Before I had my own Fisher-Price Record Player, there was Dad's record player.
Honestly, I don't remember him using it that much. I mean, I remember listening to the Red Sox on the big cabinets, but I don't really recall him putting on a lot of records. Except at Christmas. Then the Mitch Miller LPs came out.
But somewhere early on, I developed a fascination with the turntable.
And let's face it, even if a record player didn't play records, it's a pretty fascinating mechanism. The spinning, the lights, the needle following the tiny, tiny groove from the outer edge to the middle of the disc. Neat.
I wanted to use the record player, so Dad let me have one of his 45s.
Again, I don't really remember him having 45s. We had a nice chunk of LPs. Beatles. Beach Boys. Show tunes. But (at least in the box that I salvaged from when they moved out of our house, a few years ago) no 45s.
He had a 45 of Buddy Holly's "Every Day."
And I'd play that over and over and over.
Now, of course, I know who Buddy Holly is and what his significance is and where his music fits in the big context of things.
But coming out of my Dad's 1970s stereo, on an old 45, it just sounded like the coolest Music Box song I'd ever heard.
I played it again and again and again.
I was little. I didn't have a steady hand. I didn't understand vinyl. Or needles. I scratched up that record. I scratched it to the point it was unplayable.
Dad explained that he couldn't fix it. It was no good any more.
Forty-odd years later, how irritated am I, at my pre-school self? I could've had an original Buddy Holly 45!
Hear the song on Youtube.
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