Saturday mornings

When I was younger my family lived in a split-level house right off of I-77 in Columbia.  I count those preschool days as one of my most treasured memories.  These were the days when everything seemed new, and more questions entered my head than could possibly be answered by my parents, Reading Rainbow, or the infinite book collection that resided in my bedroom, from which my parents pulled nightly, reading until their voices became raspy or I drifted to sleep.

Saturday mornings were special, because they meant that my mom wouldn't be making the trek to drop my little brother and me off to preschool, or her to work at the hospital.  My brother and I would sleep until the light of the sunshine peeked through our blinds, waking us gently.  Then, I would yell "Mommy, Daddy, Mommy, Daddy, Mommmmy, Dadddddddy," gradually adjusting the loudness and intensity of my voice until my sweet parents would come to my rescue, sweep me out of my bed topped with a disney princess comforter, and carry me to their room.  For a few tender moments, all four members of my family would cuddle together on my parent's full-sized bed, until the squeeze forced one of us into such an uncomfortable position that we faced falling.

After this, we would venture downstairs and prepare to enjoy the special breakfast of Saturdays.  Some mornings it was pancakes, hobo eggs, or cheese toast.  We feasted on waffles for a while, until my mom grew angry with the waffle maker and the mess it made as the extra batter spilled onto the counters.  The kitchen in this house was substantially bigger than it should have been.  As my parents prepared breakfast, I explored the its vastness, opening and closing cabinets, finding out which were used for storage and which were empty.

We ate breakfast at a leisurely pace; my parents took time to read the paper and my brother and I took time to stop, gaze around the space, and take in the world that was still forming in our minds.  My favorite part of Saturday mornings came next, as my family would migrate the big room adjacent to the kitchen.  In this room were hardwood floors, a big, fancy rug, eventually a set of living room furniture, and the old piano my mom grew up learning how to play on.  My grandparents bought the piano for only $100.  Restored from the early 20th century, the piano wasn't the most exquisite you could imagine.  The keys were brown, a few pedals broken, and its body had experienced some wear and tear.  A piano tuner once spent hours lying on the floor, trying to adjust the tune of the old instrument, in the process finding a fork amidst the piano strings.

My brother, dad, and I would congregate around the piano with my mom front and center.  She sat on the old piano bench, preparing to tickle the ivories.  Sometimes my brother or I were lucky enough to sit beside her on the bench, marveled by the beauty of the way her fingers danced before our eyes.

She wet through the tattered, brown sheets of music on the music stand.  She warmed up to songs I can't remember, but her encore is one I will never forget.  As a 20 year old, hearing this song makes me smile, calms me, and leaves me craving for home.

Every Saturday morning as a family, my  dad, brother and I gathered around an old piano my mom played, dancing to music in our pajamas.  Like the way I am unworthy to know the greatness of God, we were unworthy to feel the magic of this music.  I currently recite the lyrics of this special song to myself, reflecting on the joy that this song gave me then and now.  I imagine my mom's fingers slowly mastering the chords, missing a few notes, and all of us singing along to a weird song that inevitably shaped my childhood.

A few moments ago, I found myself singing along: "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine, I never understood a single word he said, but I helped him a-drink his wine.  Singin'... Joy to the world, all the boys and girls, joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea, joy to you and me..."

I don't actually know what these words mean, but I could sing this song now the same way I could 15 years ago.  The beauty and simplicity of the music overcomes me the same way it did as a five year-old.