Just when I think you're out of my head, I hear a record you played or see a book that you read

Los Angeles, California -
A long way from Hughesville, Pennsylvania

My vinyl has made a reappearance.

This is important in many ways, the least of which is that my relationship with many of these discs has been some of the the longest and most meaningful of any I’ve ever had.

And I hope to pass these on Jack and Ruby, although right now it would only be a physical, and not emotional, transfer. Jack loves to collect things, including old Tonka trucks and Magic cards. But so far, the record disease hasn’t infected him yet. And Ruby is just a bit too young to care, I think.

My original pressings of “Kinda Kinks” and “Meet the Beatles” or my “Darkness at the Edge of Town” picture disc mean very little to them. So far. Jack likes that I have an original Capitol copy of “Help,” which is his all-time favorite album (well, the Parlophone CD is anyway). But in the end, that slab vinyl means very little to him.

But it's precious to me.

I used to say that I could learn everything I need to know about a person by looking at his or her record collection -- long ago times for sure.

But every album on my shelf has a story – memories that can be happy, heartbreaking or those of coming of age. Or reminders of mistakes, loss and triumphs. Listening to my quadrophonic copy of Poco’s “Deliverin'” that I played for hours with the four speakers trying in vain to hear the “quad” difference. Hearing the greatness that is “Rubber Soul,” my first Beatles album. Getting Monkees albums and staring at the photos on the jackets for hours. Listening to “Dark Side of the Moon” over and over and wondering what the fuss was about. Reading “White Album” and “Born to Run” lyrics like scripture – which they were to me. The first record I got after my mom died -- "McCartney" -- and hoping that the album could fill the emptiness. Nice try, but no.

I’m writing this while listening to Jackson Browne’s “Saturate before Using,” a reminder of dipping my toes into the singer-songwriter waters and trying to discover my sensitive side to show off to all the girls. Not many girls in Lycoming County knew about Jackson Browne in 1972, though.

I learned something about myself through this music. Dealing with my mom being gone, I retreated deeply into these records, and my dad felt sorry for me; indulging me and giving me money to buy what I wanted. He may have hated 99 and a ½ percent of what I listened to, but he played a huge role in the development of my musical knowledge.

On to “Schoolboys in Disgrace.” A so-so record that still takes me back.

Thanks Dad.