The Corner Bread Box
I attended the Priesthood Session of
Conference
tonight with Scott. After I dropped him off at his home, I tuned
to 94.9 for the weekly Saturday night program,
Swing Years and Beyond,
music from the late 1920s to the late '50s. I hunkered down into my
seat, focused on the road, and slowly meandered the route back home.
While the car smoothly consumed the road beneath me, I let me mind
wander... I walked into my Grandma's house and heard the familiar
big band swing music radiating softly from the kitchen. As I had done
possibly dozens of times before, I visited the kitchen first and
checked the corner bread box for cookies. If I was lucky, Grandma
would have recently restocked the box with cookies; always
Mother's-brand cookies, usually the Iced Oatmeal ones, the
Cococnut
Cocadas, or others (like The Cookie Parade grab bag).
A plastic analog clock radio, permanently tuned to a local Salt Lake
City music station, sat on top of the bread box. The small single
speaker perpetually broadcast the sounds of the big swing bands.
Grandma was sometimes there, working on getting a ham carved or
preparing some other food for the table.
"Grandma, this music is old!", I would say, stuffing a cookie in
my mounth.
"This is the music of the golden era, of my youth.", she would
respond.
With a few cookies in my hand I would settle down and flip through
some magazines, find the comics in the paper, or watch some TV. But
the music of the "golden era" was always there in the background at
Grandma's house, emanating from that single speaker in her kitchen;
sometimes imperceptible, but always there.
And now, though the music plays on, my Grandma is no longer with us,
yet my ethereal memories of her are always there. On a quiet drive
home while listening to music performed during my Grandma's youth,
her "golden years", those memories readily cascade into my
consciousness. At times like this, I wish I could check that
corner bread box for more cookies, or that I could simply pick up
the phone and call her... if only to hear her answer "Nyello."
But the music, and the memories, will have to suffice.
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