Reflecting on a lifetime of records

Nearly 500 pounds, that’s how much my album collection weighs. When I think of how many miles I’ve moved them over the course of my lifetime, well, it says something about me.

If you add in the concrete blocks, the shelving, the audio equipment — including four large vintage speakers — and then tack on nearly 300 compact discs and a hundred or so 45s, well, damn.

All of a sudden, it’s no wonder my friends hesitated when it came time to relocate from one residence to another, sometimes in the dead of winter, sometimes when the summer heat urged caution.

“Maybe,” I heard more than once, “it’s time to downsize. I mean how often do you actually listen to the Long Ryders or the Jam?”

I watched some kind of YouTube video the other night, and the guy making it was all about that very thing, the idea that if you hadn’t played a particular record in 30 or 40 years, it was time for a purge.

He seemed almost ambivalent about the harvesting, the overdue elimination of forgotten music, and the longer he prattled on, the more irritated I became. I factored in his relative youth — I figured him for closing in on 50, a mere sprat — and decided I wasn’t his target demographic, having crossed over into the land of my 70s.

Then I walked into the other half of the basement and stared at the rows of records, nicely alphabetized and arranged in order of release, and thought it was time to listen to the Alarm’s debut, one of the LPs the YouTube influencer had designated for disposal.

It still sounded great — I’ve done my best to keep most of my records in pristine condition — but the idea of separating the vinyl wheat from the idle chaff kept circling my cerebellum.

And then a voice in my head said, “What happens after you die?”

That stopped me cold.

Earlier that Sunday I had gone to the funeral home for calling hours, wanting to pay my respects to the family of a man who had been on my bowling team, someone who had died unexpectedly. I had seen him a few days before his death, never imagining it would be the last time we’d ever have a conversation.

He was a few years older, a father and a grandfather, a guy who had a lot of friends and enjoyed being part of the senior league, taking the good with the not-so-good, always self-deprecating.

Bowling, though mostly a team sport, is essentially and unavoidably an individual pursuit, one quite public in nature. You stand on the approach, try to clear your mind of clutter and rely on muscle memory to keep things moving in the right direction.

Unfortunately, my problem with bowling is a tendency to overthink the game, to fret over nasty splits, to flog myself for missing too many easy spares; in short, I’m my own worst enemy.

“Give yourself a break,” I’ve heard over and over. “Have fun.”

That’s probably very sound advice, but I’ve always subscribed to the notion that if they’re keeping score, the object is to finish first.

Weirdly, though, I tend to remember the losses more than the wins.

I suppose that’s why I’m drawn to heartbreak songs, not so much love ballads, giving in to rank sentimentality, ignoring happiness.

Which brings us back to music in general, my records specifically.

If I die, which I can’t avoid, what’s going to happen to them?

It wasn’t my destiny to become a father, so there’s no legacy to secure, no lineage, no inheritance to provide, just 500 pounds of serious weight, a burden I couldn’t in good faith bequeath to anyone without making serious preparations for the end of life.

I have no will, have made no funeral arrangements, don’t have a plot picked out and haven’t even considered when or how to begin those essential elements of a smooth transition from now to then.

The best place to start? Maybe an attorney, perhaps a priest, followed by a concerted effort to take responsibility for my own affairs. It probably will be simple once I get the ball rolling.

Pardon the bowling metaphor … it just sort of slipped out.

I’ve always believed in a hereafter, preferring it to the alternative.

Then again, like everyone else, I know next to nothing about it, aside from the curiosity that accompanies every great mystery.

My mother was fond of saying, upon the death of someone she knew well, “Now he knows the secrets of the universe,” and I’ve always found comfort in that statement of faith and belief.

Was she right?

I guess I’ll find out when my turn comes, but until then, I think I’m going to hang onto my records … and my books … and my photos.

Aside from clothing and a few pieces of furniture, that’s pretty much all I have that has any real value. Well, maybe my writings.

In the end the old saying that goes, “You can’t take it with you,” is as good a piece of advice as any I can offer, so we’ll leave it there.

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where records are not meant to be broken, simply enjoyed.