"Comfort Music"

At age two, my son asked for drums. We purchased a cute plastic set that he played like a pro. Paul also latched onto a harmonica at the same age, dancing around his room playing a singsong tune. He asked for a drum kit around age six. Tight on space, we purchased a Yamaha keyboard, found music lessons that combined singing with playing to temporarily satisfy his musical urge. His instructor, during her summer camps, encouraged her students to add another instrument to their playing skills. Paul asked my brother for the forgotten snare drum sitting in his closet. Every year, the subject of a drum kit surfaced. Because of space limitation, Paul ended up with both a bass and electric guitar. Although he enjoyed both, he still longed for a kit. By his fourteenth birthday, we decided to get rid of our guest room and fill it with drums. From the first second Paul held sticks in his hands, he played wonderfully. Before we knew it, he picked up a second kit, filling the smallest room with double bass beats and practicing with Neil Peart on loop. The summer he turned fourteen, Slipknot hit San Antonio with the Tattoo the Earth tour. My son, now thirty-six and an audio engineer, still prefers the music from that one crucial year when he’s looking for “comfort music” during a rough day.

Always curious, Paul dipped into recent brain studies searching for neurological reasons for music and genre preferences, discovering that most men’s “go to” music stems from what they listened to at age fourteen. For women, it’s age thirteen. Over the years, my husband’s purchased everything ever produced by The Beatles and Rush, the two groups he listened to endlessly as he entered his teen years. He picked up both bass and guitar during those years and serenaded his way through high school with “Blackbird” or “Fly by Night.” What did I listen to at age thirteen? The first 8-track I ever purchased was Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection. My comfort music, though, doesn’t center on a single performer or group. My mornings during my early teen years found me listening to KTSA as I dressed for school. Evenings our family played my parent’s records on the stereo, so Pete Foutain, Buddy Rich, or Chet Atkins entertained us. By nightfall, my radio played classical music. When I’m feeling down now, I’m just as likely to listen to Lizzo for a pick-me-up as I am Elton John. However, over the years I’ve rarely purchased my own CDs, and my iTunes is almost empty—except for Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and James Taylor—all favorites from the year 1970.

I leave with the question—What is your “comfort music”?

 

IOUNIO's "Toy Kingdom" is one of my favorite songs. Want to help new musicians and Audio Engineers? It's easy:

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman     

"Garages"

 

         My parents parked their car in the garage. A rare phenomenon in today’s world, but fairly common in my youth. Most of our neighbors kept their single car sheltered in the garage each evening. Fathers headed to work in the morning, and the empty space became an extension of our play area. Mom swept the smooth surface daily while Dad swished water over the cement every Saturday as part of his weekly yard work routine. We actually had a neighbor across the street who waxed her garage floors monthly (but that’s a totally different story).

         Our unfinished garage became a daytime fort when the sun bubbled the blacktop of our street into an oozy barrier to outdoor play. We’d haul a huge fan into the enclosure, zigzag clotheslines from corner to corner, and create tent heaven. This large space meant each of us had his or her section. I remember sitting cross legged on the cool cement as I devoured my latest Nancy Drew mystery. Beside me rested my little white transistor radio where Bruce Hathaway from KTSA introduced the latest summer hits. Charles enclosed himself into another corner where he feathered a water laden paintbrush over his watercolor books. Some days he played with his trucks, imitating the low grumble of a backhoe. Our tented town disappeared before Dad returned home from work.

         Some days, Mom gave us finger paints and let us decorate the entire surface with wild designs. She added sidewalk chalk to our art supplies, so we could spill art down our long, sharply sloped driveway. Other days, we hauled out our skates and converted the garage into a rink. I remember circling round and around to pick up enough speed that I’d catapult out the front, pick up momentum on the inclined driveway, and careen recklessly (and miraculously) into a 90˚ turn onto the sidewalk. Our garage became home to our own Tonka Truck Mayhem where our trucks performed incredible feats of death defying leaps and crashes, complete with sound effects.

         The house my parents moved into in League City boasted a large, two-car garage. With this added space, they decided to use part of the area for a ping pong table. Whenever they needed to place more than one car into the garage, they’d simply fold the table up on its hinges and slide it into the center. Eventually, my brother housed his car into the second side, but often his side provided space for setting up a train set.

         The first house David and I rented sported a two car garage, but we never got both cars parked inside because of David’s ultra-light. The wings folded up and slipped into a covering and neatly took up one side of our garage. When we bought our home, the ultra-light trumped the car in getting covered space in our single car slot. Eventually, the craft found another home, but by that time we’d become accustomed to having our cars sheltered under the canopy of our neighbor’s huge Arizona ash. The decision to convert part of the garage into David’s office seemed simple enough. We sectioned the garage into two parts. The back part became an enclosed laundry room and David’s first office. We kept the garage door on the front part, moved our old kitchen cabinets into this area, and set up a work and storage area.

         When we began the process of combining households this summer, the little garage became a dumping ground. Odds-n-ends stacked precariously on top of each other. If we didn’t know what to do with an item, box, or bin, we stashed it out of the way. “Out of sight, out of mind” didn’t hold true for me over the last few weeks. I longed to carve out a few hours of time to attack this area of the house. When my sister and her husband arrived on late Thursday afternoon, I knew I’d finally get the block of time I needed. Friday morning, before the temperature could climb, I headed into the garage. I cleaned out all of the lower cabinets, dumped out and reorganized all of the drawers. With a little effort, I rearranged things enough to open up additional storage space for a few more bins.

         Once I shifted enough around, Paul decided that he could move a few pieces of his equipment around and free up enough space in the old office to set up his DW kit! I love the idea of having our garage being a “play” area again. This time no one’s skating in circles or building tents. Instead of the sound of Tonka trucks smashing, it’ll be the sound of cymbals escaping from the garage.

2023 Christmas gift--New bins for the garage!

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

          

"Summer Games--Mother May I"

            By three o’clock each day, the temperature climbed to triple digits, bubbling the street and immobilizing all. Birds searched out bird baths, backyard ponds, or lazy sprinklers to find relief from summer’s relentless broil. In our neighborhood, the kids retreated into our home during the hottest part of the day. We pulled out worn decks of cards and played War or Concentration. Clue and Scrabble filled many hot afternoons. Sometimes, we stretched out limp and liquid on blankets under the sycamore out back, transistors tuned to KTSA, and Mom’s colorful Tupperware glasses topped with cherry Kool-Aid sitting within easy reach. The slightest whiff of a breeze tickled against our skin, carrying a hint of evening’s promised respite from our Texas humidity. Often the Wiggle Worm chased us madly around the yard, or we dared fate with the Slip-n-Slide. Everyone scattered by dinner time with pledges to regroup at seven after the temperature eased from boil to simmer.

            Early evenings found everyone back in our front yard, a melting pot of kids united for the purpose of enjoying evening entertainment. The eldest kids rock-paper-scissored to determine the first leader, and then preformed a second round to establish the game. When “Mother, May I?” rang out, I always danced with pleasure for this contest didn’t rely on physical prowess to win! My slight stature hindered me in many games we played, but in this activity I stood equal to my taller, brawnier, and older peers.

            All of us lined up at the edge of our driveway, facing the leader—“Mother,” who stood across the wide lawn in the palm tree’s shadow. One by one, “Mother” called a name and instructions in a sing-song, “Kelllll—leeeee, give me three giant steps!”

            The expected response in order to move forward? “Mother, may I?”

            Sometimes “Mother” granted the request. One by one the players edged closer with giant steps, scissor cuts, baby steps, or frog leaps. Sometimes, “Mother” denied movement, or kept changing the instructions in an effort to confuse us into forgetting our polite, “Mother, may I?” If you forgot the question, the penalty meant returning to the driveway and starting all over again. The goal, of course, was to reach “Mother” and take control of the game. I learned through the years to keep my movements exact, my voice small, and to creep slowly forward while others diverted “Mother’s” attention with heated debate or bold coup attempts.  Once I sidled close enough to “Mother” to take flight, I tagged my way to victory. Usually, we’d while away the early evening toiling at this game until nightfall provided the cover and coolness we needed for hide-n-seek.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Garages”

         My parents parked their car in the garage. A rare phenomenon in today’s world, but fairly common in my youth. Most of our neighbors kept their single car sheltered in the garage each evening. Fathers headed to work in the morning, and the empty space became an extension of our play area. Mom swept the smooth surface daily while Dad swished water over the cement every Saturday as part of his weekly yard work routine. We actually had a neighbor across the street who waxed her garage floors monthly (but that’s a totally different story).

         Our unfinished garage became a daytime fort when the sun bubbled the blacktop of our street into an oozy barrier to outdoor play. We’d haul a huge fan into the enclosure, zigzag clotheslines from corner to corner, and create tent heaven. This large space meant each of us had his or her section. I remember sitting cross legged on the cool cement as I devoured my latest Nancy Drew mystery. Beside me rested my little white transistor radio where Bruce Hathaway from KTSA introduced the latest summer hits. Charles enclosed himself into another corner where he feathered a water laden paintbrush over his watercolor books. Some days he played with his trucks, imitating the low grumble of a backhoe. Our tented town disappeared before Dad returned home from work.

         Some days, Mom gave us finger paints and let us decorate the entire surface with wild designs. She added sidewalk chalk to our art supplies, so we could spill art down our long, sharply sloped driveway. Other days, we hauled out our skates and converted the garage into a rink. I remember circling round and around to pick up enough speed that I’d catapult out the front, pick up momentum on the inclined driveway, and careen recklessly (and miraculously) into a 90˚ turn onto the sidewalk. Our garage became home to our own Tonka Truck Mayhem where our trucks performed incredible feats of death defying leaps and crashes, complete with sound effects.

         The house my parents moved into in League City boasted a large, two-car garage. With this added space, they decided to use part of the area for a ping pong table. Whenever they needed to place more than one car into the garage, they’d simply fold the table up on its hinges and slide it into the center. Eventually, my brother housed his car into the second side, but often his side provided space for setting up a train set.

         The first house David and I rented sported a two car garage, but we never got both cars parked inside because of David’s ultra-light. The wings folded up and slipped into a covering and neatly took up one side of our garage. When we bought our home, the ultra-light trumped the car in getting covered space in our single car slot. Eventually, the craft found another home, but by that time we’d become accustomed to having our cars sheltered under the canopy of our neighbor’s huge Arizona ash. The decision to convert part of the garage into David’s office seemed simple enough. We sectioned the garage into two parts. The back part became an enclosed laundry room and David’s first office. We kept the garage door on the front part, moved our old kitchen cabinets into this area, and set up a work and storage area.

         When we began the process of combining households this summer, the little garage became a dumping ground. Odds-n-ends stacked precariously on top of each other. If we didn’t know what to do with an item, box, or bin, we stashed it out of the way. “Out of sight, out of mind” didn’t hold true for me over the last few weeks. I longed to carve out a few hours of time to attack this area of the house. When my sister and her husband arrived on late Thursday afternoon, I knew I’d finally get the block of time I needed. Friday morning, before the temperature could climb, I headed into the garage. I cleaned out all of the lower cabinets, dumped out and reorganized all of the drawers. With a little effort, I rearranged things enough to open up additional storage space for a few more bins.

         Once I shifted enough around, Paul decided that he could move a few pieces of his equipment around and free up enough space in the old office to set up his DW kit! I love the idea of having our garage being a “play” area again. This time no one’s skating in circles or building tents. Instead of the sound of Tonka trucks smashing, it’ll be the sound of cymbals escaping from the garage.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman