Tag: undeliverables

To the VHS Cassette Tapes Onto Which We Recorded Our Favorite Shows, Most Notably ‘Quantum Leap’,

Thank you for your service. We recorded over and over, sometimes shoving you into the VCR too hard when we remembered at the last minute that the show was about to start. Your labels were a mess of crossed out pencil and pen. We rewinded you so. many. times. The physical abuse you took really can’t be quantified.

What you did for us was invaluable. Shows like ‘Quantum Leap’ were on after our bedtime, so being able to record them and watch them the next day after school was ESSENTIAL. The joy of knowing an episode was waiting for us (and we could fast forward through the commercials!) was such a joy. And I can only remember like two times when the show wasn’t there, and I really don’t think that was your fault, VHS Cassette Tapes. Even if we might have blamed you at the time. Words spoken in frustration, I hope you understand.

I know you’re long retired now. Please know all the good you achieved during your career.

Love,

-e.

Dear Round Blue and White Tablecloth with the Fringe,

I was thinking a little bit about unsung heroes the other day and maybe this will embarrass you, but honestly – I thought of you.

You were always there. Through so many of our family’s formative years. Covering that table. Catching those spills. Hearing those conversations. Witnessing that laughter. That awkwardness. How many hours of early evening TV did you catch from that little set in the corner? There was golf on weekend afternoons, Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune on weekday evenings. The news. Once in awhile in high school I would tiptoe down late at night, turn the TV down low and spread my homework out on your homely, ever present surface.

But maybe what I think of most when I think of your heroics is your fringe. Man – we braided it, twisted it, smoothed it back out again. Awkward conversations, boring dinners and lunches, tense times, weird times – that fringe was there for us. And all the other times, the majority of the times, which were normal, humdrum, sometimes funny sometimes not, sometimes hurried sometimes leisurely, sometimes mildly annoying sometimes mildly heartwarming, we ignored you and you just waited – covering, catching – until we noticed you again.

Don’t ever sell yourself short, Round Blue and White,

-e.

Dear Tree Swing from our Backyard,

When my sister, our dad and I built you, it was a Sunday. I remember because my sister and I ran up to our room after church and sang “kick off your Sunday shoes!” as we flung our small dress flats into the closet. We had to change into work clothes so we could help transform the thick board and heavy rope into you, an iconic tree swing, swinging from one of the tallest pines in our pine dotted front yard.

Our front yard was a hill so when we swung on you our feet seemed to kick straight up into the sky. The rest of the yard, the street below, the chain link fence and row of trees across the street – all of them dropped away instantly and effortlessly below us.

Strangely, I don’t think we used you very often. Or maybe we did. Maybe it doesn’t matter. It was the building I remember most. Actually, nope, let me get this right – it was the anticipation of the building. It was the joy of rushing home to change out of the prison of church clothes. (Ugh! Tights!) It was the hilarity of referencing a movie we had just seen (and vaguely understood). It was the before of a Sunday afternoon, a fleeting moment: after Sunday school, church and coffee hour and before the afternoon has drifted into the shadow of SUNDAY NIGHT, the worst time in the whole week, when the dinner dishes are in need of scraping and 60 Minutes is droning from the black and white TV in the corner of the kitchen. But before Sunday afternoon is a moment bright with promise and sunshine and tree swing construction and it will be gone – or at least less dazzling – almost as soon as you acknowledge it.

Thanks for being part of that bright moment,

-e.

To the Oldies Stations of the 80s and 90s,

Wow times have changed, huh? I know that a lot of time has passed, but I was still pretty surprised and upset when “oldies” stopped meaning songs from the golden age of rock. I would even be happy with a station that played 80s stuff.

I know you can stream whatever music you want now, but you and I both know that isn’t the same, Oldies Stations, right? I’m talking about turning on the radio and tuning into something that your favorite DJ is putting together. Something that is available in one time and place. That’s what I’m talking about.

My dad knew the lyrics to every one of those songs. Now my sister and I do. Did you know that? That’s all thanks to you, Oldies Stations. We particularly liked the Saturday night request shows. We never called in, but we listened, the four of us in our living room, and sang along and sometimes danced around. Our parents were so young when they sang the songs from their youth. They were so strong when they danced the dances they had learned years before. They were both such good dancers. The alchemy of those nights will never be recreated.

I’m starting to wonder if they ever happened at all.

We bought a new car recently and with it came a Sirius XM trial – do you know about Sirius Radio, Oldies Stations? I don’t know if you’d love it or hate it. It’d be cool to hear your take some day – and I liked to play the 50s and 60s and 70s stations. There is one for each decade. And I liked to scan them to see what they were playing. But when it’s 24 hours a day of music from one decade, we’re talking pretty deep cuts. I didn’t know a lot of the songs. They were playing stuff I had never heard before. I couldn’t sing along. So the trial’s over and that’s OK.

I’ll remember you always,

-e.

Dear Rick Astley Cassette Tape,

Hey there! I was thinking about you today and just thought I’d drop a line.

My 13-year-old and his friend rickrolled their teacher on Friday – they inserted the song right into a video they had to submit for a class project. And first I thought how strange it is that rickrolling is still around. I think it cropped up around the time my son was born.

And then I remembered that day on the deck when you were on my boombox and my dad picked up your case, took out the liner notes and asked why I liked you so much. I said I liked Rick Astley’s voice, and he said, “well you know he uses a special microphone to sound that way,” and I was pretty disappointed. Also I felt young and silly when moments before I had felt pretty grownup, crushing on Rick Astley and running the batteries down in my very own boombox.

And I was probably about 13.

Things come full circle don’t they?

Anyway, we had good times.

-e.

Dear Dark Wood Coffee Table from our Living Room,

Hey, what are you up to these days, girl?

I know I should have said this a long time ago (like 30 years, ha ha!) – I’m really sorry about getting nail polish on you. It was like, the tiniest speck, but still. I get that it totally ruined your flawless finish. And yes, I know my mom told me I should use something under my hands and I swore up and down I wasn’t going to spill. I know, I know. I said I was sorry, OK?

Lucky thing my grandfather was there to fix you up with some paint thinner and varnish. You really couldn’t tell. (I’m sure you would say that you could, but I’m telling you as a friend – you couldn’t. Not unless you knew exactly where to look.)

Anyway, one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you – how annoyed do you think the adults really were? I couldn’t tell. It was pretty stupid of me, and you were part of our really nice furniture set, the one we only used when special company was over. I don’t know. Maybe everyone was willing to look past it because of everything else that was going on.

Well, hope you’ve found a family to treat you right. Hopefully no more teenagers with nail polish, amiright?

-e.

Dear Christian Music Festival Circa 1992,

Hey, how’s it going?

I just wanted to clear something up. I know I ended up in the Reborn Tent with all those other people, but the truth is when I raised my hand I hadn’t heard the question. It was probably about accepting a lord and savior? I’m just guessing. I saw people around me raising their hands and honestly, at that point I was a little dazed and sleep-deprived. Maybe even hypnotized. Next thing I knew I was being ushered to that special tent. But it was all kind of a mistake.

So no, I didn’t get saved. But thanks anyway.

-e.

p.s. The music was pretty good!

Dear Wonder Woman TV Show from the 70s,

I remember watching you at my grandmother’s house in Roslindale. She set me up with a puzzle on the floor of her upstairs den and she turned the TV on and we watched you with your Golden Lasso and your invisible jet. I don’t remember much: I was really little. But I got the sense that you were awesome.

After Grandma helped me to “wash my teeth” and then she tucked me into bed.

I can probably watch you now if I wanted, Google tells me you are available on several streaming platforms, but for some reason I don’t.

Bye,

-e.

To the Bone in Mrs. F’s Neck,

I mean, turns out you weren’t a bone at all. You were a muscle that Mrs. F turned into a bone with the strength of her own mind. I was a child when I was first introduced to you. Mrs. F was the age of my own grandmother. She smiled often and was upright with pressed slacks and a neat blouse and a cane. It was the polio that resulted in your birth, Bone. Or at least that’s the way I interpreted it.

“Eg trodde det var et bein,” she said, gesturing to you, Bone in her neck. Until a doctor revealed your true nature, Bone. When you were squeezed, tears ran down her cheeks. You were soft tissue, but you had been storing tears and those changed you. Made you change form. She was astonished to know that you were mere flesh. Magicked into steel by her own mind.

You introduced an important concept in my mythology, Bone. That pain is written on the body – more than that, pain is stored in the body, to make it strong when it needs to be, and that when it is earned, and when it is quiet and you are alone, you can release it to experience the stinging rasp of actual joy. That is joy: the release of pain. Not one without the other. Never simple, always complicated, never just one thing.

Did you know? Did you know all along what you truly were, or did you get lost in the role?

You are long gone, Bone, having never truly been bone at all. You worked hard and I, for one, will never forget you.

-e.