It occurs to me that bells come in all shapes, sizes, and timbres. Some ring pleasantly, while the clanging of others can be irksome. Some sound majestic; others merely tinkle.
The Bells of St. Mary’s music surpasses Quasimodo’s clumsy efforts, does it not? Are not the soothing sounds of The Caroling of The Bells preferred over the tinning of sheep bells (Well, for most of us, anyway. Losing one’s sheep could augment the latter’s comforting qualities – would it not?)?
Whether the ringing’s origin is in the literary masterpieces of Leo McCarey and Dudley Nichols, and Victor Hugo, or the weathered hands of the nearest sheepherder or Salvation Army worker, one may opine that the chime is ostensibly dependent upon the hand that wields it.
In the right hands, a bell’s resonance can be modulated into a veritable concerto. An experienced hand could wield these unusually shaped domes with the artistic flair of Bach, Beethoven, Chopin, Gershwin, and even Mozart.
What concertos. From the sound in the hills of The Sound of Music and the carillons in France, to the mountains in Peru, and in the rock formations of the Midwestern United States, bells are heard from one side of the globe to the other. Ah, the sweet sounds of jingling lullabies or masterful sonatas. At one time or another, haven’t we all shared the delightful sounds of these unique instruments?
In the wrong hands, however, the hands of inexperience, any bell may neither reach its potential magnificence, nor even produce delightful tones. The inexperienced hand is not acquainted with the realm of possibilities within a single swing, the back and forth motion of the these unusual – yet sublime – instruments, and therefore gauchely proceeds with a false sense of his or her musical talents.
These are my thoughts, one afternoon, whilst reminiscing the 70’s and playing CDs as Jeff began to reenact a dance scene from Saturday Night Fever (yeah, that’s right… The Bee Gees, John Travolta, boogie nights, white polyester suits… No need to have yer eyes checked). Yep, with one arm reaching towards the ceiling and the other on his hip, in his birthday suit – no less, Jeff began with the well-known hip swaying, up and down movements of one arm, with the one-handed index finger point stance. It was a sight to behold. Brought tears to my eyes, it did.
I was laughing my ass off.
During this display of sidesplitting nostalgia, Ring My Bell sung by Anita Ward began to play on the portable boom box in our bedroom. Its familiar intro excites me to the point of nearly joining Jeff in his ridiculous antics.
I still remember every word to this song. I know exactly what I was doing the first time I heard it on the car radio. Most assuredly, the passing motorists haven’t forgotten either.
Grinning from ear to ear, my stuck-in-the-seventies sing-a-long commenced (If this doesn’t show my age – I don’t know what will), while Jeff continued his half-chicken, half-disco dance.
On a side note, I spent the better part of my young, adult life at Uncle Sam’s Disco whirling around on the dance floor to the sounds of the Seventies. Many a night, this particular song cask its bewitching Stayin Alive spell that held me captive, within the suspended mirrored ball’s radiance, on the dance floor for hours.
At that age, Anita Ward’s words had me dreaming of finding a man who could “ring my bell.” And at that age, her words brought visions of Prince Charming ringing the front door bell, not the “ringing” of body parts.
This is when it occurs to me that our young, impressionable minds interpret the implication of any song in self-associative mode. We tend to posit our own life’s circumstances into a song’s meaning. By twisting and turning the words around for our own purposes, we are never listening to the actual words.
Singing the song in my bedroom, now thirty-some years later, the song’s true message is delivered.
I’m glad you’re home
Now did you really miss me
I guess you did by the look in your eyes
Well, lay back and relax while I put away the dishes
Then you and me can rock-a-bye
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell…
The night is young and full of possibilities
Well come on and let yourself be free
My love for you, so long that I’ve been savin’
Tonight was made for you and me
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell…
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell
(ding, dong, ding, dong, do-ong)
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell
(ring it, ring it, ring it, ring it oww!)
You can ring my be-e-ell, ring my bell
(ding, dong, ding, do-ong, ring it oww!)
There is no misinterpreting the message implied by the “ring my bells,” “ding dong do-ongs,” “ring it owws,” and the “rock-a-bye.” Wouldn’t it be nice if every husband heard their wives seductively intone, as they put away the dishes, “Ring my bell?” Alas, a topic for another day, perhaps?
What amazes me the most, as I reflect on these former times, is how naive I was at seventeen: How the world revolved around a one-room apartment and the audacious, adolescent behavior of its inhabitant – me.
As children and young adults the world purely consists of one’s own “backyard.” We purport an all-knowing mentality and weave our own fabric of truths from what is selfishly perceived as relevant from the offerings of humanity.
If I could go back in time and with the knowledge of today, I would advise myself, “Listen to your heart, but call upon instinct and your relation-based support system when confronted with choices; keep your senses sharpened at all times and never take anything or anyone at face value; Look, but never leap; be patient –attempt to comprehend all things laid at your feet through the wisdom of another’s experience. Last but not least, never take anything for granted.”
It is not the appearance of a bell that rings true, but the musical renditions of its acclaimed virtuoso.