(s), all I can say is that when the music starts, I hope you dance. Stay cool, stay positive, and remember to love yourself and others.

Until we meet again! 

With love, 

Isa Babel

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLijQfo6QTWkfKz6GAM95bzFVrmDIOldva

Ghost Stories

 

Unfinished, but eh, what're you going to do? Still remember having a dream about an old man and a friendly ghost. I wrote down what I remembered and felt, and here it is! It's brief, but I think it captured most of the feeling well enough. I hope you enjoy!

I had bought the kit just that morning. The instructions were clearly printed, though incredibly too cryptic for my eleven year old brain to process too well. I blame it on the writing. 

“Are you there?” I whispered in a trembling voice. It was the scariest thing that I had done in my young and uneventful suburban life. Scarier than shots at the doctor’s office, or running late for school, or hearing mom’s car pull up in the driveway before my chores were done. It was scarier than all of that combined.

I waited for a moment. The radio roared in a symphony of static. That in of itself gave me gooseflesh. 

“Here.”

It was so clear amidst the chaos of the crackling waves. I jumped with a silent yelp, biting my tongue and rattling my teeth. I swore under my breath, just a little curse of “damnation” before I crawled back closer to the radio. Its blue light stared back at me, black numbers morphing into signals anew with each frantic second that passed.

But it seemed as though the ghost was patient. At the very least, it didn’t garble out anything else meaningful. I eyed the room. Nothing seemed out of place. No books had been knocked from shelves, there was no message swirling in the froth of my coco, and the action figures on my shelf were in their proper poses. All my lights were still on, and if I had my way they would stay that way. I glanced at my door. It was still open, just a hair, and I could hear my dad’s snoring pouring through the hallway. Safe, for now. 

I 

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It was time. Every bone had settled in for a final sleep. I did not have the strength to move so much as a finger, and every tip of my toes felt like they had been given an ice bath. I was dying and very close to death. I had come to terms with that fact. I did not fight to cling onto life to see another October pass me by in the autumnal solemnity that seemed to cast a spell on this place. I did not mind missing out on another Christmas, although I thought it a shame not seeing Jackers after his first winter concert. I didn’t even need a week.

A day, though, was all. One more day that would see me back home.

I knew that if I died right there, I wouldn’t get to be with her. I would be with all the others who had left their last breath in these spacious white rooms, in the company of many who still wandered these linoleum halls. I would be surrounded by souls while she would be all alone.

“... go home.”

The air around me grew stiff. You could hear a pin drop in that silence.

“Dad?”

“What was that, Dad?”

To say that speaking was painful was not entirely true. It was more like the feeling of numbness you get after sitting on your leg too long- that prickling, ticklish feeling that skitters up and down your flesh. It was uncomfortable, but I could bear it. I had to.

“Home.” I managed in a quiet voice. I could almost see the shadows of their heads turning beneath the red of my eyelids.

It was a quick trip thereafter. A few of them argued- my daughter Bethany, bless her, thought that there was still time. Still a chance I could pull through. I drank that day, after all, and I had even talked. What would moving me accomplish? Matt talked her down nicely. Everyone else could see it. They wouldn’t have called for a chaplain if they couldn’t see it.

A hard pill to swallow, to be sure, but a necessary one. I thanked the Lord when I heard the squeaking wheels of the CNA’s gurney. It wasn’t very often that someone was able to make a final request on their deathbed. It was a miracle, a sign from God, Sara had told everyone, and in that moment I was infinitely grateful for the piety of my daughter-in-law.

I could not tell you where we went to before I got home, nor the car ride over. My children moved me from the back of the van with careful hands, much softer than my own. Oh God, I could hear them crying. I imagined Matthew’s red face and the sheen of his snot above his lip, an older reflection of that little boy crying at first grade baseball practice after dislocating his finger. I could hear Bethany’s deep-voiced sobs behind the shape of a napkin. My sweet little girl.

The old familiar creak of the front door, then the softer squeak of the screen that followed when it closed. That musty smell hit me like a freight train. I listened to the hum of the old wires whirring in the walls, felt the muted vivacity of the old homestead.

Then I heard the click of a light. I smiled, a sweet draft falling over my chest and cheeks. 

“Still haven’t fixed the wiring in this place?” Matthew spoke with some mixture of disdain and amusement. It was a very nostalgic tone of voice that I had not heard for quite some time, not since he was living here and I wasn’t swaddled in blankets for most hours of a day.

“You know that dad wouldn’t want us to.” I could almost hear Bethany’s eyeroll. A hand descended onto my shoulder and squeezed it lightly. “Isn’t that right, dad?”

The chill in the air stirred up a bit. Mary was laughing. I chuckled, too, though it came out as more of a cough.

The light dimmed for a moment. It was like catching my breath. So much all at once had left me feeling a bit light in the head. I blinked once. Twice. Three times. I could see again.

There was a shape I had never seen standing in front of me. I knew her instantly, as I had known her all my life. 

She was shorter than I had always imagined, dressed down in a plaid skirt and long, frilly blouse. Long dark hair and eyes to match. Her face was what could be described as gaunt, though that seems like such an ugly word for such a beautiful person. Especially when she smiled.

I walked forward. The air around her was not cold anymore. It was almost warm- almost alive, in a sense- and the light she gave off was nothing short of heavenly. 

“Welcome home, Bobby.” Her voice was her own, unfiltered by radio or television or doll, clear and crisp and soft as the droplets in the grass on an early fall morning. My heart swelled.

“It’s good to be home, Mary.”

 But weeds I admire more than any flower

Which, mentionably, I do not disdain

More than any other kind of plant.

I do happen to like them more than most things

But that is merely to say 

That I harbor an appreciation for weeds

They flower in the frigid winter

And no cold wind deters them

And even icy rain spurs them into growth

And they spring up in their summer sprigs

When the sun is scalding with its scathing gaze

Yet these weeds do not flinch

But stare right back with equal fervor

The roots of a weed find a home anywhere

Whether unpleasant or idyllic

Sand or dirt or mud or gravel or slush (probably)

Any hill is suitable

Any home is met with equal grace and earnest

And how could I detest something that could never be ungrateful?

We have a thing or two to learn from these weeds, I think

And even when the world cries “Ugly!”

“Useless!” “Waste of garden space!”

The weeds remain

And no hoe can hold them down

Or tear them out for good

For as sure as your bottom dollar

They will make their guest appearance

Year after year, month after month

Until their familiar families huddled in bright green masses

Come smiling back at you in the morning

And sigh as you might, a part of your heart admires the sight

There is beauty there and you know it to be true

So don’t hate the weeds!

But don’t feel too bad for plucking them

Because, well, you know-

They’ll be back again soon

 Holding your heart

Melted crayon fusing my flesh together

Hot and reeking

Putty that ties together each digit

Reluctant to slip off my fingers

And managing to cake beneath my nails.

Blunt as they are,

They are still sharp enough

To paint with thin red and clotted black and vibrant pink.

My handprints are never the same.

Every handle I grab

Turns pink with the now chalky remnants

That will forever more stay.

Like silly string on a hot summer fence

Tacky and indelible and stronger in resolve

Than the grizzled faces at laundromats.

They watch me even now.

It turns to slop as it sloughs off my palm

And plummets into the muddy bank

That has nestled around the new pinewood porch planks.

The mud splashes onto it

But nothing could have prepared it for the heart’s devious rejection

And all that touches it is spurned

And cast away.

This mass of tissue throbbing among sticks

And boatloads of acorns

And the bbs of airsoft guns that have not been fired since 

Days when we would run around until evenfall. 

It blends in rather nicely,

Camouflaged.

What to do with it now?