When I was a little girl I fell asleep to three songs on a music box every single night. My grandparents had brought it back from a trip to Switzerland. It was a simple, smooth, elegant, wooden box. I was fascinated by the inner workings. How such beautiful music came out of some metal prongs and a nubby cylinder was a mystery to me. It played contemporary 1960’s hits of the day.  “Edelweiss” from Sound of Music, “Lara’s Theme” from Dr. Zhivago and “Try to Remember” from the Fantasticks. I cherished that old music box, it moved with me from cribside to bedside as I grew. The sound from the box was rich and resonant, I knew every nuance of every song. Every pause and click of the wheel. They were comforting, familiar, and lulled me to sleep like a charm.

Years went by - the night time ritual of the music box was eventually replaced by Ramona the Pest books and vinyl 45’s. It was relegated to an end table downstairs in the living room. It’s knob had been turned too far, too tightly at some point and was forever silenced. 

Flash forward oh, thirty some years. It’s 2005, I’m sitting on my couch very pregnant, very hormonal and flipping around the television stations with the remote. I land on PBS. They are playing one of those folky nostalgic Sixties concert specials. I see a line up of grey haired men in v-neck sweaters. They are singing “Try to remember the kind of September….” I hadn’t heard that melody since my music box died decades before. I got all choked up and teary-eyed. “Peter, I used to fall asleep to that song every night. I loved it so much”

The next time my parents called I asked “Mom, whatever happened to that music box? I just heard one of the songs and it immediately brought me back to my childhood. ” She said ” Oh, it’s probably in a box in the basement collecting dust, maybe we gave it away, I don’t remember. One of you kids broke it somewhere along the way anyway.”  We talked some more about their impending grandchild and I hung up feeling as wistful and melancholy as those three songs truly were.

The next month was a whirlwind of holidays, nesting and getting ready for Ben’s arrival. We got caught up in all of the preparation, excitement and exhaustion that comes along with a newborn. My parents made the trip up 94 from Illinois.  They arrived at our door- arms full of grocery bags pans of bars, casseroles, presents and provisions. They held their new grandson while we emptied the bags and filled up our refrigerator and cupboards. Later my mom said, “Oh, we have one more gift for Ben.” And handed me a box wrapped up in tissue. I unwrapped the tissue, sliced the tape adhering the box with a quick slide of my fingernail and opened the lid. Cue lump in throat. There it was. My old music box gleaming up at me.  My mom had rummaged around and found it in the basement and brought it to an old storefront clock-repair store. I didn’t know they existed anymore. The store owner marveled at the craftsmanship and happened to have just the right parts to repair it.

I turned the knob carefully and with the first note - I was immediately four all over again. Now the music box sits on a dresser in his room and has been our background soundtrack as I rock him to sleep. I don’t know who it provides more comfort to, him or me.

Do you have a treasured heirloom from your childhood that you have passed down to your children?

This entry was posted on Wednesday, April 18th, 2007 at 8:20 am and is filed under Family Life, Main. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.