It arrived after a treacherous 3,000-mile journey, being tossed, heaved and otherwise mistreated. But it arrived on my doorstep only a little worse for the wear.
It was wrapped in a cardboard sheath secured by ropes. Some of the cardboard had been damaged in transit and some of the ropes were about to lose their grip. Yet it arrived mostly intact – a magnificent Panasonic stereo system complete with a turntable.
The trip from Onset to Long Beach, California via the U.S. Postal Service was one built on faith. In Dad’s imagination, it was possible to wrap an expensive sound system in cardboard and ropes, ask for help at the post office to add the shipping address, and miraculously the gift would arrive in one piece. He was right to believe.
He imagined the delight of his daughter and small grandson upon the gift’s arrival. We were thrilled, amazed. Dad was not one to lavish gifts upon his children, but when he did give us something it was something substantial. His gifts always intended to be useful and, yes, joyful.
In his line of work, he had access to entertainment systems – Dad was a TV repairman. That might be a bit of an understatement. He fixed things, many things. He made a living installing TV antennas and repairing TVs and other electronic equipment. He also fixed the family fleet in his narrow driveway, the gasping oil burner in the dirt cellar, the shingles on the roof.
Gingerly removing the cardboard from the stereo components, it defied logic that the thick plastic turntable cover wasn’t crushed to a million pieces. The only damage was to a single sliding lever on the face of the tuner. Bent but not broken.
It wasn’t Christmas or any other major holiday. I’m not sure he knew when any of our birthdays were so it wasn’t a belated acknowledgment. It was just something he wanted us to have, to enjoy, or to remind us we were loved and missed.
At the time (1978), taking my son and moving away had broken the hearts of both my parents. My leaving was far less important, but doing so with my son in tow tantamounted to taking their reason for living away. My little boy represented all things good and merry in an otherwise-hateful, angry household. Coupled with their fear of the unknown, the absence of their grandson had gutted them emotionally. For that, I did feel badly at that time. But I reasoned that my life was meant to be lived. I was so young and so foolish.
The stereo arrived on the doorstep about a year after we landed in that little duplex unit on the aptly named Pacific Avenue. I was scraping by. But the sun shone nearly every day, hometown friends who had relocated to the west coast previously were fairly close by. I was working and making new friends. My son was enrolled in the neighborhood school. I refused to acknowledge that none of it felt right.
My little boy missed his loving family members. And though expressions of love were few and far between for me, I too missed the reassurance having family close by can impart regardless of the bad taste or irrational triggers oftentimes present. They were still my family.
Back in the living room of the tiny sun-drenched duplex that stereo sang out. We played 45s and albums from my stash of Motown tunes and those little follow-along children’s stories. I played the entire Peter and The Wolf symphonic fable by the Philadelphia Orchestra, over and over again. We tired of nothing. The home was filled with music thanks to Dad. We danced away the loneliness and longing.
Dad’s musical tastes were basic, country and western, old hymns, folk tunes and the like. He watched Lawrence Welk and Hee Haw washed down with a strong dose of Billy Graham’s televised come-to-Jesus revivals. His beloved grandmother had played an old upright piano where, no doubt, the love of music was born in his soul. During his adult life, no one recognized or cared that he loved music, Dad lived an isolated life in a house filled with people. But that stereo represented so much more than music, it represented a soul in search of empathy and connection.
I realize now it simply might have been that he wanted to be able to sit in his room at night after a long day of pleasing his customers and earning a buck, and slip away imagining us sitting beside the stereo thinking of him – someone was thinking of him. Many times, we were indeed doing just that.
As the years go by, as I think about my father, I know him better and love him more. Perhaps that’s what happens to us all. Those we leave behind develop 20-20 vision, seeing all our good intentions and understanding us better while forgiving all our missteps.
I am glad I was able to thank Dad for that stereo and all the gifts tangible and otherwise that he gave to us while he lived. I don’t care that he might have had ulterior motives, like wanting me to return to that tiny patch in Onset. I would have felt the same way if my grandchild had been removed far from my wanting arms.
He came to visit us in California, driving his Winnebago across the country, alone, to say hello. As he left a mere two days later to make the trek back east, he said, “Let me know when you’re ready to come home, I’ll come getcha.” How empty the world felt as he drove away, leaving us standing on the sidewalk under a palm tree waving goodbye and wiping away tears.
When I called him a year later there was no surprise in his voice, just a stoic, “Yup, okay; I’ll be there in two weeks.” That trip home was filled with music my son and I still felt deep in our souls.
This Mattapoisett Life
By Marilou Newell