Four-Minute Time Machine

“I Will Buy You a New Life” by Everclear came on the 90s radio station in our car this afternoon. I remember listening to that song as a teenager, during the summer at my grandmother’s house in Minnesota. There was one of those giant, old antique cabinet radios in one of the bedrooms there. My dad said, on a really clear night, it used to pick up stations from Canada sometimes. I was delighted when it hummed to life and I found KISS-FM on the dial. It was a little jarring hearing the Top 40 wafting out of something clearly made for fans of Some Dude and His Orchestra (which is what all bands were called back then), but I kind of dug it.

There was also a 1970s stationary bike, which I rode sometimes while I listened. (Being a teenager meant working out, I’d decided.) “I Will Buy You a New Life” must have come out a few months before and seemed to still be on pretty heavy rotation. I thought there was something really romantic about the line, “I will buy you a garden.” Art Alexakis was so handsome, with his vulnerability and platinum blond hair. I feel like people used to complain that all his songs were kind of same-y, but I love them. There was something edifying about hearing a guy unpack his trauma with confidence, humor, and a sunny melody. It was propelling him forward instead of holding him back, something our family was probably never the best at.

I remember sunshine pouring through the window like warm honey. The woman next door ran a daycare out of her house, and there was the near-constant background noise of children playing outside. It made me miss my friends from home, most of whom were also visiting family for the summer. My grandmother would be downstairs, making Jell-O or something with a potato chip crust. The walls were a kind of olive color. Maybe they used to be brighter and the paint had faded, because it seemed like an odd decorating choice. The far wall was all books, books, books. They had belonged to my grandfather and were in bookcases made from stacked painted wooden crates. When he was young and moving around a lot, my grandfather would unstack and put a lid on each one whenever it was time to go. Pretty clever, actually. 

There was a copy of the brand new (now defunct) Teen People magazine and a letter from my friend Sofia, who’d sealed it with candle wax, sitting on the bed. My dad had showed me a vintage Howdy Doody doll that was living in the closet. I couldn’t decide whether that was creepy or cool.

It’s a nothing moment, really, but one I miss dearly. At the time, I’m sure I felt kind of bored. But those seem to be the moments where I slow down enough to really make a memory. Everything else is just a beautiful blur. 

The last time I saw my grandmother, she was in her 90s and living with Alzheimer’s in a nursing home. She was still sweet as ever and remembering each one of us, but always unsure about time. 

“My mother was here yesterday,” she said pleasantly. 

“Did she like your new room?” we asked, even though her mother was obviously long gone. 

“Yes, I think she did.”

Shortly before our visit, I’d heard a piece on the radio about eternalism. If I understood correctly, it’s a theory about time where the past, present, and future are all happening simultaneously. “Wouldn’t it be interesting,” I asked the guy I was with back then, “if that were real and dementia is actually us becoming aware of the true nature of time? Like, maybe my grandmother really did see her mom yesterday. Maybe that life still exists somehow and she can access it now.”

He looked at me like I was crazy. “That’s a pretty weird thing to say.”

Maybe. 

Back in the present day, I found myself choking back tears at the sound of Everclear coming through the car stereo. It hit me that I can never go back to that place the way it was. Me at 13, my grandmother still alive, her house a cozy five-generation time capsule. And yet I was being transported there, as if that life were on the other side of some invisible curtain. With each note, I could feel it all so viscerally. The warm honey sun, the olive walls. The craving for Jell-O, something I never felt like eating anywhere else. Knowing that everyone was downstairs and I could go be with them. All I had to do was decide to get off the bike. Or stop thumbing through the 21 hottest stars under 21. Or finish my reply letter to Sofia, enclosing a tiny plastic bat I thought she might like. And turn off the radio. 

Songs are a four-minute time machine. Even the ones that say, “Oh, I know we will never look back.”