Post by orinocoflow on Apr 9, 2010 15:56:45 GMT -5
Paul grunted as the practically hidden trapdoor to the attic finally gave way and crashed down on his head. Coughing as dust cascaded right after it, he stumbled out of the way just in time as a box fell from the opening.
“Seriously, how did they close that?!” he yelled, brushing his shirt as best he could given the circumstances. Avoiding the trajectory line, he reached for the ladder he had brought from the tool-shed out back to climb into that old attic. Making sure that it wasn’t going to collapse, given his clumsiness today, he stepped up the unstable bars and into the world of his grandfather.
Boxes, boxes, and more boxes were piled in every possible spot as far as he could see. Fumbling for a light, he flicked it on, revealing yet more boxes. And in the corner of that attic, in the opposite end from a dirty, slanted sky-light, stood an old, musty trunk, or chest; he wasn’t sure, but it was definitely not another cardboard cube. Shoving the obstacles out of his way, he flung open the sky-light, allowing sunlight to flood the room, and took a deep breath of fresh air before ducking back inside.
Now that he could see where he was going, he made his way over to the trunk, as it turned out to be. Opening it with some difficulty, he sneezed as a new gust of dust smothered his nose. When it settled, however, he was surprised by his find.
Records of all ages and genres were stacked all along one side, taking up a good half of the crate. Beside them was a heap of some junk that he simply threw over his shoulder as he cleared out. But beneath that was an old machine…What was it called? Oh, yes, a gramophone, remembered Paul. His grandfather had constantly been playing it when Paul had been a child, and he had spent the first seven or so years of his life listening to those records, but now couldn’t even recall what music it was.
Might as well refresh my memory, he thought, pulling it out with a few records. Since it was too cumbersome, he just cranked it up right there in that attic and listened to the music recorded some eighty years before! Or at least, it was popular that long ago, but may have been recorded in later years.
And as he sat there, his ear close to the gramophone, he went back to those days when he was still a young fellow…
“Well, Paul lad, ye see, back in the “Roarin’ Twenties”, as they are called nowadays, there was this wonderful music. My, the songs…” and as he continued, Paul, here only 6 or 7, would listen with great enthusiasm, wanting to know what life had been like back then. He could stay like this for hours, but knew he shouldn’t; he had work to do around the house.
Around that time, but a tad bit later, he went to the opera with his grandfather. Amazed by the beautiful voices, Paul had often tried singing that way at home. A neighbor, hearing a high, pure voice, looked in and was surprised to see a young boy with absolutely no training singing so well, immediately told his parents to enroll him in a program to teach him to sing properly and to use his voice to his full extent.
But alongside all of this, Paul would sit beside his grandfather, listening to him tell of songs, music, experiences, and all that was before his birth. Some people called flappers who danced in a curious way; Paul insisted on learning how, but sprained his ankle in the process, forcing him to stop. The tap, however, he refined to an art, as he did his voice. He would laugh along with that grandfather of his about the liquor that was snuck into anything at all in the bootleg, earning it that name after it was made legal again. He would relish the stories of those first awkward dates in the ballrooms, full of flirting romance, which he would later use to his own benefit for his first date for a dance.
But when his grandfather talked of Fred Astraire and the other greats of dancing in the movies, envious of their style, he knew he had to learn how. He would spend weeks learning tap, not a care in the world except for his dance. And it paid off, too.
The record finished, and he flipped it over automatically.
And when his grandfather had died, he had felt sadder than anything, as if a part of him had died. And it had, in a way; his grandfather had provided the motivation he needed to build a career for himself. Now, he was a renown tenor, and had recently been in a TV series, several solo concerts in the most prestigious hall of Ireland, and been invited to perform with a group called Celtic Thunder. He had several other successes, and they all connected to his grandfather in one way or another.
When this side of the record was done, he reached to change it, but a tug at his heart forced him to stop and look at the title: “Doo Wacka Doo.” He knew it; this had been one of his favorites when he had started to learn tap dancing, and it was the one he had sprained his ankle to as well. It was while listening to this one that he had been told of the flappers, and of the bootleg liquor and ballrooms of romance. A thought formulating in his head, he realized that this could be the one knew song he needed in the tour next fall with Celtic Thunder. Smiling, he put it aside from the others, intending to show it to Phil Coulter, his director, when he came back from vacation.
THE END
“Seriously, how did they close that?!” he yelled, brushing his shirt as best he could given the circumstances. Avoiding the trajectory line, he reached for the ladder he had brought from the tool-shed out back to climb into that old attic. Making sure that it wasn’t going to collapse, given his clumsiness today, he stepped up the unstable bars and into the world of his grandfather.
Boxes, boxes, and more boxes were piled in every possible spot as far as he could see. Fumbling for a light, he flicked it on, revealing yet more boxes. And in the corner of that attic, in the opposite end from a dirty, slanted sky-light, stood an old, musty trunk, or chest; he wasn’t sure, but it was definitely not another cardboard cube. Shoving the obstacles out of his way, he flung open the sky-light, allowing sunlight to flood the room, and took a deep breath of fresh air before ducking back inside.
Now that he could see where he was going, he made his way over to the trunk, as it turned out to be. Opening it with some difficulty, he sneezed as a new gust of dust smothered his nose. When it settled, however, he was surprised by his find.
Records of all ages and genres were stacked all along one side, taking up a good half of the crate. Beside them was a heap of some junk that he simply threw over his shoulder as he cleared out. But beneath that was an old machine…What was it called? Oh, yes, a gramophone, remembered Paul. His grandfather had constantly been playing it when Paul had been a child, and he had spent the first seven or so years of his life listening to those records, but now couldn’t even recall what music it was.
Might as well refresh my memory, he thought, pulling it out with a few records. Since it was too cumbersome, he just cranked it up right there in that attic and listened to the music recorded some eighty years before! Or at least, it was popular that long ago, but may have been recorded in later years.
And as he sat there, his ear close to the gramophone, he went back to those days when he was still a young fellow…
* * *
“Well, Paul lad, ye see, back in the “Roarin’ Twenties”, as they are called nowadays, there was this wonderful music. My, the songs…” and as he continued, Paul, here only 6 or 7, would listen with great enthusiasm, wanting to know what life had been like back then. He could stay like this for hours, but knew he shouldn’t; he had work to do around the house.
* * *
Around that time, but a tad bit later, he went to the opera with his grandfather. Amazed by the beautiful voices, Paul had often tried singing that way at home. A neighbor, hearing a high, pure voice, looked in and was surprised to see a young boy with absolutely no training singing so well, immediately told his parents to enroll him in a program to teach him to sing properly and to use his voice to his full extent.
But alongside all of this, Paul would sit beside his grandfather, listening to him tell of songs, music, experiences, and all that was before his birth. Some people called flappers who danced in a curious way; Paul insisted on learning how, but sprained his ankle in the process, forcing him to stop. The tap, however, he refined to an art, as he did his voice. He would laugh along with that grandfather of his about the liquor that was snuck into anything at all in the bootleg, earning it that name after it was made legal again. He would relish the stories of those first awkward dates in the ballrooms, full of flirting romance, which he would later use to his own benefit for his first date for a dance.
But when his grandfather talked of Fred Astraire and the other greats of dancing in the movies, envious of their style, he knew he had to learn how. He would spend weeks learning tap, not a care in the world except for his dance. And it paid off, too.
* * *
The record finished, and he flipped it over automatically.
* * *
And when his grandfather had died, he had felt sadder than anything, as if a part of him had died. And it had, in a way; his grandfather had provided the motivation he needed to build a career for himself. Now, he was a renown tenor, and had recently been in a TV series, several solo concerts in the most prestigious hall of Ireland, and been invited to perform with a group called Celtic Thunder. He had several other successes, and they all connected to his grandfather in one way or another.
* * *
When this side of the record was done, he reached to change it, but a tug at his heart forced him to stop and look at the title: “Doo Wacka Doo.” He knew it; this had been one of his favorites when he had started to learn tap dancing, and it was the one he had sprained his ankle to as well. It was while listening to this one that he had been told of the flappers, and of the bootleg liquor and ballrooms of romance. A thought formulating in his head, he realized that this could be the one knew song he needed in the tour next fall with Celtic Thunder. Smiling, he put it aside from the others, intending to show it to Phil Coulter, his director, when he came back from vacation.
THE END