The Soundtrack of Saturdays: From Childhood to Fatherhood

Disclaimer: I am a dad living in Westchester, New York. The names of all people, but not all places, have been changed to protect the innocent and me from the glares of my neighbors who are definitely not reading this blog.

When I think about childhood, I think about waking up on Saturdays in the fall, still in my boxers. Brown, yellow, and orange leaf piles plastered to the end of the driveway. They're probably piling up at Highlands Middle School. The radiator is working, sort of, it's making a sound but the heat isn't emitting out the way it should. I lift the sheets, then the comforter off, and I glide across the wooden floors. Pictures of ancestors and relatives I don't know are hanging. Down the stairs, through the kitchen, and then back up the other set of stairs to the room my parents called the yoga room. The name was aspirational. No yoga was done, though there was a yoga mat in the room that collected dust. My brothers and I called it the television room. 

There was an old mattress that I sat on, one that I had used as a slide down the stairs to the kitchen with my brothers when my parents were out for bookclubs or dinners. The televisions weren't flat like they are today. They were bulky, thick like a farm animal. You pressed the button and a whole world was at your fingertips. Everything you could ever want as a kid growing up. 

Saved by the Bell: The New Class. Ghostwriter. Bobby's World. I didn't watch any of those. Instead, I was there in that uninsulated room, my knees cold from the absence of the storm windows (I promised Dad I would help bring those down from attic). My thumb moves the channel to MTV.  I'm here to watch the top twenty countdown. Crash Test Dummies. Jewel. Blind Melon. Bands and artists we don't listen to anymore. Musicians my children think are too old and embarrassing to even mention. When they come up on my radio, my oldest groans. The middle tells me to turn it off. The youngest is already crying. 

"And I was meant for you," Jewel sings while lounging on the ground staring longingly at some nondescript man in her music video probably. I try to guess who will be at the top of the list. I don't know the rules about who gets the number one spot, whether it's requested by the viewers or if someone at MTV is picking the videos that they think should be in heavy rotation. That's a lot of power, and with great power comes great responsibility. I believe Tobey Maguire said that. The music plays. The videos tell short stories. Bite sized narratives set to the sound of TLC or Toni Braxton or the Gin Blossoms. In the end, Alanis Morissete's "Ironic" always wins. At least that's what it felt like, sitting next to my youngest brother who had joined me to watch. He'd hum the songs, never say the lyrics for fear of messing them up. When the program was done, we kept watching until Mom and Dad called us down for oatmeal or bagels or eggs. 

It was easier then. Everything was. I guess not everything, but the things that I thought about. I didn't have to make time to call my brother or see him. He was just there. Sometimes I wonder if he still hums those songs on the way to work. 

A couple of Saturdays ago, I woke up to a gust of central air in the face. I woke at the same time I used to watch those music videos. My wife, a fan of Broadway, slept to the right of me, and I looked outside. Leaves were blossoming on the trees. Down in the family room, our television on the wall, I slip out down the stairs and stop when I get to the third step. I'm just far enough down where I can see the room. There, already on the couch, are my oldest and my middle child. The middle one tucked into the arm of the oldest. They are watching Youtube music videos. Going back and forth between her and his choice. Paw Patrol. Olivia Rodrigo. Frozen. Kacey Musgraves. They look like we did, I think. The older one picks a Gin Blossom song. One of my brother's favorites. "Tomorrow we can drive around this town, and let cops chase us around." I can hear my brother hum. Not sing.  Apparently, my daughter found the song on Tik Tok. It's not MTV. It's not even fall, but I have that cozy feeling you get during that season. I imagine the leaves dancing towards the pavement. Settling down in their new homes. 

I consider joining them, but I know I have to get the oatmeal, bagels, or eggs. Instead, I text my brother a lyric from a Gin Blossom song.

I let them have that memory to themselves.