Play it Again

Play it Again

Anne pulled the sleek black record from its album cover. She stared at it, remembering each track as she noted the thin lines between songs. Dan Fogelberg. Netherlands. She could almost hear it, the strings slowly rising to a magnificent crescendo, Dan’s sweet voice capturing a place long ago and far away. And yet…it seemed like yesterday.

    It was a yesterday that happened forty years ago, that’s all. Her record player, possibly her most prized possession, sat on a low table in her bedroom. She had the “loft” bedroom on the 3^rd floor, mainly because no one else wanted the room with the slanted walls where you had to be careful standing up or you’d hit your head. She didn’t mind. It was away from the noise and mayhem of her family, and she could (and did) turn up the music loud. She could spend hours listening to her albums. 

     She had a few favorites, records she would listen to over and over. She knew all the words to James Taylor’s “Sweet Baby James” and every song on Carol King’s “Tapestry”. She also liked some jazz, Chuck Mangione’s “Chase the Clouds Away” and Antonio Carlos Jobim’s “Wave” could be heard again and again, echoing from the walls in the tiny room.

    There were times she missed dinner she was so engrossed in the songs emanating from that record player, and other times she fell asleep listening to an album. She knew her parents thought it was a little weird that she spent so much time (and money) on all that music, but it was a part of who she was and she made no excuses for it. They pretty much left her alone as long as she kept her grades up.

    And now she stood there in her own house, in a guest room twice the size of the little loft room, looking down at the crate of albums she had retrieved years ago from her parent’s house right before they went to live in an assisted living apartment. At the time, she gave little thought to the turntable, she was in such a rush. Then she had forgotten about the crate, losing it in a fog of soccer games and graduations for two ungrateful children, several unfulfilling jobs and a failed marriage.  

    She sat down by the crate and took out the albums one by one.   She took her time, longingly eyeing each one, reading the album notes ever so carefully.  Each record reminded her of a time or a place that seemed so remote, yet so familiar. Each record was a friend with messages of love and innocence and dreams. Dreams she had all but forgotten.   She had the sudden urge to play them again.

    With fresh resolve, she grabbed her purse and headed out the door. Target should be open, it was only 6:30 pm. She followed the familiar roads to the mall and hurried inside to escape the dark and cold autumn evening. Once in the store, she walked past endless rows of toys and kitchen supplies to the back of the store, to the sorry electronics area that housed mainly iPhones, Alexas, and a less than impressive assortment of wireless speakers. On the bottom of a shelf in the back corner of the department she finally found what she was looking for – a turntable to play her 45s on. There were only two left.  She hoisted the box into the cart, as if it was a treasure she was not sure she was actually going to acquire if she didn’t move fast enough. She laughed a little, realizing how ridiculous it was, seeing as she was the only one in the aisle.

    At the register, the clerk gave her a quizzical look.

    “What’s that?” he asked.

    “A record player – you know for albums,” she replied. She caught him rolling his eyes. He couldn’t have been more than seventeen years old and clearly had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. She was not in the mood to explain. She was on a mission and just wanted to get home.

     Once there, she brought in the record player and set about extracting it from the myriad of packaging. It was a small turntable, so little compared to the one she had had as a teenager. No matter, it should do the trick she hoped. She plugged it in and set a Van Morrison record on the circular plate, aligning the small hole in the center so that it dropped into place. She moved the arm and dropped the needle down carefully onto the first song. “Brown Eyed Girl” sprang to life from the little machine, a little gritty but warm and familiar. 

    It went on like that for hours. Record after record, song after song that took her back to happier, simpler times. She remembered friends and places from long ago. She sang along with the words and felt satisfied that she remembered them all, that her mind could still work. Late into the night she listened.

    The next day was Saturday and she slept in. She put on an album while she lazily read the paper and had some coffee. Her cat Juniper curled up beside her and gave her approval of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born to Run”.

     The phone rang right at the end of “Thunder Road”. Perfect timing. It was her sister Meredith.

     “Hey Annie! How are you doing?”

      “Fine, Mere. And you?” Ann lied. She was tired of talking about all the disappointments and wanted instead to shift the conversation. She figured Meredith would be glad to talk about her life, which included a doting daughter, perfect husband, and a brand-new Mercedes. 

     “Oh, we’re pretty good. Hey – I’m calling because there’s a concert coming up next weekend and I wondered if you wanted to go. Casey and Carl are going to her lacrosse tournament in Hackensack and I’m all alone. What do you say? It’s one of those oldies shows, with a great band playing all those songs you used to like – all that folkie, jazz-rock stuff from the 70s.”

    Ann smiled wistfully. “Okay. Yes, let’s do it!” she replied, amazed that she was almost allowing herself to look forward to something again.  She wanted not just the music but she craved the hopes and dreams of another time, to rediscover the Ann she had lost somewhere long ago.