“So, Mom, now that we’ve loaded that ungainly old jukebox into the back of the van, where are we taking it?” I asked.
“The lucky recipient is going to be the Musical Museum in Deansboro. That’s in upstate New York, near Utica,” Mom answered.
“Musical Museum? You know I love music,” I said. “But what fun is it looking at a bunch of antique instruments locked away in display cases? And besides, this old piece of junk doesn’t even work anymore.”
“I expect that they’ll be able to fix it,” replied Mom. “This isn’t a stuffy, formal museum. It teems with odd instruments and mechanical music-making devices. Most have been repaired and restored so that interested visitors can actually play them.”
“Yeah, right,” I said with a caustic tone. “I suppose people just waltz into the place, grab an instrument, and start making beautiful music, just like that.” I snapped my fingers in the air.
“Just about! Most of the items in the collection are automatic instruments that work with the help of gears, motors, magnets, and switches. They play themselves,” said Mom. “The Musical Museum was originally a local man’s collection of unusual contraptions that make music. He was a voracious collector, and soon his house was filled to overflowing with musical gizmos. Eventually, he found a space capacious enough to hold his growing collection. Today, the museum has seventeen rooms devoted to the display of music boxes, jukeboxes, melodeons and harmoniums, old record players, player pianos, and other devices. I think you’ll really like it.” “So—hit the road, Jack!” I sang, grinning broadly. Mom was delighted. “Ah, that’s music to my ears,” she said.