Stuff That Lasts, Pt. 2
Let the series continue, before it all goes into a box.
Master Lock combination padlock
The first day of freshman gym class, Mr. Lambert takes attendance and hands out locks.
“If you lose your lock,” he warns, “I will call your parents and they will have to buy you another one.”
I never gave mine back. The combo is 10-24-38. I trust you.
First ever rejection letter, postmarked August 30, 1991
We are not talking college admissions, mind you — although it was written by a college girl. A redhead. An alto. Very talented…
I was still in high school, had no clue what I was doing. I get the feeling she knew that already:
“I would love to be friends and write each other and maybe hang out (if you want) when I’m home on break (that won’t be very often) but I can’t promise you anything and I think friendship is our best choice now that I’m so far away (9 hours).”
Ah, the sound of a knife in the heart (gets me every time).
Beethoven Romance No. 2 in F major (Op. 50) for violin
I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to hold on to this, as the mold is clearly winning. This was my all-state audition piece back in the day. I used to be pretty good at violin, but I was was lazy.
I’m not sure who I’m keeping the sheet music for. Myself? I haven’t practiced violin seriously in fifteen years. I would sound like a train wreck if I tried to play this right now. Am I saving it for someone else? Who?
I should probably at least listen to it again. But I won’t. Not yet.
Sansui Solid State 2000A stereo tuner amplifier
My dad bought this in the early ’70s — it’s a few years older than I am. I was using it up until a few years ago, when my brother-in-law gave me his Sony digital receiver (he had upgraded to a newer one). Since then, the Sansui has been sitting unplugged on a bottom shelf.
I’m debating whether or not to take it to Brooklyn. Still a few days left to think it over…
Duke single 301
I was in Anaheim for my sister’s wedding, and my mother was driving everyone crazy — florists, restaurant managers, caterers, her current and future sons-in-law, and of course me, my sisters, and my dad.
“Your suit looks like communist!” she told me.
“I think it’s fine,” I said. We were at the hotel, and my mother was trying to convince my brother-in-law to take me out to buy a replacement suit. I walked out of the room before my dad got dragged into the argument.
Once I got to the parking lot, though, I realized there was nowhere to walk. We were at a cheap hotel in a dead part of town. But I was annoyed enough to keep walking — thirty, forty minutes — past gas stations, pool equipment outlets, laundromats, martial arts studios.
Finally I got to a flea market in a huge parking lot. There were a few guys unloading boxes of 45s out of a pickup truck.
I am going to buy a blues record if it kills me.
It took some digging, but I came away with three: Junior Parker’s “Sweet Home Chicago,” Charles Brown’s “Please Don’t Drive Me Away,” and a Freddie King single that broke in my suitcase a couple days later.
I wore the communist suit to the wedding.
