charlotte harris

We used to slide the record jacket across the living room floor, Sis lying in front of one speaker and me with my ear up to the other, “The Best of ABBA” playing.  When it was my turn to look at the album cover, I would stare at the photo of the foursome and try to decide which man was married to which lady. 

In years since, anytime I hear the first few bars of any ABBA song playing anywhere, I squeal in delight and urgently grab the wrist of whatever female might be with me (”OOOOOH!  I LOOOOOVE this song!!” or something equally predictable) and if folks are lucky, I might start in with the dorky finger pointing and dancing.

Last night Sis busted out that exact album, the cardboard sleeve barely held together with some old masking tape that lost its sticky sometime back in the ’80’s.  She dusted off the record and placed it on the turntable.  Mom made a special request for “Mamma Mia” and who can say “no” when a cute little 3 year-old asks the whole family to get up and hold hands and dance?

In a backyard full of toys, my niece just wanted to be pushed around in the wheelbarrow.  In a house full of modern gadgets, it was the vinyl records that entertained us all.  On a night I could have done anything at all, the only thing I wanted to do was hang with my folks.  Sometimes it’s just comfortable to return to the old family classics.