11/8/2009

I dusted off my 40-year-old turntable and stood back, wondering if it would sell at our garage sale. The overhead doors were opening and the first wave of shoppers coming in, looking for collectibles before rushing off to the next sale.

Back in the day, this ol' baby was the centerpiece of my stereo system. It kicked parties into high gear when I loaded it with rock 'n' roll. Sesame Street tunes sent my pajama-clad children dancing around the living room. We cooked to jazz and sung along with Stevie Wonder.

A couple of shoppers looked over the turntable and asked the price. Without thinking I threw out a ridiculously high number. That was odd because I was in garage sale mode, taking pennies just to get stuff hauled out of my driveway.

Something tugged at me. I couldn't sell it. My old LPs could be converted to digital files on my computer, I thought. But those plans collapsed a few weeks later after spending hours tinkering with cables, computers and software. I decided new CDs were a better option and would probably sound better.

The turntable went back into the basement with other things I can't part with, like the first lamp from my college dorm room, old wall posters and surgical masks I wore when my children were born.

Keeping the turntable turned out to be a good idea when Thanksgiving came around a few months later.

As patriarch, my Dad was the star of the show, welcomed to the feast with hugs and banter from six kids and their clans. He was wearing an oxygen tank and walking a bit wobbly on 80-year-old legs.

When parents reach that age, you wonder if every act is the final scene, the last time everyone is together. The last time you hug, wave and watch them drive off in a car. The thought plays softly in the background whenever you're together.

Dad was better than he had been in months. He was in great spirits and rarely used his oxygen. That evening, after leftovers were decimated with rounds of turkey sandwiches, he asked if I could scrounge up a waltz so he could dance with Mona, his love and companion from Luray. For years, the two drove to dances around central Kansas, meeting friends and gliding across the floor in steps only a few know today. Graceful, romantic, sweet.

I thought I had my Dad's old LP from the movie, "The King and I," a 1956 classic with Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr. I dug through a box and found it, carried the turntable from the basement, hooked it up and cued the song, "Shall We Dance."

Cameras flashed as Dad waltzed with Mona and then took turns with his daughters. There was no frailty in those legs as they dipped and stepped. No oxygen tank over his shoulder. Only smiles and laughs and glistening eyes.

Someone printed and framed a large photo of Dad and Mona dancing that night. Five weeks later, it hung on the wall of his hospice room. We took it down Jan. 8, 2009.

The turntable is back in the basement, next to a box of old toys. When I see it, I hear parties, watch my children dancing and my father waltzing with his daughters.

It won't be at any more garage sales. Not at any price.

n Tom Bell is editor and publisher of the Salina Journal.

---

Discuss This Story:

---