(Properly referred to as the Amberola
30)
How come I
can never remember that word? Every time, without fail, that I attempt to
summon it, it remains stubborn and refuses to come out of hiding.
Perhaps it’s
because you rarely hear that ‘made up’ word today.
…Victrola
My
thirty-something year old mother, (she seemed so much older) packed my brother
and me into the car and drove us over to Uncle Gordon’s house. We happened to
be visiting my grandparents in South Georgia at the time. (Funny, how people
use visits to a primary relative’s house as an excuse to visit more peripheral
relatives which they would never otherwise visit).
At any rate,
we pulled up into my uncle’s yard, were greeted at the door, swigged on soft
drinks, and generally ‘shot the breeze.’ After a few minutes elapsed, my
mother’s uncle asked if we would like to listen to a couple of records, and
with a smile amended his monologue to explain that this wasn’t just any kind of
record player. It wasn’t a record player at all; (though it managed to do
something very much the same).
Leading my
mother, brother and me into his study, he pointed to what appeared to be an
antique cabinet on a Fife & Duncan table, stepped over to it, and lifted
the lid to reveal the strangest set of knobs and shafts and protrusions I’d
ever seen. And as I analyzed the machine, I noticed what appeared to be a hand
crank on its right side; (similar to the crank on one of those old
Depression-era cars, except smaller).
And with
this my Uncle Gordon walked over to the non-descript set of nuts and bolts,
(and gears and screws), fitted what appeared to be an 8 or 10 inch cylinder
onto the main shaft, cranked it up, and lowered a needle into place. And viola!
The strangest excuse for music I had ever heard wafted throughout the room.
I was simply
captivated, and thought it was one of the most unique things I’d ever seen
(and/or heard).
Fast forward
five decades
The year is
2012 and my second cousin and I happened to be dialoging a bit on a social
media site, and I mentioned her Grandfather Gordon, and having once seen and
listened to his Victrola. And with this, Annette (for that is her name) made me
aware that our common cousin, Barbara currently owned that formerly 50-60 year
old musical instrument; but which by now was approaching or had surpassed the
century mark. Of course, I was both surprised and bemused that this ethereal
phantom of the past had reassumed corporality. I never expected it to go any
further, and when our conversation ended, I got about my life and relegated the
relic to the same mental shelf from whence it had been temporarily un-shelved.
However,
(always an
interesting choice of words denoting the emergence of something unexpected)
a few years
later, actually this very week, Barbara contacted me and informed me that she
was ready to sell the Victrola, but only to another family member; as she
wishes someone whose father or mother bears the Ring surname to serve as its
caretaker.
It goes
without saying that I ‘volunteered’ and immediately agreed to her asking price
of $500.
Strange. No,
Providential that I have been given the opportunity to purchase my great
uncle’s 100 year old Victrola; but not just any Victrola. But, rather the very
machine with which I became familiar as an adolescent, and now again, as a man
entering the sunset of his life.
VOICES FROM THE PAST
I wrote an earlier story about having
once visited my great Uncle Gordon.
I had just turned 13, and my family
and I were vacationing at my grandparent’s house in southern Georgia. As my
mother, brother and I sat in my uncle’s parlor, he stood up, walked over to an
unusual wooden box, lifted the lid, and proceeded to turn a crank on the side;
(which reminded me of the old timey handle on the front of those Henry Ford
Model T’s).
Suddenly, a black cylinder mounted on
the inside top of the box began spinning, and the strangest music I’d ever
heard filled up the room. I’d seen those old black and white films of Al Jolsen
singing, and what I was hearing reminded me of his style of music and vocal
characteristics.
For all I knew my exposure to my great
uncle’s Victrola was a one-time experience; at least in terms of ever seeing
and hearing his personal music box again. He was in his late 60’s or early
70’s, and I never expected to see him again. (And as it fell together, I never
did).
However…
(One can always tell something
unexpected is about to be revealed when this word appears on the written page).
However, a full half century later
this former adolescent is easily as old as my dearly departed relative was at
the time, and (strangely enough) I was recently afforded the opportunity to not
only see and hear my uncle’s ancient Victrola again,
…but to purchase it, and provide it a
place of honor in my very own home.
Did I mention my great Uncle’s entire
collection of audio cylinders came with that old music box? (Well, they did).
It seems these cylinders have a Plaster of Paris base, with the standard black
plastic record coating on the outside. And of perhaps a hundred audios, the
inner core of perhaps 2/3 of them are beginning to crumble; (which leaves me
wondering if there is any hope of repair).
But as for the thirty or so cylinders
which are still usable, once again I have been given the opportunity to listen
to the strains of that ethereal old music coming out of the internal horn;
tucked just behind a framework of metal and what I refer to as ‘speaker cloth.’
My uncle evidently enjoyed religious
music, as thus far I have discovered more than a ‘handful’ contain this
particular genre of hymns and spiritual melodies.
Yesterday, having pushed the audio
cylinder onto the roller, I turned the crank 8 or 10 times, and flipped the
switch. Suddenly, the familiar old hymn, “Rock of Ages” wafted through the
speaker. At first, several male and female voices blended; ultimately
metamorphosing into one female voice finishing the verse.
Strange, the Edison Amberola 30 player
was patented in 1903, and according to a notecard which my uncle wrote out by
hand, my particular version of the machine was originally purchased in 1917.
The owners of the surreally poignant
voices have easily been dead and gone for three quarters of a century. No more
will they walk their native soil, but rather have become part of it.
…However,
(there’s that word again)
they have left something of themselves
behind.
And,
would you believe it? In spite of the tiny cracks and pops which are part and
parcel of such an ancient recording, and in spite of the decidedly English tilt
of their repertoire, the tenor of their voices struck something deep inside of
me.
Deep
calling out to deep. A rather apt way of putting it, I think. They were here
and I was not. I am here and they are not. And yet, they have lent me their
voices, and have instilled something grand and lasting within me.
They
have simply left something of themselves behind.
And
for this I am grateful, (and intend to do as they have done before me).
THE FOUR MINUTE EVERLASTING RECORD
I recently
purchased my great Uncle’s 1903 Edison Amberola, (erroneously referred to as a
‘Victrola’) and which was first owned by my grandfather; (having been purchased
at Sears & Roebuck in 1917). Interestingly enough, I first heard it play
over half a century ago, (and then forgot all about it).
The device
is enclosed in a small cabinet, on top of which is a steel head and a stylus
designed to play cylinder shaped audios; (or records as they were already
known). Earlier today, as I was examining one of the small cardboard boxes into
which the cylinders fit, I noticed some writing on the outside.
‘U.S. 4 Minute Everlasting Record’
And as I
reflected upon the text, it seemed to me that the wording affixed to the box
was almost prophetic; given that not only the player and the audio cylinders,
and those disembodied voices remain, long after they who vocalized the words
have gone on to their reward, but their cardboard trappings, as well.
On a similar
note, the owners of the construction company for which I work once purchased
several hundred red bricks which had been dislodged when the city paved the
street upon which they had been installed.
Some of the bricks still bear the fingerprints of the masons who
originally fired them; decades after the hands that made them and the owners of
those hands were laid to rest in the loom from which they were made.
And more
personally, my own father ‘left something behind.’ Well, to be sure he left
plenty of stuff behind. His audio recordings upon which he spun those long
since lived childhood stories. His family research. And hundreds of beautiful
landscape paintings; some of which adorn the walls of my home.
And as is
the case with these few foregoing examples, the creations are left to us;
whereas the creators have passed from the earth.
Ultimately,
however, not even the creations are eternal and will dissolve into the dust
whereby they are composed.
Thankfully,
this ‘ain’t’ all there is, and the redeemed have something to look forward to.
Scripture
informs us that “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son
that whosoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting
life.” (John 3:16)
(and)
“This life
and the lust thereof is passing away, but he who does the will of the
Lord endures forever.” (1st John 2:17)
No, my
friend. In spite of the assurances on that century old cardboard box nothing on
this side of the heavenly realm is eternal, but like those ethereal voices on
those old recordings is quickly passing away.
WALTZING IN THE NEW YEAR WITH THE OLD HOME
SINGERS
As you can plainly see from the date
of this story, it is New Year’s Day. And it occurred to me in the past several
hours to ‘ring in the New Year’ differently than I’d ever rung it in before.
It so happens that I recently
purchased a wonderful family heirloom. A cousin made me aware of another
relative who owned an Edison Amberola, (similar to a Victrola); which
surprisingly enough, my grandfather owned a very long time ago, and which
ultimately ‘fell into the hands’ of my great uncle. If that were not enough,
the latter of the two played this early version of a record player for my
mother and me over half a century ago. (Needless to say, I was still in high
school at the time).
Not only was I fortunate enough to
purchase the Amberola, but my great uncle’s tailor-made cabinet, and over a 100
audio cylinders came with it.
Not ones to celebrate with alcoholic spirits
or by surrounding ourselves with dozens of inebriated celebrants, like so many
earlier New Year’s Eves, we…stayed home.
And like so many years prior to the
one which we were now ending, I turned on the television, clicked my way
through the channels, and thought to myself,
“Well now, let me see. We have
Jennifer Lopez from New York City singing and dancing her way into our hearts,
and wearing… the most bizarre gold ‘shimmery’ excuse for an outfit; which left
little to be imagined.
And I said to myself,
“Self, there has to be something a bit
more visually moral upon which to focus this New Year’s Eve.” And I summarily
turned to a channel featuring Mariah Carey in Los Angeles.
Right there ‘in front of God and
everybody’ Mariah strutted and shimmered and sang her way into some people’s
hearts; albeit not my own.
(and)
Speaking aloud to no one in
particular, (though my wife was seated just steps away), I exclaimed,
“Old Mariah must have bought her
outfit at the same store where Jennifer Lopez shops.” (For I kid you not, their
‘lack of clothing’ was virtually identical, and they might easily have sung a
duet; had they not been on opposite sides of the country).
And with this unwelcome development, I
aimed the channel changer at my wide screen T.V. and clicked the scantily
dressed, slightly past prime time performer into oblivion.
Did I mention I had a backup plan?
(Well, I did). No, I hadn’t changed my mind. Alcoholic spirits and the
comradery of wild celebrants still hadn’t worked their way up the list of my
priorities for the evening.
You see, in the past few days I came
across one of the 4 minute audio wonders which had as its title, “Auld Lang
Syne,” (by Robert Burns), and of course, I connected that old ballad with the
approaching New Year’s celebration. Never a backup plan at all, for my decision
to slip said cylinder on the roller, turn the crank (for what seemed like an
eternity), and lower the needle had been premeditated.
As the notes of that old familiar
ballad began to waft their way across the room, and as those dearly departed
voices of those dearly departed singers rose in unison, I invited my wife to
her feet. And taking her in my arms, we waltzed ourselves into the New Year.
By now, I had clicked the television
back on to watch the Times Square ball drop, (and drop it did).
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2
and
…1
And it suddenly occurred to me that my
wife and I had been accompanied by a musical instrument purchased in 1917; (at
Sears & Roebuck). Exactly 100 years prior to the New Year which she and I
were at that very moment celebrating with one another.
Afterward
There was a time when these dearly
departed, disembodied voices owned physiologies of their own in which they
resided, and lived, and loved, and moved, and breathed; when they were, and we
were not.
I mused it was possible that in the
entire world at that moment, no other couple had chosen a century old Blue
Amberol audio cylinder with the music of “Auld Lang Syne,” as sung by “The Old
Home Singers,” to waltz in the New Year.
I like to think that my wife and I
were in better company ringing in the New Year with the archaic voices of “The
Old Home Singers,” (God rest their souls) than we would have been with Jennifer
Lopez, Mariah Carey, or any of those other so-called recording artists of our
time and ‘culture.’
by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 35. Copyright Pending.
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