Once upon a time, there was a young man who owned a wicked stereo system.
That young man was my father. His stereo was the last tangible vestige of his reckless youth. It was a big deal. “When I bought this, back in the day, this was top-of-the-line”, he once explained, his eyes sparkling. I believed him. I’m sure there are audiophiles out there who will disagree, argue he could have done better, but I simply don’t care. Some of my favorite childhood memories are inextricably linked to music bursting from those speakers, like a soundtrack to the movie of my life. My parents had a decent collection of mix tapes, a number of which were copied from the ever mysterious vinyl record – using this very stereo system, before I was even born. This stereo system recorded my first words, solemnly announced school closures on snow days, amplified the hysteria of one hockey game after another, and blared tunes on Sunday mornings in conjunction with my father’s epic breakfasts.
The speakers, receiver, amplifier, dual cassette deck, and a later acquired CD player were regularly used. The record player, however, retired to a Styrofoam casket somewhere in the basement, sometime after we moved into the house I grew up in. I was only aware that it existed, a legend of times gone by – the Holy Grail of analog music – long lost and buried deep beneath obligations and responsibilities.
Nearly 30 years after my dad proudly procured his wicked stereo system, my parents sold the house we grew up in. This was not shocking; my dad had been out of work and the move was long overdue. The only really shocking thing about the move was the tragic dismantling and selling off of the wicked stereo system. With one swift, gut-wrenching blow right in the feelings, gone were the monuments to the memories of my childhood – sold to some stranger who knows he took advantage of a sad middle-aged man who was clearly suffering delusions of “downsizing”. I refer to this brief, but dark period of time as The Razing.
Sometimes I close my eyes and visit that place. The gorgeous brushed nickle receiver is there, its tuner dial glowing green. I can feel the weight of the selector knob, smooth and effortless as it glides the dial from station to station. I cry a little bit, but I know I’ll be ok.
He held on to his beloved turntable, as well as his record collection, and while I’m still not comfortable with the fact that my father’s stereo remains in the possession of a total stranger, it’s time to let bygones be bygones.
Earlier this year, my MMIS surprised me with my own wicked stereo system. (Best. Gift. EVER.) And, my dad donated his vinyl collection to the cause, because he’s pretty cool.
Thus begin Little Sparrow’s Adventures in Vinyl.
