My dad is not a music guy. He hate that noise and not just since he
got old he has never voluntarily listened to music, for its own sake,
in my memory. Whenever we had the radio on while we worked or played
or hung out and it was within his earshot he would yell at us to shut
down that jukebox. That is not me exaggerating, he always told us to
shut it off and almost always called any music playing device a
jukebox. Because I was only indirectly involved I may be ruining this
story but I will tell what I remember or what I think I remembered
about Matt getting his radio smashed. We were coming up on power
hour, which was when my dad required us to make no noise while he
practiced his banjo and then we would read scriptures, both pretenses
for him to make us do what he said because he was the dad. I think my
dad may have yelled at us to shut off that particular jukebox but
like in the joke about not being able to hear someone tell you the
radio was too loud because the radio is too loud – we didn't hear
him. I was sitting on a bed with my back to the wall that the door
was in reading or something and the radio was on a shelf strait in
front of the door and if I remember right Matt was next to it or near
it. Then all in a bluster the door was slammed open and a purple
faced disobeyed and not taking father vomited into the room startling
us. He closed the three steps across the room and kicked the stereo,
or jukebox if you prefer the medical term, and then pulled it off the
shelf and started stomping it to splinters while he punctuated his
kicks with swears and ultimatums. Matt was mad but much more composed
than my dad and I remember him saying that was fine if he wanted to
break his stereo he would just have to buy him another one. He was
furious and yelling at us to come into the front room for family time
and that we never needed the damn music so loud that we couldn't hear
simple requests. Well, sure I guess that makes sense – I think the
only recourse a reasonable person would have if someone didn’t hear
them would be to dash the noise maker, or Jukebox if you are from the
continent, to bits. As was our custom for the next few days Matt and
I recreated, to humorous effect, the drama that unfolded between the
radio (jukebox – for the orthodox) and my dad. We teased him quite
a bit about teaching that inanimate object a lesson. He did, if I
remember right, pay for a replacement.
