Who knew listening to their music could be so . . . educational. |
Hey,
hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around,
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.
And people say we monkey around,
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.
It was 1966.
My
cousin, Jody, and I had just discovered the wonderful, magical,
empowering world of rock and roll.
And
LP records.
The
perfect pairing.
Now
we could listen to the exciting new music whenever and however we
wanted.
Which
was all of the time.
And
loudly.
Hey, hey, we're
the Monkees . . .
Was driving itself
like a hammer throughout the house.
For probably the
15th time that day.
I should probably
mention that the only record-player I had access to, was my parents'.
In the front room.
“Diane!”
Over the music, I
vaguely made out the sound of my Mother's voice.
I looked up.
She was standing
beside us.
“Would you PLEASE
turn that down?”
I turned the knob.
A bit.
“What?”
Mom sighed.
Audibly.
“I just wanted you
to turn it down.”
I looked at the
record player. “I did.”
She sighed again.
“Diane. You have been playing that record over and over all day.
Can't you think of something else to do? Or something else to play?”
“No.”
“Well, I'm not
going to keep coming out here to tell you to turn it down!”
“Okay.”
Now what she had
said, and what I had just heard, were two different things.
She had been voicing
a threat.
I had understood
that she wasn't going to bother us any more.
She left.
Happily, I turned up
Jody's and my music once more.
I never heard my
Dad's approach.
Let's face it, I
wouldn't have heard the approach of an entire herd of water buffalo.
Suddenly, a shadow
fell over the two of us, sitting there on the floor in front of the
record player.
A large shadow.
I looked up.
Just in time to see
my Dad reach out, lift the needle from the record.
Remove said record.
And snap it in two.
Oh, my.
He handed the pieces
back to me.
“You mother told
you,” he said.
I stared at the
broken record, aghast.
“But . . . but it
was Jody's,” I managed, finally.
Dad shrugged. “I
guess you should have listened to your mother,” he said.
Then he left.
Jody and I stared at
each other.
Then we quickly
gathered up our remaining records and carried them to safety.
I think I bought her
a new one.
I don't remember.
I'll never forget
the lesson.
And neither will
Jody.
Following that . . .
incident, whenever someone in her family looked like they might lose
their temper, they would immediately be told, “Don't pull a Mark
Stringam!”
Ah, lessons taught
by my Dad.
And his friends, the
Monkees.
That was a bit...ummmm...FINAL wasn't it?
ReplyDeleteVery final! Gulp . . .
Deletethank you for commenting on my blog, Diane! Thank you also for the follow :)
ReplyDeleteChristina
estelachristina.blogspot.com
My pleasure, Christina! Welcome!
DeleteYa parents had control in dem days today if you do that the kid goes and breaks something of yours. I think our way was better raising kids because it also taught respect to your elders. Today the music and language sees parents in a different light not to be respected .
ReplyDeleteWe DEFINITELY had respect. And it continues through to today!
DeleteOh--well do I remember that. Dad didn't set a lot of records but he sure showed that he was a record breaker...
ReplyDeleteThat's one record that never should have been broken . . . eep!
DeleteYour Dad certainly meant business, I would have listened to him too :)
ReplyDeleteYeah. We didn't argue with him . . . much . . .
DeleteOh, my. I wouldn't have to learn that lesson more than once...
ReplyDeleteI just love coming here, Diane, to read your stories about your colorful and interesting past!
To tell you the truth, I think he was a bit shocked at himself! He never did it again. Mind you, he didn't have to . . . :)
Delete