Karin Greenberg's Open Salon Blog

My Vinyls

Tue, 27 Sep 2011 11:09:39 -0400

A few weeks ago my husband came up from the basement with an old Aiwa stereo of mine, asking if he could put it out with the garbage. When I saw the turntable sitting on top, I told him absolutely not. After all, I pointed out, it was the only way to play those dusty records that had been sitting in our house for eleven years.

I hate clutter. Every time I walked by my front room and spotted the big, black eyesore with its wires scattered on the wood floor, I thought about bringing the thing to the curb. Until yesterday, when my daughter was at gymnastics and my sons were doing their homework. I walked up to the stereo, attached the speaker wires, and plugged it in. I took a Barry Manilow record off the shelf, slipped the shiny black vinyl out of its thin paper case, and placed in on the turntable.

As I lifted the hand up and slowly positioned the tiny needle on the dark edge of the record, I felt years of technology lifting like smoke away from my body. When the needle touched down, the crackle of static began and I almost cried from the sound.

I write the songs that make the whole world sing

I write the songs of love and special things

I write the songs that make the young girls cry

I write the songs, I write the songs

Whether it was from my voice belting out the words, or from the unfamiliar sound of vinyl music, my boys came into the room. I excitedly gave them a lesson in phonographs, showing them how careful you had to be with the arm and needle. When the record began to skip I exclaimed, "That's called skipping! That sometimes happens when you listen to records!"

"This sounds terrible," my fifteen-year-old said.

"But look how great the whole experience of listening to music used to be," I answered. He walked out of the room shaking his head.

After a frantic search through my house I found my old record player and colorful record case, where I kept all of my favorite 45s.

As a child I spent many hours sitting on the floor with my favorite "toy."

my treasured record case

It was like finding gold. The small records huddled together inside my beautiful pink psychadelic box, just the way I had left them. Some were my mother's from when she was a child. I took them all out and put them on the floor, basking in the colors and sticker styles.

a sea of vinyl

the paper cases that always ripped

I couldn't get my green record player to work, and my favorite song, which I still play today on my ipod if I need to cry, was somehow missing (Don't Cry Joni by Conway Twitty) but I sat on the floor for hours, playing each one on the Aiwa turntable and relishing the individual memories that flooded my brain.

Cats In The Cradle in motion

Hot Child in the City

At the Hop

Feels So Good

Georgy Girl

Ring My Bell

Yesterday

Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavor

I finally had to tear myself away from the past and take the lasagna out (I burnt it). I made a promise to myself, though, that every now and then I would carve a few minutes out of my hectic life to listen to my beloved vinyls. There's just something about background static that makes everything better.

A Dog's Atonement

Fri, 7 Oct 2011 11:10:21 -0400

It is written that on Yom Kippur, the Jewish Day of Atonement, we cannot be forgiven for our sins unless we physically apologize to those whom we have wronged. We are also urged, on this holy day, to forgive those who have hurt us.

Having more daily contact with my dog than with people, I decided to include her in my yearly ritual of forgiveness. "Mango," I said to her this morning, "I forgive you for all the bad things you have done to me." With one tilt of her head, she answered:

"I forgive you. And. . .

I am sorry for taking half empty water bottles, chewing off the top, and emptying them out onto beds and couches.

I am sorry for jumping on the kids' friends when they run around the backyard, and for sometimes humping them.

I am sorry for finding the green stuffed frog hidden in the closet and ripping out its eyes and all the stuffing.

I am sorry for vomiting on the wool rug in the living room a week after you had it professionally cleaned from my diarreah attack.

I am sorry for slinking out of my collar on the flag football field and tackling that boy.

I am sorry for getting tapeworm last spring, and for giving it to you guys.

I am sorry for my bad breath.

I am sorry for snatching bagels and slices of pizza out of your hands.

I am sorry for barking so loudly everytime a squirrel, rabbit, delivery person, or gardener comes near the house.

And most of all, I am so, so sorry for eating Annie's gold hoop earring (yup--that's where it went)."

Without Gas Again

Wed, 21 Sep 2011 08:09:19 -0400

We are driving 65 mph on the Long Island Expressway, our three children buckled up in the back seat, and our car is about to run out of gas.

"We're not gonna make it," my husband says, his voice melodramatic.

"Just get off," I say, impatiently. "There's a gas station at this exit." I pray that we won't be late for brunch, where we are meeting my brother's future in-laws from Michigan for the first time.

It's a sensation that is familiar to me, though it shouldn't be: the steady hum of the car engine lapsing into an eerie stillness, the cars on either side of ours suddenly louder and faster, the continual motion of our bodies winding down and tapering off.

"Nope, we're done," says my husband, as the car becomes a silent mass in the midst of a sea of speeding vehicles. We roll quietly to the shoulder of the road and stop on the narrow strip of pavement.

"Goddammit!" my husband yells as he hits the steering wheel and opens his door.

"Do you have money?" I yell after him as he begins the 1/2 mile walk to the gas station.

The kids and I sit for a minute in thought, watching my husband's 5 foot 11 inch frame get smaller and smaller as he moves into the distance. Soon he is a tiny dot, floating along the cement of the underpass, his Ralph Lauren buttondown, faded jeans, and Nike sneakers a blur of shadows. Eighteen wheelers whiz by and there he is, a barely noticable flash of movement disappearing around the bend.

"Things happen as they should," I tell my children. I should have filled up the gas tank yesterday.

My cell phone rings. It's my mother, telling me to take the Northern State Parkway because there is a big accident on the LIE. I thank her for the warning and tell her that we're not that far behind her.

My son plays Words With Friends on his iphone, announcing a high- point word. My other son also plays on his phone but glances up every few seconds, his face taut with worry. My daughter asks how much longer until Daddy gets back.

I think of all the times in the recent past when we have run out of gas: the night before my son's Bar Mitzvah on the way to a big Friday night dinner; in the Hamptons last summer soon after leaving my sister's house; near the Roosevelt Field Mall when dropping the kids off at their camp reunion in January. . .

A silver minivan pulls off the road in front of us. "We have company," I joke. A woman in a sari gets out, holding a baby, and walks around the grass for a few minutes. She hands the baby to a passenger in the back seat and switches places with a man in the front. Their doors slam shut and they pull off the shoulder, continuing on their way. An old Honda appears behind us. Two young men get out and begin to change a shredded tire. "Wow, that tire is messed up," says my son.

I look out the front windshield and see the familiar gait from far down the road. "There he is," I tell my kids. The brown and blue of my husband's distant form is mixed with the bright red of a plastic gas container.

After filling the car with the small amount of fuel and stopping at the station to put more in, we are back on the road.

We make it to the restaurant in Manhattan 1/2 hour late.

"Things happen as they should," I tell myself again, later. Still, I wonder what message the universe is channeling to me through my empty gas tank.

My Love Affairs

Wed, 7 Sep 2011 12:09:41 -0400

I refuse to break up with them. Ever. I am insatiable.

Each one with a unique personality.

No two look alike.

There are the adorable soft guys who will go anywhere with me: , Candide; The Little Prince; Sidhartha; Ethan Frome; The Awakening; Night; Frankenstein. . . my intimate familiarity with them leaves little room for shock value, yet, the experience I have with them is always pleasurable.

There are the ones that intimidate me upon first sight: The Invisible Mountain; To the End of the Land; In the Garden of Beasts; War and Peace. They seem to take forever, but when I'm done, I find it was worth every invested minute.

There are those that are simply comfortable to be with. I go through them quickly, but cherish our time together: Tolstoy and the Purple Chair; My Enemy's Cradle; Let's Take the Long Way Home; Let the Great World Spin; The Housekeeper and the Professor; Dreams of Joy; The Invisible Wall; The Invisible Bridge. . .each week brings something new.

Their smell makes me tingle: glue, ink, a dab of chemical, sometimes a slight mustiness.

The swishing of their pages relaxes me; the low rubbing sound of my thumb as I turn each one satisfies an unknown need.

Their weight in my hands thrills me; the variation among them is astounding.

They prepare me for what is to come: Their heft, or lack of it, is laid out for all to see.

"There won't be any more books in 10 years," my 15-year-old son says often. "Everything will be electronic."

"That is the most depressing thought," I tell him. "Don't say that again."

Then I rush home and get into bed with my latest companion, knowing that one day, my affairs may not be nearly as sweet.

Conversation with a Teenager

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 11:04:15 -0400

"This is so stupid! Why can't I eat bread?" My 14-year-old is arguing with me for the hundredth time this week.

"It's Passover and we're Jewish," I reply. "It's just what we do."

"But why?! It's the dumbest thing!"

"We sacrifice to remember and honor our ancestors who suffered and fought to preserve the Jewish people," I explain.

"So, what does that have to do with me?" he snaps.

"By not eating bread, you're becoming a better person, humbling yourself by giving something up," I say.

"But our ancestors suffered so that the people who came after them wouldn't have to!" he retorts.

"Hmmm. . . .good point," I mumble, biting my lip.

"How is it helping the Jewish People if I don't eat bread?" he quickly adds.

"You may not be specifically helping the Jewish People right now, but by keeping the tradition alive, you're playing a part in keeping the religion alive," I say.

"All of my friends eat bread this week!" chimes in my 8-year-old daughter. "When Hayley's mom picked us up from gymnastics she said her dad just got fresh bagels--it's not fair!"

"You know who I bet kept Passover, who would be so grateful to you for doing it," I say gently to my daughter, putting my hands softly on her shoulders. "Anne Frank." Her eyes stare blankly at me.

"When I have kids I'm definitely letting them eat bread during Passover," my son threatens, as he opens the refrigerator and stares at a chicken leg, a bowl of hard boiled eggs, a plastic container of broccoli, and bags of left-over kugel from the Seders. "There's nothing to eat!"

"You guys are such babies!" My 11-year-old son exclaims. He is spreading peanut butter and nutella on a big piece of matzah. "Just shut up and deal with it!"

"You'll see," I say, "you'll feel so good about your accomplishment when the week is over. It's good to learn how to sacrifice. If you don't, you can't ever truly understand love and family and selflessness."

"Whatever," my first-born answers. "I still don't get why we have to suffer."

"Suffer?!" I laugh. "You live in a comfortable house, with a cozy bed, warm clothes, and all the food you can eat. None of us has ever truly had to suffer the way our ancestors did."

"I suffer," he argues. "My cell phone was stolen from my gym locker and you didn't get me a new one for two whole weeks!"

I take a big bite of my matzah, savoring the loud crunching sound that fills my ears.