Grandma Had a Glockenspiel
That’s not weird at all
It was the dawn of the Age of Aquarius, and in Santa Cruz, California, our Grandpa Irving referred to his artist wife as “the hippie grandma.”
Grandma Lovett was a white-haired, bead-wearing artist, and we all agreed with him on this.
During the late sixties and early seventies, Santa Cruz was the hippiest place outside of Berkeley and the Haight, and Grandma fit in just fine as she walked along the Pacific Garden Mall amongst the flower children gathered there.
On upper Locust Street, Grandma and Grandpa shared a small, ramshackle Victorian home packed with generations’ worth of ephemera, odds-and-ends, and antiques. My sister and I regularly got lost in the adventure of it all.
The scent of grandma’s linseed oil and pot roast often mixed into one delightful aroma. Even today when I smell oil paint, I am back in her kitchen, watching as she pulls silkscreen prints, draws, or puts the final touches on a painting as she shares her experience.
Grandma Louise Sheppa Lovett was way cool.
She was so cool, she had a glockenspiel stashed in the front parlor, next to her piano. Who owns a glockenspiel? Grandma, that’s who. She actually let us bang on it. In the house. Can you imagine? Only bagpipes could produce more decibels. Come to think of it, I’m surprised she didn’t own a bagpipe.
She gave the grandkids free rein with all of her noisemakers. Bells, whistles, an assortment of percussion doodads, keyboard instruments, and various rattling gizmos. A cacophony of fun was always at our fingertips.
I recall the time Grandma Lovett organized a family concert. Christmas carols for our great-great Aunt Molly who lived in the big Queen Anne Victorian next door. This is a very early memory, as Aunt Molly passed when I was three.
I stood with the family as we lined up outside, looking up at Molly as she enjoyed the show from her back porch. My grandmother handed me two percussion sticks to bang together as the group played and sang for our aged aunt.
I don’t recall who played that glockenspiel that day, but it had to be someone big enough to hold it.
The specific carols we sang that day elude me now, but I clearly remember grandma handing me those noisemakers. I was disappointed to have been handed sticks, as I had hoped for something that produced a melody.
The disappointment faded as grandma knelt in front of me and began to instruct me in the finer points of their use.
She paid me her full attention, and I felt it.
She was an educated CAL alumnus and was a natural when it came to creative endeavors and teaching, pursuits that shaped her long life. She was a mentor for many.
This Christmas performance may be my earliest memory. Perhaps it was grandma’s careful, focused attention to making sure I learned to bang out the beat that made this wonderful memory stick.
Being related to this woman was a blast.
It was indeed a happy day every time mom and dad piled the five of us kids into the old ’56 Chevy wagon and barreled down the California coast to Santa Cruz. It was a relatively short drive, and regular weekend trips were part of our life. Still are, but these days, those of my generation are the grandmas and great-aunts.
We are having a blast.
It’s been a few years since grandma tripped down the garden mall among the flowers. I don’t know where her particular glockenspiel is now, but I never forgot it.
Eventually, our first grandchild was born. To celebrate the occasion, I bought a glockenspiel.
Based on the author’s original 2010 Grandma had a Glockenspiel story.
