On a Number of Happier Notes
When my grandfather moved out of his house (years ago; I was in high school at the time), his children and grandchildren inherited most of the things he didn’t have space for in his apartment. I didn’t take much—I didn’t want much—as my memories tend to be of events and activities rather than things.
Somehow, I did get the one really good memento I wanted: an old Snoopy music box. It’s obviously old; it’s made of metal. I’m told it was one of my dad’s toys. The edges are worn and the crank squesks. Poor Snoopy doesn’t even have ears anymore, but he still pops up when it plays.
I take it down off the shelf from time to time to give it a turn. It’s a lot of memories, mostly of my grandparents basement. It’s the “No Peace” painted on the wall, it’s the telegraph-insulator plant hangars, it’s playing with the plastic bowling set. It’s drawing a ten-foot-long picture of hospitals, houses, cars, and churches with my cousin…and my brother adding in the attack helicopter. It’s Lincoln Logs and Bridge-It and baking sugar cookies and playing croquet in the back yard. And every time I play it I smile.
