Soundtrack of Our Lives: Xanadu
Jedi and I had a variety of babysitters when we were yoots:
Mrs. B—We stopped going to her because her sons both got crossbows for their birthdays and seemed a wee bit too into killing off all the fauna in their backyard. The younger one also got one of those kid-sized battery-powered cars and seemed a wee bit too into running into us with it.
Mrs. M—We stopped going to her because she had two kids who were way younger than Jedi and me, and it appeared, based on things like, oh, her constant leaving, that she wanted US to baby-sit HER kids, one of whom had a brain tumor and couldn't walk or stand right because the weight of the tumor was such that he couldn't hold up his head. Sad.
Mrs. S—We stopped going to her because under her watch, Jedi and I both got shocked on our heads by their electric fence (they had cows), and Jedi tore a gash in his shin the length of a ruler on the barbed wire surrounding said fence, in his haste to get away from both the fence and the oncoming cows.
Eventually, my mom found us a babysitter who A) didn't live on a farm, B) didn't have toddlers, and C) had sons who weren't psychopaths. Mrs. K was a friend of mom's, also a folk artist. If it was possible to live in a gingerbread house, Mrs. K's was the closest thing. It was cozy, warm, always smelled like apple pie or fresh-baked bread. She'd decorated it in a very Laura Ashley meets NASCAR fashion. Example, in the guest bathroom, there was a little sign that read:
If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie: Wipe the Seatie!
But she'd painted it, see. On slate. With tole-painted accents around the edges.
Anyway, it wasn't the homemade cookies, MTV (we didn't have cable), and popsicles that I loved about Mrs. K's house; it was her sons, Brad and Robbie. They were high-school kids, both supremely talented athletes—baseball, I think. They were, to my seven-year-old mind, like rock stars. All-American good looks, wholesome, and more important, very, very nice. Every time the phone rang, it would be for one of them. Every time the door opened, it would be some friend of theirs. Every day, all the time, they were talking to or hanging out with someone. I'd never seen such popular kids in my life. They're just like Jessica and Elizabeth from Sweet Valley High, if only Sweet Valley High was boys and not twins and in Ohio! Other than that, it's the same thing! I thought.
When Brad and Robbie were both home, which was a rare treat, Jedi and I tried to get a little of their attention, too. Brad would shoot hoops with Jedi, talk about boring sci-fi stuff, while Robbie let me play with his drumsticks or look thorough his record collection. The record that I made him play the most—and by "the most," I mean "every, single time I was at their house"—was the Xanadu soundtrack. I was only five when the movie came out, and I never saw it in theatres, yet I knew it had two things that every girl who grew up in the early 1980s adored: roller-skating and ribbon barrettes. But it was the music that I really loved. I never had the money to buy the record, so the only way to hear the songs was to hope that the local AM-radio station would play "Magic" or "Suddenly." When that happened, you couldn't pry me away from the speakers.
So you can understand why, two years later, I was such a spaz when I found out that Robbie owned the record. We even had a little routine: I'd run into his room and jump around until he agreed to play it for me, going, "Pleasepleasepleaseplease, Robbie!" And he'd amble over to the stereo and put it on. Then he'd hand me the drumsticks and say, "You play the drums—I'm gonna play guitar and synth." He'd start the record on side 2, the predominately ELO side, and off we'd go, starting with "I'm Alive," skipping "Don't Walk Away," and through the glorious title track. Me pounding away on Robbie's pillows, and Robbie air-guitar-ing and synthesizer-ing his heart out, both of us singing at the top of our lungs.
It sounds weird now, in the retelling. I mean, what's a high-school sports star doing singing along to the Xanadu soundtrack with a seven-year-old kid, right? I wish my mind wouldn't try to turn a fantastic childhood memory into something slightly … peculiar—even if it was peculiar. Still, to this day, I can recall with amazing clarity Robbie's room, the drumsticks, his record player, the sound of our voices, and how, even for just a little while, I felt like a rock star, too.
Xanadu, Motion Picture Soundtrack, featuring ELO, Cliff Richard, and Miss Olivia Newton-John
Released sometime in the 1980s...
Mrs. B—We stopped going to her because her sons both got crossbows for their birthdays and seemed a wee bit too into killing off all the fauna in their backyard. The younger one also got one of those kid-sized battery-powered cars and seemed a wee bit too into running into us with it.
Mrs. M—We stopped going to her because she had two kids who were way younger than Jedi and me, and it appeared, based on things like, oh, her constant leaving, that she wanted US to baby-sit HER kids, one of whom had a brain tumor and couldn't walk or stand right because the weight of the tumor was such that he couldn't hold up his head. Sad.
Mrs. S—We stopped going to her because under her watch, Jedi and I both got shocked on our heads by their electric fence (they had cows), and Jedi tore a gash in his shin the length of a ruler on the barbed wire surrounding said fence, in his haste to get away from both the fence and the oncoming cows.
Eventually, my mom found us a babysitter who A) didn't live on a farm, B) didn't have toddlers, and C) had sons who weren't psychopaths. Mrs. K was a friend of mom's, also a folk artist. If it was possible to live in a gingerbread house, Mrs. K's was the closest thing. It was cozy, warm, always smelled like apple pie or fresh-baked bread. She'd decorated it in a very Laura Ashley meets NASCAR fashion. Example, in the guest bathroom, there was a little sign that read:
If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie: Wipe the Seatie!
But she'd painted it, see. On slate. With tole-painted accents around the edges.
Anyway, it wasn't the homemade cookies, MTV (we didn't have cable), and popsicles that I loved about Mrs. K's house; it was her sons, Brad and Robbie. They were high-school kids, both supremely talented athletes—baseball, I think. They were, to my seven-year-old mind, like rock stars. All-American good looks, wholesome, and more important, very, very nice. Every time the phone rang, it would be for one of them. Every time the door opened, it would be some friend of theirs. Every day, all the time, they were talking to or hanging out with someone. I'd never seen such popular kids in my life. They're just like Jessica and Elizabeth from Sweet Valley High, if only Sweet Valley High was boys and not twins and in Ohio! Other than that, it's the same thing! I thought.
When Brad and Robbie were both home, which was a rare treat, Jedi and I tried to get a little of their attention, too. Brad would shoot hoops with Jedi, talk about boring sci-fi stuff, while Robbie let me play with his drumsticks or look thorough his record collection. The record that I made him play the most—and by "the most," I mean "every, single time I was at their house"—was the Xanadu soundtrack. I was only five when the movie came out, and I never saw it in theatres, yet I knew it had two things that every girl who grew up in the early 1980s adored: roller-skating and ribbon barrettes. But it was the music that I really loved. I never had the money to buy the record, so the only way to hear the songs was to hope that the local AM-radio station would play "Magic" or "Suddenly." When that happened, you couldn't pry me away from the speakers.
So you can understand why, two years later, I was such a spaz when I found out that Robbie owned the record. We even had a little routine: I'd run into his room and jump around until he agreed to play it for me, going, "Pleasepleasepleaseplease, Robbie!" And he'd amble over to the stereo and put it on. Then he'd hand me the drumsticks and say, "You play the drums—I'm gonna play guitar and synth." He'd start the record on side 2, the predominately ELO side, and off we'd go, starting with "I'm Alive," skipping "Don't Walk Away," and through the glorious title track. Me pounding away on Robbie's pillows, and Robbie air-guitar-ing and synthesizer-ing his heart out, both of us singing at the top of our lungs.
It sounds weird now, in the retelling. I mean, what's a high-school sports star doing singing along to the Xanadu soundtrack with a seven-year-old kid, right? I wish my mind wouldn't try to turn a fantastic childhood memory into something slightly … peculiar—even if it was peculiar. Still, to this day, I can recall with amazing clarity Robbie's room, the drumsticks, his record player, the sound of our voices, and how, even for just a little while, I felt like a rock star, too.
Xanadu, Motion Picture Soundtrack, featuring ELO, Cliff Richard, and Miss Olivia Newton-John
Released sometime in the 1980s...
posted by Iseult at 5:29 PM
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