The Noise War

Let’s just say that my dad has a strange sense of humor, and that it runs in the family.

Most of the sardonic humor in my stories, in fact, is a direct result of my upbringing. You’re… welcome?

Well, you’re here, and still reading, so I might as well give you full exposure, so you know what you’re getting into.

My grandfather was in the Navy, and you could always tell when he got extended leave, every five years. Grumum would go in to register a kid for kindergarten, and each time she was round as a pumpkin, ready to pop the next sibling, and the registrars would look at her askance.

My dad was the oldest of this bunch of free-range weirdos.

So Dad followed the natural course of things, and got married first. Eventually, also the first to have a kiddo. Enter moi, stage left.

I was cooed over. I was fussed over. I still have vague memories of people standing over my cradle, smiling, waving. And pictures, of course. Soooo many pictures.

Apparently my first few Christmases were all about the oodles of presents from my adoring public. (All I got are the pics, and they look impressive to me!)

And my Uncle T, he decided to get me The Perfect Gift.

A xylophone.

Fisher Price, to be exact, the only game around. Rainbow plates, came with a beater and a pull cord. Indestructable. Inexorable. Undefeatable. Hours of fun!

I loved it to death – and, considering the “indestructable” part of the features described above, tells you the state of my poor parents’ mental health for the next few years. Especially Dad, with his painfully sensitive hearing. Runs in the family. Mine kicked in at puberty.

And thus began The War.

First, my beater vanished. After sustained crying, and Significant Looks from Mom towards Dad, it magically returned. Dad found it in his drawer, for some reason. You know, the one that I’m not allowed to go into? Strange.

There were repeated versions of The Great Beater Vanishment Mystery, usually coinciding with Dad having a really bad day at work, that brought on a stress headache. And every time, after my persistent wailing, and Mom giving Dad More Significant Looks (With Lowered Eyebrows), eventually the beater would reappear. Dad would find it, behind the couch (must have rolled there), or in another room (someone must have kicked it), or under their bed in another room (you need to be more careful with your toys, Meredith!). But even then, I knew where the beater had been last, and none of my other toys or toy pieces traveled at all, so what’s the deal?

Maybe I should have gotten it a passport.

I thought it was the way the world worked. Fairies and Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy were real, Princess was an achievable profession, why not magic wood turned into a drum stick by a corporation, and given to li’l ol’ me?

I did the only logical thing I could think of – I started preemptively hiding it myself, to circumvent the magic from being inconvenient to my play times.

When even that didn’t work, I made my own beaters out of sticks from the trees outside.

When that failed, I re-discovered that pulling the xylophone by its cord caused it to randomly play, so that new strategy was utilized heavily.

The cord broke.

It was replaced with string.

The string then underwent such calamities that it must have been cursed – cut (knife), clipped (wire cutters), burnt, knotted into an un-pullable mass, frayed so badly it looked like a mare’s tail.

Such disasters! So, being a helpful child, I did the only thing I could do to help: started racing it like a car, no string ever needed, No beater either. See, Dad? Fixed! Back and forth, back and forth, wearing a circle in the carpet.

Dad, sitting in his chair, holding his head gingerly, agreed weakly.

A few weeks later, the whole xylophone vanished. Out of sight, out of mind, not sure I even noticed at the time.

When I finally did, I was very sad, but Mom distracted me with other toys, and I soon had other favorites. Something something “baby toys” and “growing up” and such; the 70’s didn’t come with warning labels, and these things were still allowed to be said to children. And even though Harsh Words Were Whispered in the night, there was no sign of the xylophone, not even when Mom dossed Dad’s Do Not Go In There drawer many times. And other places. Why are we cleaning out the closet again, Mom? Why are you rearranging the loft space twice, Mom? Why are you sorting through your bins of winter clothing again, Mom? Isn’t it late spring?

Weeks after that, when we were getting ready to have a picnic outside, Dad moved stuff on top of the fridge to get to the paper plates, and I happened to spot a corner of bright paint. My xylophone!! What was it doing up there? Mom’s on the shorter side, and doesn’t think of those cabinets unless it’s spring cleaning time, which had been months before. Mom shot Dad such a There Will Be a Reckoning look that I thought he would spontaneously combust. That’s when I got the inkling that maybe Dad was the source of the magic, and the curse…

Mom did finally explain later that maybe some noisy toys should be played with, but within certain parameters, like outside? Far away? But the attraction was already on the wane, and I soon gave up the xylophone for other toys.

Besides, there were other things afoot, like Uncle T’s marriage.

And soon, their own little girl!

And Dad took us shopping for The Perfect Gift.

Strangely, the magic must have traveled, because Cousin M’s xylophone had twice the problems mine did! It also completely vanished three times! In one year! Dad, being the generous type, would immediately go out and buy her another, him being Cousin M’s favoritest uncle ever. (Sorry, Uncle P, cold hard cash wasn’t appreciated as much then as it is now, love you!)

Then Cousin K was born, and another bright, shiny, indestructible xylophone became her Perfect Gift. When that one inevitably vanished, Dad was ready – with a music kit. TEN instruments: two drums of different sizes, a bell stick, a kazoo, a cow bell, a mouth harp, finger cymbals, a tambourine, a triangle, and a rattle. They were promptly distributed to the other cousins (Aunt T had two girls of her own by then), and we gave an impromptu concert, to demonstrate all the infinite possibilities of so, so many percussion instruments. So, soooo many…

The younger ones scuttled to the next room to do a proper concert with even more cousins, but I stayed. And I saw Uncle T, wilted in defeat, swing his haggard head towards my Dad. “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I’M SORRY. You win. YOU. WIN. Just… please… no more? Please?”

And Dad smiled, a wickedly Grinch-like smile.

And no more musical gifts were ever given to the cousins, and they never seemed to notice.

Yes, we still get together. Those cousins have since grown up to have their own kids, and we were together on Christmas Eve, chatting and doing a bit of catching up. We still live pretty close geographically (all within about an hour of each other, except for Cousins S and E, just had to be the literal outliers, didn't ya), so at least three family get-togethers happen each year.

Uncle T is recovering from a leg break, and I gave him a considerable amount of grief for it. I clearly remember him falling off a ladder when I was under the age of around five-ish; he broke his collarbone that time. Now it’s his femur, and you think he would have learned in the intervening years.

And the new crop of kids? Got cool new gifts for Christmas, and got more than a little enthusiastic in playing with them. So much so, that I had to get out of the room, since the race track for the jumping car apparatus kept hitting my bad knee. All good, though, no harm done.

But in the whole stack of gifts, not one musical instrument.

Not one.