A brother and sister, middle schoolers with names like Trapper and Des Moines, creep into the study and shyly approach their grandfather. "Poppa Gregg?"
The old man puts down his... I don't know, holographic newspaper or whatever, and smiles adoringly at the children. "Well, hello there! How are grandpa's special little people today?"
"We're fine, Poppa Gregg," Trapper responds. "But, we have a question for you."
"Well now. A question! How exciting! Ask Poppa Gregg anything you'd like."
Des Moines motions to a tablet she's carrying. "In school, they asked us to find out what the world was like before there was so much digital technology. We thought we'd ask you."
The old man stares off into some imaginary distance and absently scratches his chin. "Well now. That really was long, long ago." With effort, he gets up from his, I guess, Samsung recliner. His bones creak and pop. "I can tell you everything you need to know about that world...," he turns and gives them a sly smile, "with a song."
The children roll their eyes behind his back as the man shuffles to the antique reel-to-reel player. Poppa Gregg answers a lot of questions this way.
"I can tell you about a world you could scarcely imagine... a world before the internet, before there were digital cameras everywhere, before social media and smartphones... before the AIDS epidemic..."
"Wait. We didn't ask abou-"
But Poppa Gregg has already punched the Play button.
In a voice that is needlessly loud and recklessly out of tune, Poppa Gregg sings along with the upper harmony of the "doo doo doo doot doooo" vocals until Trapper raises his hand with a question. Poppa Gregg stops the tape.
"Where is Thunder Island? Is it an actual place?"
Poppa Gregg crinkles his eyes and gestures abstractly with his hands as if he's trying to form an answer out of the empty space in front of him.
Des Moine, already pinching and zooming on her tablet, announces, "All of the places I can find with that name are hundreds of miles inland. They are just protrusions into lakes and rivers." She looks up quizzically. "Maybe the bay and island are just metaphors for social isolation."
Poppa Gregg points to Des Moines and nods. He says to Trapper, "See? She gets it." He restarts the player.
Des Moines raises a single finger, and Poppa Gregg, grunting, stops the tape again.
She asked, "What does that mean?"
"Well, sweetie, what does it feel like it means to you?"
Trapper interrupts. "Indian summer is when it stays warm in the fall, so maybe the leaves don't turn color as soon...so... is she green?"
Poppa Gregg drops his arms to his sides. "Wow, man."
"Oh, wait. I get it. She's non-white." She turns to her brother. "That used to be a big deal. This song was probably from before the civil rights movement."
"Guys! It's from 1979."
"Well then... why..."
"Des Moine, you might be making too much of this. I think he's just painting this image of an exotic and, umm...unfamiliar woman... not unfamiliar in a racial way...necessarily..."
A long silence ensues.
"Okay. Know what? This is only a four minute song and I'm just pushing ahead." He restarts the tape.
Poppa Gregg turns to the children and makes a surprised face, trying to heighten the drama. They are unaffected.
"He keeps using language that distances himself from the island," Des Moines shouts over the guitar solo. "He's really emphasizing that he skated right out on this woman."
Des Moines is perplexed. "Wait. Where are they supposed to be? Are they just standing around outside? Isn't there shelter?"
"Yeah," exclaims her brother, "and why would anyone be surprised by a storm in a place that's actually NAMED Thunder Island?"
Poppa Gregg smacks the stop button. "Listen, Flipper..."
"Trapper."
"Trapper... you're a little young to understand this, but it's a very sexy thing to be stuck in the rain with a romantic partner. There are a lot of songs from this era about it, "Laughter in the Rain" by Neil Sedaka, "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg, "Escape" by Rupert Holmes...
"Did you and grandma ever do that?" asks Des Moines. "Just stand in the rain and carry on like it was romantic?"
Both kids raise their hands and Poppa Gregg waves them off. "Let it go. I'm not stopping for that."
"Aww. He wants to go back," says Des Moines.
Poppa Gregg stops the tape. "Yes! Precisely. Of course he wants to go back. THIS. This is what the world was like. If you weren't with somebody, in front of them, looking into their eyes, you might as well have been on another planet. Intimacy wasn't easy. Or cheap. If you met someone outside of your own little realm, you had to decide if you wanted to alter your life to stay with that person."
Poppa Gregg readjusts his glasses. "It's not an uncommon theme. In 1961, Roy Orbison had a song about saving nickels and dimes to return to the woman he'd left in Blue Bayou."
Trapper perks up. "There's another song like this?"
"Well, not just like this."
"What's the difference?"
"Mostly cocaine." Poppa Gregg restarts the tape.
Both grandkids laugh and pretend to vomit upon hearing the last lyric. Poppa Gregg responds by notching up the volume and resuming his singing. The kids join in, jumping on the sofa and kicking in with pantomime drums and rollicking air guitar. They spend that afternoon listening to old tapes, laughing, singing and talking about the world that used to be.
When their assignments are eventually written and turned in, the teacher decides quietly not to have the children read them in front of the class.
The old man puts down his... I don't know, holographic newspaper or whatever, and smiles adoringly at the children. "Well, hello there! How are grandpa's special little people today?"
"We're fine, Poppa Gregg," Trapper responds. "But, we have a question for you."
"Well now. A question! How exciting! Ask Poppa Gregg anything you'd like."
Des Moines motions to a tablet she's carrying. "In school, they asked us to find out what the world was like before there was so much digital technology. We thought we'd ask you."
The old man stares off into some imaginary distance and absently scratches his chin. "Well now. That really was long, long ago." With effort, he gets up from his, I guess, Samsung recliner. His bones creak and pop. "I can tell you everything you need to know about that world...," he turns and gives them a sly smile, "with a song."
The children roll their eyes behind his back as the man shuffles to the antique reel-to-reel player. Poppa Gregg answers a lot of questions this way.
"I can tell you about a world you could scarcely imagine... a world before the internet, before there were digital cameras everywhere, before social media and smartphones... before the AIDS epidemic..."
"Wait. We didn't ask abou-"
But Poppa Gregg has already punched the Play button.
Thunder Island
by Jay Ferguson
by Jay Ferguson
Sha la la la la la my lady,
In the sun with your hair undone.
Can you hear me now calling,
Your name from across the bay.
A summer's day laughing and a-hiding,
Chasing love out on Thunder Island.
In a voice that is needlessly loud and recklessly out of tune, Poppa Gregg sings along with the upper harmony of the "doo doo doo doot doooo" vocals until Trapper raises his hand with a question. Poppa Gregg stops the tape.
"Where is Thunder Island? Is it an actual place?"
Poppa Gregg crinkles his eyes and gestures abstractly with his hands as if he's trying to form an answer out of the empty space in front of him.
Des Moine, already pinching and zooming on her tablet, announces, "All of the places I can find with that name are hundreds of miles inland. They are just protrusions into lakes and rivers." She looks up quizzically. "Maybe the bay and island are just metaphors for social isolation."
Poppa Gregg points to Des Moines and nods. He says to Trapper, "See? She gets it." He restarts the player.
She was the color of the Indian summer,
Des Moines raises a single finger, and Poppa Gregg, grunting, stops the tape again.
She asked, "What does that mean?"
"Well, sweetie, what does it feel like it means to you?"
Trapper interrupts. "Indian summer is when it stays warm in the fall, so maybe the leaves don't turn color as soon...so... is she green?"
Poppa Gregg drops his arms to his sides. "Wow, man."
"Oh, wait. I get it. She's non-white." She turns to her brother. "That used to be a big deal. This song was probably from before the civil rights movement."
"Guys! It's from 1979."
"Well then... why..."
"Des Moine, you might be making too much of this. I think he's just painting this image of an exotic and, umm...unfamiliar woman... not unfamiliar in a racial way...necessarily..."
A long silence ensues.
"Okay. Know what? This is only a four minute song and I'm just pushing ahead." He restarts the tape.
And we shared the hours without number.
Until one day when the sky turned dark,
And the winds grew wild.
Caught by the rain and blinded by the lightning,
We rode the storm out there on Thunder Island.
"He keeps using language that distances himself from the island," Des Moines shouts over the guitar solo. "He's really emphasizing that he skated right out on this woman."
"Well, it wouldn't be much of a song if there wasn't some drama. He's using the distance between them to amplify the drama."
"Maybe he could have used an actual story to amplify the drama," says Trapper. This whole song is just about meeting one woman. We already know he leaves. He told us in the first verse."
"Jesus. You kids. This was a pop song! There wasn't a lot of space for nuance. Especially in 1979. Have you ever listened to AM Radio?"
"Who's that? A Rapper?"
"Oh, I swear to--"
I held her close until the storm passed
And we fell down laughing in the wet grass
Des Moines is perplexed. "Wait. Where are they supposed to be? Are they just standing around outside? Isn't there shelter?"
"Yeah," exclaims her brother, "and why would anyone be surprised by a storm in a place that's actually NAMED Thunder Island?"
Poppa Gregg smacks the stop button. "Listen, Flipper..."
"Trapper."
"Trapper... you're a little young to understand this, but it's a very sexy thing to be stuck in the rain with a romantic partner. There are a lot of songs from this era about it, "Laughter in the Rain" by Neil Sedaka, "Same Old Lang Syne" by Dan Fogelberg, "Escape" by Rupert Holmes...
"Did you and grandma ever do that?" asks Des Moines. "Just stand in the rain and carry on like it was romantic?"
"That was more of a seventies thing. Your grandmother and I dated in the eighties when people had a whole different kind of thing going on, like, with our hair. You can't just stand around in the rain with eighties hair, you know? Back to the tape!"
Both our bodies drying in the sunshine, sweet sunshine.
So sha la la la la la my lady
In the sun with your dress undone,
Both kids raise their hands and Poppa Gregg waves them off. "Let it go. I'm not stopping for that."
Now every mile away and every day,
Cuts a little deeper.
"Aww. He wants to go back," says Des Moines.
Poppa Gregg stops the tape. "Yes! Precisely. Of course he wants to go back. THIS. This is what the world was like. If you weren't with somebody, in front of them, looking into their eyes, you might as well have been on another planet. Intimacy wasn't easy. Or cheap. If you met someone outside of your own little realm, you had to decide if you wanted to alter your life to stay with that person."
Poppa Gregg readjusts his glasses. "It's not an uncommon theme. In 1961, Roy Orbison had a song about saving nickels and dimes to return to the woman he'd left in Blue Bayou."
Trapper perks up. "There's another song like this?"
"Well, not just like this."
"What's the difference?"
"Mostly cocaine." Poppa Gregg restarts the tape.
I'll remember the nights in the cool grass,
Making love out on Thunder Island.
Both grandkids laugh and pretend to vomit upon hearing the last lyric. Poppa Gregg responds by notching up the volume and resuming his singing. The kids join in, jumping on the sofa and kicking in with pantomime drums and rollicking air guitar. They spend that afternoon listening to old tapes, laughing, singing and talking about the world that used to be.
When their assignments are eventually written and turned in, the teacher decides quietly not to have the children read them in front of the class.
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