Genealogical Artifact

Cassette Tape of Granna Reading "Donald Duck and the Witch Next Door"

When I was about 5 years old, my grandmother Anna Richey, or “Granna” for short, sent me a book titled “Donald Duck and the Witch Next Door”.  I rarely saw my Granna more than once or twice a year as she lived so far away, and so along with the book, she sent me a cassette tape recording of her reading the book to me.  So even when she wasn’t there, she was there.  This meant the world to me as I loved my Granna and wanted to see her all the time.  The tape itself was not very special, but the label said “Granna reading to Jason” and I loved seeing my name on a cassette tape.  On the tape, Granna spoke to me as if I were right there next to her.  Granna was the world’s best story reader as far as my 5 year old mind knew.   Her voice on the cassette would change for every single character so I would know who was speaking.  She would even ding a bell when it was time to turn the page.  Maybe she couldn’t do Donald Duck’s voice the same way that it was done in the movies, but who cared?  Every time I listened to that tape, I felt like she was right there, reading to me.  I used to carry a tape player around the house with me and listen to the book in different rooms of the house.   Wherever I went, Granna was with me.

                As I grew up and learned to read, I found that I was able to follow along with Granna as she read, but I never read it on my own.  I had other books for that.  This was my special book that could only be read by Granna.  When I pick up kiddy books I read as a child now, I am always surprised to find that they don’t have the same story as they did when I was a kid.  This is due to the fact that before I could read, I would simply pick up books and make up my own story based on the pictures.  My version of “Cat in the Hat” was much more disturbing with much fewer rhymes.  But “Donald Duck” has the correct story line.  Granna made sure of that.  For this reason, it is my favorite children’s book. 

                It is getting harder to find tape players these days but it is always worth it to me to give this tape another listen.  Recently, my Granna passed away.  I miss her more than words can tell.  The tape contains more than a book.  It contains my grandmother’s love; it contains her regret that she can’t always be with me, while also bridging the gap between us, if only briefly, allowing her to read a book to her loving grandchild.  The gap between us has widened, but this treasure brings her close to me again, just as it did in my youth.    

Artist's Response

When I first wrote about this tape, I hadn't listened to it for years.  I was writing about it's meaning to me in the past.  But when I went home and asked my parents about it, they reminded me of some of the finer details I hadn't recalled.  They told me about how I used to carry around a tape player so that I could listen to it again and again.  I must've listened to it over a hundred times.  They said I always got a kick out of hearing my name spoken aloud by my Granna.  When I listened to the tape again, I realized that it still applied.  My grandma is gone to a place I can't visit, but I can still hear her voice and hear her say "I love you".  It is a great treasure to me.

I realized after writing it like a story, that I wanted it to be more like a memoir, something that stood as a tribute to my Grandma and the treasure she left me.  I felt like writing it in this way allowed me to more fully convey my feelings about the object, rather than just telling a particular moment of using it.  I realize this is a bit off of what I was supposed to write about, but I prefer it this way.  

Process Piece - The BYU Experience

http://soundcloud.com/123sendmestuff/the-byu-experience/s-T9mau

This was one of the funnest projects I've ever worked on.  I have always loved the story telling aspect of sound.  In fact, it was that very thing that got me interested in Film.  I was in TMA 102, Intro to Film, and our teacher showed us a clip from a movie but didn't turn on the projector.  We were only able to listen to the scene.  I realized how powerful sound can be in developing a story.  My mind was creating all sorts of images just from the sounds I heard.  Afterwards, he showed us the scene including video, and I was blown away.  Sometimes I got the sounds dead right, other times I was totally wrong.  I decided I wanted to learn how to do something like that.  And this assignment sort of did that for me.  I tried to tell the process using as little dialog a possible, mostly focusing on sounds that identify BYU to me and others I spoke with.  I was very pleased with the outcome.  It flows from a beginning of the year devotional all the way through graduation.  It was a bit different from what we initially thought of when writing out our ideas for this project. I think it accomplishes what it needs to.
One thing I screwed up on was the use of a particular sound while editing.  We captured the sound of a little boy trying to sound like a cougar, but when I put it in the mix with the sounds of the bookstore, it just got confused and sounds like a mistake.  I think it adds to the cacophonic experience of being in the bookstore with a lot of people who you only catch snippits of conversation from, but I can see why someone would be confused by it.
The sounds used are a combination of sounds Tanner and I collected together, and sounds that I had recorded from past devotionals and convocations that I had access to due to my job as an audio technician for BYU.  I was grateful for this access as the vision we had in the beginning wouldn't have come to light without them.

Thick Description

The Way Things Were

A memory.  A shining moment of joy from days long gone.  Dimmed by time, yet illuminated in the wake of a re-visitation to the weed filled valley, site of a dozen Saturdays with Dad.  The memory fills my mind with the clarity and distance of a moment seen through a telescope.  Telescopes, Dad says, are a window to the universe... and rockets are the door.  The yellow-gray weeds sway in the breeze like a giant wheat field.  Tiny kernels burst from the tips, peppering the ground as we rush past, seeking a bald spot from which to launch.  There it is, slightly raised, a brown, dry mound of earth, the perfect springboard to the stars.  We open our bags, and pull out four black legs.  Dad proceeds to set up the launchpad while I gently remove our most recent creation.  Long and red, with bright yellow fins, I hold it in both hands, careful not to drop it.  The edges are a little rough... Dad let me glue the fins on myself, consequently leaving large gobs of clear paste jutting out around the sides.  But once it's airborne, no one will notice.  A smile creeps up my face.  This is a special launch.  I caught a centipede on our basement steps just hours ago, and is now stowed in the midsection of my rocket, a couple of cotton balls stuffed around it to keep it safe.  The casing there is clear, so the centipede will be able to see out.  Lucky little astronaut.

Today - I stand in the middle of a bright cul-de-sac.  White houses surround me, gleaming and bright in the midday sun.  What once was a flowing sea of brown and gold, is now a desert of asphalt, concrete and plastic.  Where my launchpad once was sits a tall white basketball standard.  Trees spring up all over the place, each shining a different shade of green in the bright sun, yet even these seem artificial.  They are too perfect, each painstakingly placed to provide the proper atmosphere.  Nearby is a sign, "Blind Child Area" in big bold black letters against florescent yellow.  I try to see the field from my childhood rocket launches, but everywhere I turn there is another grouted wall, a manicured lawn, a leaky hose spigot.   I am blinded by the years, and the change.

 The launchpad is finished.  Dad calls me over, and I run, nearly tripping over my over long jeans and dropping my precious treasure.  The launchpad stands ready, a long silver pole jutting up out of the earth, a reverse lightning rod... not to bring down power from above, but to ascend.  The pole slides easily through the two holes along the side of the rocket.  We run out a safe distance and Dad hands me the controls.  The countdown begins.  "5."

I suppose the place has its charms.  The sun plays on the buildings in a friendly way.  This is no slum; it is perfect for raising kids, I think, as a few run out into their yard to push around their mulitcolored trucks.  But as I walk around the sidewalk again, I can't help but think that I will never be able to launch another rocket from this spot again.

"2... 1... Blastoff!"  The button is pressed, the rocket takes to the sky in a burst of flame and a rush of air.  It's gotta be a mile up now!  Dad says it's no more than a few hundred feet but I know better.  I can't even see it anymore in the gray overcast sky.  Where'd it go?  I stand here, nervously twisting my body and head all around to try to catch a glimpse of the falling capsule.  There it is!  But wait... something is wrong.  The parachute hasn't deployed!  It's falling too fast.  If it crashes... what of our hard work?  What of that poor centipede?   The nose tips and the rocket continues to dive straight down towards the embankment of the valley.  Don't break, don't break, don't break.... THUD!  The run to my fallen treasure feels like rushing to the deathbed of a loved one.  There isn't much you can do to fix it, but you feel as if haste will somehow make it better.  I reach the spot and wade through the sagebrush, praying.  A glint of red through the dusty brown bushes.  Here it is!  It seems to have survived the fall, but not without casualties.  Two red fins lay helpless on the ground.  I reach down and lift the capsule, looking into the clear plastic to see if my centipede survived.  It isn't moving.  I pull the top off and remove the cotton balls.  Somehow the centipede seems fused the to cotton, perhaps melted there.  Poor little guy.  But wait.  He's stirring.  I place him on the ground and he pulls free of his binding.  A foot or two are left behind but he scurries away, happy as can be!  And why shouldn't he be?  What a trip!  I pick up the pieces of my rocket.  In a younger time, I'd have been angry that my rocket broke, but I'm a seasoned pro by now!  All it needs is a little glue and it'll be ready for the next launch in no time.  My smile widens as I look at Dad, who returns it.  Hand in hand, we wade back through the brush, back through the sea of weeds... back through time...

As I drive away from the valley of a thousand homes, I wish for times gone by.  Progress marches on, leaving my childhood Cape Canaveral unrecognizable.  My memories will never be shared by the children in that cul-de-sac, but I can only imagine what adventures they will have in their own backyards.  After all, there is probably a tiny centipede, descendant of my little astronaut, who is waiting for his adventure too.