The Widower’s Rant: I've Got This

Sep 3, 2024

6 min read

One of my to-do’s for the Tahoe house was to pick up a turntable and spin some vinyl. For some unknown reason, I developed an idealized notion of why this seemed like a thing to do. It’s not a unique, trend-setting idea. If anything, I’m a late bloomer. According to the RIIA, vinyl sales have outpaced CDs for the past two years. Who is buying CD’s, you ask? Not many people. Streaming and digital purchases unsurprisingly represent the predominant channels for music consumption today. But I digress.

I have been waiting to get the turntable until after we had a piece of furniture to put it in or on. After far too much internal debate, a sideboard/media console thing is finally on order and, with any luck, will be here by Halloween of some uncertain year. But a turntable came on sale in the interim, so I bought it. It has since rested in the garage, waiting patiently for the furniture to materialize. My impatience got the best of me Monday morning. I gently woke it from hibernation and set it up on its packing materials. Touching the tonearm reminded me of being in college in my fraternity room. I’ve been hauling a small box of vinyl around ever since then. That’s about six moves from Davis to Irvine (x3) to Petaluma to Geyserville to Incline Village. I brought it up here a few months ago, hoping the box might be opened one day and not just collect more frequent driver miles.

A few years ago, Beth and I were at the local treasures store mid-morning on a sunny Sunday. Treasures is a euphemism for not yet antique but not of the current century. They had a small stack of records, and I thumbed through them. Without thinking, I purchased three. Back Home, Beth asked me how I intended to listen to them as we no longer owned a turntable. That seemed like an unimportant detail at the moment of purchase. Beth was kind enough not to ask me the question in the store. Yet, standing in our Home with my newly acquired albums, I felt just a little foolish. I’m not alone. 50% of recent album sales went to people who do not (yet) own a turntable. Ha! Victory is mine. But I digress again.

After setting up my new turntable, the first album I pulled from the box to play was Sticky Fingers by the Rolling Stones. The album cover has a working zipper. That impressed me then; it impressed me again. This time, I didn't unzip it, though. I gently placed the tonearm on the vinyl and sat in my living room under the shade of the tall pine trees, enjoying the moment quite a bit. And the day got better. I was comfortable, happy, and content to be in my home in the trees, enjoying my life.

Thumbing through the well-traveled cardboard box of vinyl, I found that about half the albums were Beth’s. A lot of Elton John. A little Dan Fogelberg. Mine tended towards some Brit Rock (Stones, Who, Zeppelin), early pop (Police, Cars, Eurythmics), and a few failed attempts to appear sophisticated. My first album, Cher’s “Half Breed,” is there. Why that was my first album? I have no idea. But as someone who is half Japanese and half Caucasian, I guess I thought it was some sort of theme song. Beth’s first album is also there: “C is for Cookie.” Truth be told, I think she got it in college or shortly after we moved in together. That pretty much sums up Beth right there. That and her first big commission check went to a red bicycle that she loved very much. I promise this story will have a point, but I’m enjoying meandering through my memories.

As my day of a few projects, a nap, and relaxing transitioned into the evening, I remained happy and content. I made grilled halibut and sides, and the ubiquitous glass of Pinot Noir accompanied prep and dinner. For a brief moment, I thought I’d have a dry night, but good food deserves good wine. That’s my justification, and I’m steadfast on some things in my life. Seeking a feeling of normal, I suppose. After the walk to see the lake, I decided to catch up on US Open highlights. During Covid, Beth and I fell back into watching the Grand Slam and talked about going to the Australian or French Open one day. We played a bit of tennis off and on over the years; we were each other’s favorite practice partners. Being social, she gave pickleball a try, and promptly tore her ACL. Pickleball is for orthopedic surgeons like Halloween is for dentists. Next, in my YouTube journey, I surfed music videos. This took me back to recent years and our evenings on the couch together. We’d revisit old videos from the dating years. Snippets from bands we enjoyed or were lucky enough to see live. Sade popped up in the feed, and her voice gently transported me back to 1985.

In the year between the deferment to Medical School and getting my act together, I was the inside sales guy at Entré Computer Center of Irvine. Remember MS-DOS and green screens? I sold IBM XTs with $20,000 hard drives that stored a whopping 10 megabytes of data. Lotus 1-2-3 and WordPerfect. After three months, I was their top salesperson and never looked back as I embarked on my career in business. After I earned my first big commission check, I did what many 23-year-old boys would do: I went to the store (Newport Audio? I’m sure I have the receipt somewhere) and bought a great stereo system. Carefully researched, which was not easy because there was no Internet chock full of review sites of dubious quality. Nope, I had to read back issues of Stereo Review magazine at the library. I carefully selected Kef speakers, a Carver receiver, and a Denon CD player. As I wrote the check for my trophy acquisition, I realized that my commission check might not have cleared the bank from the morning’s deposit and sheepishly asked if they’d wait a day to cash it. Since I had yet to develop the habit of buying media in advance of the technology to enjoy it, I also purchased Sade’s debut CD. I thought her vocals would highlight my meticulously chosen audiophile components.

Relaxing in my cozy TV room, watching music video after music video, I was suddenly overwhelmed with grief. The wracking, raw, soul-impaling sobs that come from somewhere deep in your viscera. I was crushed. A perfectly happy day was unexpectedly reduced to a puddle of inconsolable cries. Wanting my life back the way it was. A lifetime of memories we enjoyed and a lifetime of memories yet to create. A history that can only come of the most formative 40 years a couple can enjoy together. The glances and knowing looks that speak paragraphs without words. Remembering when we saw Dire Straight’s “Money for Nothing” music video on MTV. Sledgehammer. Thriller. A life in rhythm together, and then the tonearm was ripped from the vinyl, leaving a scar rendering the album unplayable.

My therapist counseled me to let the waves tumble me through the surf, to let sand get into my shorts. I must vacuum my cozy TV room soon to get the embedded sand off the sofa. Okay, she said nothing about surf and sand; that’s my analogy. She said to let the grief come and allow myself to be sad without embarrassment. It’s perfectly normal and appropriate. To give myself grace and acknowledge that what was making me sad was logical and reasonable. I tried my best. It’s much easier not to be embarrassed to sob like this in your otherwise empty house. Or in your car, hoping that nobody looks through the window. I assume it’s like picking your nose when you drive. Nobody can see through the transparent glass as you practice personal hygiene at 70MPH.

And so I did (grieved, not picked my nose as far as you know). And I woke up the following day happy. I said good morning to Beth, as I’ve done for some 150 sunrises. Then, I went about my day. I was profoundly humbled that the moment I thought, “I’ve got this,” grief let me know, rather abruptly, that I may never be in charge again. Maybe the pain won’t be so sharp or intense over the months and years. I have not sobbed like this in weeks. I think an emotional water balloon fills up, and then something unexpected drops it on your head. Maybe over the years, it takes longer to fill the balloon. Maybe the latex gets thicker. One can only hope.