For nearly the whole of human history, humans heard music only when it was performed live in front of them. It’s true for the household too, which is why the commercialization of the piano in the 19th century was such a transformation. Everyone wanted to learn how to play. It’s not easy. It takes years of disciplined study and practice, but the results are glorious: music for the whole family.
Then came the music box. What an invention! They were so marvelous that Mark Twain got one for his home. You could specify five songs for them to play. Later you could add new songs with rolls and other technologies. One might suppose that the family would tire of the same five songs. Nope: The magic of the machine was too enthralling.
The other day, at an antique store, I saw one. It was beautiful. It listed five songs, and I could barely read them, but they were undoubtedly the popular tunes of the time, probably with folk origins. This was the streaming music of the day.
Standing there looking at it, I felt like I could hear it, and I was transported back to the 1880s in some household somewhere in which the adults would fire up the nice box and everyone would listen or maybe even dance. What a miracle it must have been, a box to play music without human hands. It probably felt like a new age was dawning.
It was indeed. The next row over in the antique store, there was a large mahogany box with a label, Radiola. It was filled with electronics but with a cover and dials on the front. The box also had a date: 1925. The victrola record player had already been invented, and many houses had them, though they were expensive.
The radio was the new thing. You could hear voices and music, something happening live but far away, even overseas. The old radio shows must have been a thrill. We’ve all seen movies that recreate the scenes of actors with microphones and various sound effects. When a friend arrived at the door, there would be a knock and the door would shut. Shoes were banged on tables to simulate walking.
It was a story to which you could listen being performed in some other location, like having a reader in the house except that he wasn’t there.
Think about the date of this box. It was only 100 years ago. That’s a very brief time to go from the Radiola to Spotify, which opens up the whole of human history with a voice command and beautiful sounds recreated, from Gregorian chant to the latest rap album.
I was speaking to a friend about pop music, and he said that neither he nor his friends think that much about the latest thing anymore. Instead, they find artists and songs they like from any time of the past and listen to those and the whole catalog of similar things. Technology has enabled an unexpected form of nostalgia such that the main earners from music these days are the bands and performers from decades ago.
It grants to all of us a sense that nostalgia is in vogue. Nothing feeds that like a well-presented antique store with items from all ages.
I found a toaster like my grandmother had, the kind made of tin that folded out on each side. She gave me hers, but I lost it through the years. This store had an entire line of them priced at $35 each. That made me feel better about having been careless with this gift.
The entire store is a history lesson, sometimes history within history. There was a bookshelf made of a phone booth, but then I realized something. It was very old but was not tall enough to be a phone booth. It was a recreation of one in the form of a book holder, so an antique of an antique.
In this store, I found many items that reminded me of things I recall from my childhood, items from my grandmother’s house that she probably had handed down from her mother. These were simple things, such as a knife and large fork for cutting meat. There was just something about the color and shape that recalled a time and a place.
But even if you cannot recall it, you can conjure it up. There were 12 tiny sterling silver bells, each distinct with a theme. They represented the 12 days of Christmas. I could easily imagine the kids waking up each day asking if they can ring the new bell, which might signal the time to open a new present. I could almost hear the squeals and laughter of children just looking at those small bells.
There was an old pasta maker, walking sticks, an umbrella, crystal everywhere, plus a roller for wringing out clothing after it had been washed in a tub. These are all practical items that made life better, inventions that signaled the progress of their day. Just looking at them and using your imagination, you can conjure up the time and place, inventing your own version of history concerning the place and its owner.
The entire store was this way: paintings, tablecloths and napkins, flatware, rugs, and funny decorations of all sorts. For each item, one wonders how and why it survived instead of being taken to the landfill like most things are today. People once treasured what they owned, and what they owned was worthy of being owned and used by the next generation too.
Then there was the huge encyclopedia set. How I loved those when I was a kid. It felt like all of human knowledge was on that shelf of books. I would open randomly and read and read. How much education did I get from them? I’m not sure, but it was a lot. Mostly they made me curious to know more and more.
I do wonder: Are there tools today in the household that inspire the same level of intellectual curiosity? I’m quite certain that hardly anyone has these sets anymore. Maybe they should. And they should be read!
Then there was the manual lawn mower. The blades probably needed sharpening, but it looked fully functional. What a lovely machine. Not noisy, not gassy, not greasy, just clean and lovely, there to do a job.
While this wild experience was still rattling around in my head, my neighbor’s automated and autonomous mower stopped working. He did what we all would do. He threw it in the dumpster and started shopping for a new one.
This is how we live today. What do we buy that is truly designed to last rather than be replaced in a few years? Most of what we use day-to-day is disposable. It will never end up in the antique store.
Honestly, I think I once looked down on antiques as old-fashioned and not with the digital times. But the greatest of the new didn’t turn out to be what we hoped. Social media that was to connect us with people all over the world and create influencers turns out to waste time and feed sadness and envy. The phones that were to give us privacy because we held them in our pockets turn out to be tools of surveillance. The household items that operate by voice command also listen to all our conversations.
In many ways, the digital age has betrayed us, which is one reason the antique store can so easily conjure up better and simpler times and places. The characteristic feature is the invention, creativity, and beauty that unfolds in times of freedom, whereas modern things just seem more dystopian and, quite frankly, ugly.
Our culture once had a profound understanding of the uncertainties and exigencies of this life, and nonetheless eschewed fear and embraced gratitude for each new day; we responded by building homes, tools, and family legacies to endure the test of time. Now our culture exudes pseudo-confidence that masks fear and loss of purpose; we respond with fripperies, amusements, and meaningless consumption, leaving a childless trail of financial liabilities and overflowing landfills.
The Smithsonian in Washington long ago closed its first museum dedicated to arts and industry. That leaves us with antique shops to teach us about history, the people of a time and a place. They do it well, which is why I can spend hours in them even if I don’t buy a thing. I didn’t this time, but the proprietors were still happy I paid a visit. I’m happy too.
We cannot live our lives languishing in nostalgia. I get it. But some of it surely is comforting. Come to think of it, if I had a Victrola now and a nice supply of 78 records, I would likely use it often. A horse and carriage might be nice too, to put this buggy whip in the store to good use.
