Something That Lasts

When I was a little girl, my parents had a console stereo system someone built from a kit as a wedding present to them.

Anyone my age or older remembers them: you added a stack of records, and when one came to the end, another dropped onto the first. That way, one could play hours of music without having to change the record.

Although my parents had a number of Christmas albums, the same half dozen or so was always the ones they played. My sister and I listened to them year after year and they became a tradition of Christmas music for us and our children.

My first husband recorded them on his reel-to-reel so it could play constantly in the background for weeks. My sister borrowed the records from my parents and recorded them on cassette, for herself, for her family, and for my children when they scattered, for they, too, had grown up with the exact set of music we did.

While out walking tonight, I listened to one of them, courtesy of Google music. The recording artist (John Gary) died years ago, and I am probably older now than he was when he recorded that album. I began reflecting, although it's not a new reflection, on how the words we write, the music we record, the art we created, can be enjoyed in perpetuity by generations who follow us.

Oh, and by the way, I finished editing the proof copy of the first installment of Before the Blood and made the changes in the manuscript. If the rest of the evening goes well, I'll upload it tonight.

Now, I'm not even going to compare my scribbling with Dickens or Dumas.

But it amazes me that an idea that begins in my imagination can wind up in another's imagination, even if I never meet that person.

And that their ideas wind up in mine.

It's incredible really, if one ponders it.

Illustration by Kathleen Rose Van Pelt for "Bryony."