Janis Joplin reminds me that music and good memories never die, but sometimes they need to be recovered.

Never heard this version of the song. Janis Joplin - Summertime (Live -1969) https://youtu.be/bn5TNqjuHiU  via @YouTube

Music and good memories never die, but sometimes they need to be recovered. I used to listen to this song while I sat curled into a ball on the floor next to the radio or cross-legged in a gigantic armchair while reading a book of fairy tales. About once a month, I found myself at my grandmother's house waiting for my parents to come home after a night at the movies and secretly wondering if they had abandoned my sister, brother and me.

My grandmother's house was a large, two-story colonial mansion that had been painted pink. Inside, it was quaint and stuffed with antique furniture. Thick maroon-colored drapes hung from ceiling to floor, contrasting with the beige floral wall paper in the living and dining rooms. The couch was French provincial, upholstered in mint green velvet and it had a matching chair.  On the opposite side of the room was the big, maroon-colored arm-chair that looked modern at the time. The coffee table was pushed against the wall leading to a narrow hallway that led to bedrooms and stopped at the small bathroom, which was wall-papered in blue. The rug was light-colored, patterned and plush.

In the living area, the radio was placed against a wall midway between the living and dining rooms, and its cabinet was made of rich mahogany wood, or so my grandmother said, which is why she warned us against scratching it.  If you opened the door to the radio cabinet, there was a phonograph or record player, but no one listened to phonographs anymore--only on special occasions, and every time we visited was a special occasion.  The "Summertime" I remember my grandmother playing was sung by Sam Cooke and my grandmother said his record was a collector's item. 

With the drapery closed, the house seemed dusky and dark, and I wondered if my parents had abandoned me to this dungeon and the care of a strict grandmother, only about 4 1/2 feet tall with long, wispy hair and deep, meditative eyes. I was fearful of her, but it wouldn't have been polite to even whisper this.  I imagined if I looked into her eyes or allowed her to hug me too long, she might become the wicked witch in "Hansel and Gretel." I finally learned to trust that instead of eating us for lunch she would feed us a grilled ham and cheese and a slice of fresh-baked apple pie of which I could have a slice as large as I desired. Of course, I was taught that I shouldn't take more than I deserved, so I never requested more than one slice, though sometimes I wanted the entire pie.

When the doorbell rang and the door creaked open, I was always relieved to see my mother's face, her eyes smiling at me. It was like a miracle had happened and I wasn't abandoned after all. Now, I fondly recall feeling like a proper little lady whenever we visited, my sister and brother seated on the couch while I sat in the big arm-chair or curled up on the patterned rug listening to songs I don't remember and some that I do remember, like "Summertime." Now, reflecting back on that time, it is a precious memory.