Records

We just left a record shop where I sold some old 45’s. They were memories, actually, that I was selling. Hayley Mills singing, “Let’s Get Together,” from the original Parent Trap movie. I loved that song and movie so much I remember, as a third grader, taking the record cover (which showed a picture from the movie) to a beauty shop to get my hair cut just like Hayley’s. Gene Pitney singing, “Looking in the Eyes of Love.” Songs by the Beatles, Herman’s Hermits, Paul Revere and the Raiders, the Buckinghams, Petula Clark, the Rolling Stones, Chubby Checker, the Supremes, Temptations, Four Tops, Dionne Warwick, Carpenters. Even a set of Barbie and Ken records: “Barbie, you’re beautiful. You’re just my style.” The “Oogum Boogum Song” by Brenton Wood (which I had to sing a bit of since the shop guys hadn’t heard it.)

These were my songs from the ‘60s and ‘70s, and I knew them inside and out. Every word, memorized. I danced to these songs. I cried over these songs. I kissed a boy or two while these songs were playing.

It was hard to let them go, but why keep them? They haven’t been played in forty-five years. I don’t even own a record player and don’t plan to buy one.

George and I have retired and are trying to clean out things. Declutter. Get rid of stuff before we’re dead and gone, to save our children the trouble.

One of the guys working at the record shop appeared to be about forty. He must really love records, commenting that he wouldn’t sell if he were me; said he’d rather sell his tables and chairs than any of his records.

That’s passion, I suppose. But I was amazed that even a passionate, middle-aged hippie would be spending his days (making a living?) at a record shop.

As we drove away, George said additional testing needed to be done since this guy alone did not provide enough evidence that marijuana does indeed do brain damage.

I don’t know if marijuana damages brains; I never used it. It might tend, though, to make people nostalgic, to heighten their awareness of past experiences. Maybe, whether drug-induced or not, there’s something to be said for holding on to old memories. They offer enjoyment, comfort, and a reminder of simpler times.

Perhaps I should have kept those records after all.

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