Is That Music?

This past weekend, I felt like my grandmother. Old. Well, not like my grandmother now. She would be turning 124 in November. But old, like she must have felt as things around her rapidly changed.

This past weekend, Cole asked me to sit by him while he played a game. His fingers were flying on the keys and on the screen. I watched with amazement. Then he said, “Nana, can we listen to some music?”

“What kind of music?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he responded. “Something on Spotify.”

“I don’t have Spotify,” I told him.

His fingers stopped moving. He turned to me with a look of confusion on his face.

“Well, download it,” he said, almost certainly thinking something like and people like you are in charge of my Social Security.

So I downloaded it. And I’m not a complete idiot because I know how Spotify works. I know you give it a suggestion, and Spotify builds on your suggestion. What I didn’t know was what to suggest. You see, as much as Cole loves me, he doesn’t want to listen to Keith Urban or Thomas Rhett. I did what any normal grandmother would do. I asked his older sister, Kaiya.

“Hmmm,” she said. “Try Beach Bunny.

I, of course, had never heard of Beach Bunny, but I gave that suggestion to Spotify. And that’s the moment I felt old. Because I’m here to tell you that the music that was coming out of Spotify was horrific. There was no melody. There was no rhythm. I couldn’t understand the words, though this was probably a good thing. I looked at Cole to see if he hated the music. Nope. His fingers just kept flying over the screen and he was perfectly content with my musical choice. I would even say his head bopped to the music, except see above: no rhythm.

I immediately recalled the time Grammie watched Judy Collins with me on the Today Show. She listened for a bit, and then said, “Ehhh, is that music?” That’s why I felt like my grandmother. I was so tempted to ask Cole that very question.

The other day, our granddaughter Dagny called to see if I could give her a ride to volleyball practice. No problemo, I told her, and picked her up 10 minutes later.

“What kind of music do you like?” I asked her. She looked at me like it was a trick question.

“I like all kinds of music,” she said, taking the safe route. Dagny is no dummy. She doesn’t want to shake up the person who is driving the car. There was still a chance I could turn the car around and she would have to look elsewhere for a ride.

“Have you ever heard of Beach Bunny?” I asked her. I held my breath.

“No,” she said. “Who is Beach Bunny?”

Now, she might have been suspecting she was potentially walking into a mine field and took the easy way out, but I don’t think so. I think she didn’t know who Beach Bunny was. I’m pretty sure if I had asked her if she’s ever heard of Keith Urban, she would have said yes. That’s why we call her Delightful D.

I will stick to the safety of country music. Now, if I could just figure out what eyebrow threading is….

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