Frank Sinatra, Dinah Washington, Herb Alpert, Chubby Checkers. Later, Elvis Presley, The Monkeys, and the soundtrack to The Graduate. Somewhat eclectic albums, probably due to the 11-year age difference and their contrasting music sources. Mom listened to pop radio, dad watched Ed Sullivan. Mom shopped record departments, dad talked of live bands. But both of them loved to dance, so they bought a Magnavox hi-fi stereo and gave it center stage in their small living room, where ironically, dancing beyond a soft shuffle caused the records to skip.

Dad would later insist that no newfangled music machine could deliver the quality of sound that came from our hi-fi. And when he’d lay down on the living room floor on a Sunday afternoon (couch surfing was discouraged) after a long week of working two jobs he’d let out a soft sigh as Dinah crooned My Heart Cries for You. I didn’t recognize savasana pose at the time, but I now understand that those rare occasions regenerated him, or at least took him back to simpler days.

When Mom moved to Friendship Village after Dad passed, she didn’t want to part with the stereo or albums, so I brought them home to my house. On holidays and occasionally when she came over, we’d play her favorites and reminisce about cleaning house while Elvis jailhouse rocked. Or the feather duster that sometimes served as a microphone, when we’d be backup singers like the Supremes. She’d pause to shake her hips while running the vacuum, not concerned that the noise was drowning out the tunes. Those were sunny moments.

Not long ago I played my Partridge Family album, watching it drop into place as the needle hovered above. I joined David Cassidy for one last song, then let Dinah Washington carry her own tune. I laid on the couch, listening to all of these memories. Then I boxed up my albums and we moved the hi-fi into the garage.

Today, a nice young guy came to pick it up. Although the midcentury cabinet is in pristine shape, the speakers crackle and the turntable is wonky. He’ll refurbish it and pass it to an audiophile who will no doubt give it a prominent place in the living room.

Mom won’t be here to listen to Patti Page’s Silver Bells or Gene Autry singing Rudolf this Christmas, so I’ll look for a portable turntable or maybe find them on Spotify. But I’ll always imagine she and Dad twirling to their old stereo sounds, reminding God and company that Magnavox still makes the best music machines.

The Stereo