The morning sky is grey and flat. At first light the streets stand empty. The town trucks have already been out, broadcasting their green crystals along the center of the grey streets.
I rush to take the dog out for her morning walk before the snow is scheduled to fall. The air is cold and stings the lungs, making you cough as the dog tugs at her leash.
Slate grey juncos flit across the road and disappear into the bare forsythia bushes. Skittish mourning doves congregate on the branches of the maples, bobbing their heads. The cold morning air bites the cheek beneath the grey canopy of sky.
We walk our loop, the dog and I, and head for home. As we turn to ascend our driveway, the first powdery flakes begin to fall.
Last night my daughter called me down to the kitchen to show me a relic. There on the counter-top rested an old turntable and a stack of LP vinyl records. Dean Martin’s voice carried the melody to “That’s Amore” against a background of scratchy crackles. The dog stood by the table, barking at the contraption; a far cry from the old RCA Victor puppy that cocks an ear to the Victrola.
“When the moon hits your eye
Like a big pizza pie,
When the world seems to shine
Like you had too much wine,
My wife and daughter sorted through the piles of records. Among them were selections by Perry Como, “The Ballad of Davey Crockett” by Fess Parker, “Blue Gardenia” by Nat “King” Cole and an old German recording of “Lili Marlene” by Greta Keller.
As kids, we grew up listening to 45s and LPs. My children played CDs. Nowadays, most young people download mp3 files onto their iPods. How quickly technology advances, leaving archaic remnants in the dust.
Still, it’s a treat to listen to these old selections, scratches and all.
Meantime, outside the silent snow continues to swirl down.