Basement Music

As an adventurous young child, it was my mission to explore every inch of my house, from the kitchen cupboards to the bathroom closet to the dank basement. All of it had to be discovered.

"Don't go near the stairs." is what my parents used to tell me. Even as a little girl, I understood they told me this because they didn't want me to fall down them. But I would still sit on the top stair, peering down as best I could and listening to my mom doing the laundry. I don't know why it was fascinating at the time. I think the fact that it was dark and cool made it seem inviting. The fact that I was doing what I wasn't supposed to added to the allure. On summer days, the cool air would wisp past my face with hints of fresh linen and good laundry smells. It just felt like the place to be.

It reminds me of how my corgi loves to lay in the doorway between the kitchen and the front room. It's like she doesn't want to miss anything. She wants to make sure that if there's something going on, she's part of it. There's something about being in a central area between two or more commonplaces that makes you feel informed and involved. I think that's why people like living in cities... but my city was the place between the basement and the rest of the house.

Though the top of the basement stairs at my house was a favorite, the most intriguing place was my grandparent's basement, or at least the top of the stairs leading to it. It was absolutely off limits with or without adult supervision, and it was full of interesting, old stuff. My grandfather was very fond of electronics, and also a bit of a pack rat. He was always tinkering and giving my parents the best tips on how to extend battery life. He rigged the basement lights and radio to turn on together with the flip of a switch. I always knew when someone was down there because I could hear the music from almost anywhere in the house. But the music that came from the basement radio wasn't anything familiar from the 80s or 90s. It was so foreign, I simply dubbed it "basement music". It was much later that I discovered it was swing music from the days of my grandparent's youth, the 1940s.

Now, whenever I hear swing, I think of sitting at the top of the stairs, cool air and fresh scent wafting up, and the woosh-woosh-woosh sound of the washer dancing along with the basement music.

Nothing ever seemed more inviting.