Mama’s Little Record Player 🎶

Back in the early 60s, when life felt slower and simpler (though we didn’t know it at the time), Mama brought home one of the most magical things my young ears had ever encountered—a small record player with a handle on top so you could tote it around like a tiny suitcase of joy. She kept it in the room at the top of the stairs, perched neatly on a little table in the corner as if it were a sacred shrine. And in some ways, it was.

Mama joined what I think was the Columbia Record Club—sort of like a book-of-the-month deal, except instead of books, we got albums delivered straight to the house. Each month felt like Christmas morning when she’d open that cardboard package and slip out a brand-new record. Her first selections were classy ones: Perry Como crooning somewhere in the background, Nat King Cole’s velvety voice wrapping around us like a warm hug, and Percy Faith’s sweeping orchestras making our humble home feel downright elegant. 

Daddy, on the other hand, gravitated toward the funny records—Justin Wilson, Red Foxx, and other comedians whose jokes flew way over our innocent little heads. We didn’t understand a bit of the adult humor, but Daddy sure did. And he laughed—a lot. Daddy wasn’t a frequent laugher, so when that sound filled the house, it made the walls feel lighter somehow, like even the wallpaper could breathe easier.

At Christmastime, Mama ordered albums with all the popular holiday hits. We’d listen to “I’m Gettin’ Nothin’ for Christmas” and “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” while decorating the live tree. Mama and Daddy would sing along, completely off-key but full of enthusiasm. Meanwhile, I, in all my literal childhood wisdom, believed every word of those novelty songs. If I’d told even one fib that year, that was it—I was done for. I’d get nothing but a lump of coal and disappointment under the tree. Fortunately, I worried for nothing. We always had presents, even in the lean years, though I couldn’t tell you what most of them were now. The gifts fade over time, but the music never does.

Eventually, I got my own record player—an absolute treasure in my little world. And with it came my growing stash of 45s. Oh, how I’d love to have those now! I played them for hours, memorizing lyrics like I was training for some imaginary musical Olympics. Otis Redding’s “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way”—I wore those grooves out. My bedroom walls probably still faintly echo with those tunes.

When my own kids came along, I passed the tradition down—though their Christmas tastes leaned more toward the ear-piercing joy of Alvin, Simon, and Theodore. The Chipmunks’ Christmas album played on repeat, and the kids cracked up every time Alvin messed up his lines. It wasn’t exactly Nat King Cole, but it brought the same kind of laughter Daddy used to share. And that felt right.

Of course, amidst all the silliness and chipmunk squeaking, we always made room for the heart of Christmas. “Do You Hear What I Hear,” “Silent Night,” and other sacred songs floated through our home each December, quietly ushering in the remembrance of Christ’s birth.

It’s funny how such old memories—sixty years old or more—can suddenly rise to the surface like a familiar melody. Sometimes it’s triggered by a single note from Pandora or Spotify as my holiday playlist shuffles along, surprising me with echoes from childhood. One moment I’m standing in my kitchen, and the next I’m back at the top of that staircase listening to Perry Como, Mama humming beside me, Daddy laughing in the background, and a tiny record player spinning the soundtrack of our lives.

And I’m thankful. So thankful. For the music… for the memories… and for the way songs can carry us back home again, even if just for a moment.

Dear Heavenly Father,
Thank You for the gift of memory and the sweet way music weaves itself through the years of our lives. As I look back on those simple days—Mama’s little record player spinning in the corner, Daddy’s rare but joyful laughter, and the songs that filled our home—I’m reminded of how Your goodness was present even then. You used those melodies to lift our spirits, knit our family together, and wrap us in comfort we didn’t always recognize at the time.

Lord, thank You for the precious gift of nostalgia, for the way a single song can carry my heart back to moments long gone yet still so alive within me. Thank You for laughter, for love, for the innocence of childhood, and for the way You’ve guided me through every season since.

As new generations in my family make their own musical memories, help me continue to cherish the past while embracing the present. Let the joy of those old records remind me that Your grace has always been the steady rhythm beneath every chapter of my life.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.