Warning: A deeply unsatisfying ending

One of the many joys of being a child of divorce is that there seems to be an endless pile of shit in both my parents houses that they want out of their possession but not out of our collective possession. As the eldest child, keeping a well-stocked Schiernecker Museum has fallen to me.

An interesting item recently came into my possession though, amongst the tchotchkes and knick-knacks. An old 78 record from Pier Kiosks with my paternal grandmother’s name on it as well as the words “April Showers”. A bit of research showed that this was a remarkable item from the days when you could go into a recording booth and cover a well known song. In this case, April Showers by Al Jolson. If you’ve read Brighton Rock by Graham Greene, you’ll have a better visual of it being used as a plot device.

As a writer, the overly romanticised version of events was that I had stumbled across the only audio recording of my grandmother, Daphne. Aside from grainy VHS recordings, I don’t have anything. She passed away when I was eleven, before she was ever able to see the men that me and my brothers would grow into. I still see her in the faces of little old ladies, massive glasses balanced on her nose, always in a shawl.

I tried to play the 78 on my record player, the saddest record player in the world. I’ve previously written about that. The needle wouldn’t reach. I tried mounting it and still nothing. I’ve shlepped that record around various local stores but they couldn’t play it. Eventually, I found a lovely man who said he could digitise whatever was on the record. I carefully wrapped it up, posted it and waited.

This week, I got the record back with a note. There was nothing on the acetate aside from the piano backing track of April Showers.
I’m left with more questions than answers.

How is that possible?

Why would Daphne have kept a record that, presumably, didn’t take? She was a deeply sentimental woman so maybe just the memory of going to the recording booth was enough for her. Perhaps she was too shy to sing.

What other disappointing remnants of personal history are at my disposal?

I did warn you with the title. Deeply unsatisfying ending.