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Radio Days

Some of my greatest memories revolve around Saturdays nights with NPR’s A Prairie Home Companion. Yes, Garrison Keillor has an odd breathy voice and sometimes tells stories that have no apparent point. But it's not about him; it's about what his voice—his show—represents to me: home-cooked meals, imagination, and family.

When I was a kid, I would spend crisp fall and winter Saturdays playing outside with the boys, climbing trees, making potions and playing kickball until I had the outdoorsy smell that little kids get, and the knees of my jeans were thoroughly stained green. But as the sun started setting, and the air got that undercurrent of pure cold, it would be time to come inside. The lamps would be turned on, and so would PHC. As my mom curled up on the couch reading, my dad would be in the kitchen, covered in flour as he kneaded the dough for noodles and bread baked in the oven and the sauce bubbled on the stove behind him.

My mom would send me upstairs where I’d leave my pile of tomboy clothes on the floor and step into a warm bath, thoroughly girly with piles of bubbles. I'd lie in the tub with the faint murmurs of the radio show in the background, imagining my future as a famous actress, archaeologist, or writer. I would make bubble beards and bubble bikinis until the bathwater turned chilly, and then I'd put on my warm pajamas and run downstairs to help my dad crank the pasta machine, making piles of ribbons of dough.

When the pasta was cooked and I had finished dancing to PHC's musical guests, I sat down with my family to eat. This is where the magic happened. I'd sip milk in a wine glass and my family would talk. We'd talk and talk and talk. On those Saturday nights, lulled by stories of Lake Woebegone, we shared our own stories: things that happened in during the day, what we dreamed about, what we feared. I would sit, enraptured, listening to stories of my parents when they were my age: what scrapes they got into and what they thought they’d be when they grew up.

As I got older, Saturdays became less about tree-climbing and more about shopping. My bathtub musings became focused on how my first kiss would happen, what my first love would be like, and how it felt like the process of growing up was taking forever. Instead of rushing downstairs to help prepare dinner and dance to the background bluegrass, I would plant myself in front of the mirror for hours, finding the right outfit to wear and applying yet another coat of mascara. I rushed through family dinners, paying no heed to the “Rhubarb Pie” jingle that I usually sang along to, and only giving short answers about my evening plans while inhaling food as quickly as possible. I’d dash outside when I saw headlights signaling that someone had arrived to cart me off to yet another movie or show and ignored the flickers of sadness in my parents’ eyes as I rushed off to my life without them.

In college, when I began to treasure weekends at home, the Saturday dinners stretched to their old comfortable length. The pasta was still as fantastic as I remembered, but my wine glass held a nice cabernet instead of milk. The discussions got larger and lingered past PHC and into some Celtic music program until someone put on Miles Davis. It was at that table where I saw my parents as real people, full of quirks and history and individuality. These two people, with whom I share everything from the shape of my nose to my fondness for smelly cheeses, are part of me.  As a teenager, desperate to be seen as an individual. I fought the traditions, the weekly rituals, in the desire to pave my future as an adult.

Recently, I went through a breakup and found myself immediately wanting the comfort of my parents. One phone call and they made plans to spend the weekend with me. Saturday morning was spent refilling my refrigerator (empty, with the exception of a mushy apple, a jar of tomato sauce and half a carton of expired milk) and making plans for Saturday night dinner. As my dad took over my tiny kitchen and I sat reading on the couch next to my mom with Prairie Home Companion playing on my stereo, it struck me how important these moments are and how much I still need my family, even though I’m a “grown up.” They provide the never-changing, always dependable stability I need when my life gets shaky—as predictable as a weekly radio show and just as entertaining.

These are the things I cling to, the things I want for my future family. I want to sit around a table with my children as they tell me about their dreams over pasta with the lulling sounds of Prairie Home Companion in the background. I want to look into their eyes and be shocked at how quickly they grow. I want to know that they are sitting in bathtubs filled with bubbles, wondering why growing up takes so long and who will kiss them and what will they smell like and what is it like to love someone so much that it actually hurts.

Sabrina Heise is an editorial assistant at Skirt! in Charleston, SC.

~Sabrina Heise