Tuesday, 31 March 2009

• Currently The Shack By William P. Young see related

  Ryan Seacrest, this is all your fault

  There it sat, in our house's attic, for who knows how many years.  The keyboard.  Elizabeth saw it one day as she had followed me into the crawlspace on the other side of our office, which years ago had been carved out of 1/2 our attic space above the garage.  I was rummaging through some boxes of comic books (please don't remind of me of the peril my collection is in sitting in non-air-conditioned space!) and she poked her head through the door, in awe at the coolness of the space she never got to go.  "What's in that box?"  "Oh that's a keyboard Grammy Polly gave us a while back."  "Can I have it?" she asked, eyes completely widened with excitement.
  
  It wasn't a good time to pull it out, so there it sat for many months more.  Out of the blue, today she asked if she could have it.  She'd periodically asked, and it just never was the right time.  But today, it was the right day, time, or maybe it was just I didn't have the heart to continue the small heartbreak whenever she'd ask and I'd say, "Not right now, honey."
  
  We couldn't find an adapter that would work on it.  It needed an AC adapter that spit out DC 9V.  I had a few that transformed to 12V, one that went to 7.5.  So we raided our flashlight collection for the 6 D cells it would need, and the next hour saw the four kids taking turns having a blast with the melodies, drum beats, and other sounds more on the cacophony end of the musical scale.  I don't know why I didn't let them have it earlier--maybe I was scared that the younger kids would break it and was waiting for them to get older.  Maybe I was afraid it would just get tripped over with all the other stuff in my daughter's routinely anti-organized room of possessions.  Maybe it was just nonsensical laziness.  Whatever the reason, I was happy to see them having so much fun tonight and was thankful Mom had given us the keyboard.
  
  When it was time for Noah to retire, after reading Grandma's Gumbo (complete with dedication to Timothy on the occasion of his 5th birthday), I was reaching on top of his bookshelf for his light when I saw it.  A black cord.  It was an adapter, most likely stashed there by me years ago.  Dust covered, it sat there like Wheezy from Toy Story 2, just waiting to be put into use.  It probably used to be hooked up to an old Noah's Ark-themed decorative item that we'd long since unplugged.  It was the adapter I'd been thinking of--the one with the selector from 1.5V all the way to 9V.  The one I had aquired when I was but a lad, to use for a much more primitive keyboard my parents bought me--the one that was the store counter model at the local drugstore.  The one I still have in working condition.  Whose adapter had powered many things over the last 20 years.  But enough of the nostalgia: ecstatic at the discovery, excited at the prospect of not having to feed a too big supply of expensive D cells to the newly unburied keyboard, I stuffed it into my pocket, turned out the light, said bedtime prayers with Noah, and headed downstairs to try it out.
  
  The sonofagun worked, it actually worked.  Alright!!!
  
  The feeling lasted about 15 seconds.
  
  Simon and Timothy were still playing with the keyboard downstairs when I came down to test the adapter.  I tested it out with Simon on the couch and the adapter cord strung across the room from couch to wall socket.  The three of us rejoiced in the moment.  Then I realized it was 8:00.  Stacy had asked me to record American Idol that started at 8.  I was missing it!  The opening musical credits!  Well, still having plenty of time to pull out a tape (tape: ancient hi-fidelity video recording medium used in that pinnacle of 1970s video recording technology: a VCR, the operation of which differentiated Middle Aged Man from Old Man) before tonight's top ten sang their songs, I raced across the room around the couch to grab a spare tape, tripping over the cord I had just plugged in not 15 seconds previously, almost busting my can, and breaking the electronic keyboard's adapter socket in the process.  That's right, I broke it.
  
  There the keyboard sat in its box, for gee, I don't know, 5+ years in my attic.  There the adapter sat on top of Noah's bookshelf for gee, I don't know, 3 or so years.  Both collecting dust.  Only to be dusted off for a glorious 15+ seconds of electrical current glee before succumbing to my hair-brained self.
  
  I blame this on you, Ryan Seacrest!!! 
  
  I guess it's back to D cells we go.
  

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