For the Record

A Box of Records, A Lifetime of Memories

I thought I was giving away a box of old records. Instead, I found a lifetime waiting inside.

“Do you collect records?” I asked a young friend.

“Records? What kind?”

“Oh... you call them vintage vinyl.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Well,” I smiled, “I have a whole box from when I was young. You’re welcome to them.”

That evening, I opened a box I hadn’t touched since my mother died.

Sitting on the cold cement floor of my garage, the familiar scent of cardboard, paper sleeves, and old vinyl greeted me before the memories did.

The box had once lived in my childhood home. It was one of many I brought home after my mother’s death.

Still here.

Still untouched.

As I lifted each album from the box, I wasn’t simply remembering songs.

I was remembering the person I was when I first listened to them.

Listening to music was an essential part of growing up. It was something we shared together as a family, and it was also sacred space to enjoy alone. I could spend hours listening, the needle tracing the grooves while my imagination traced its own path.

The Jewish albums brought me home first.

I could almost hear the voices before I remembered the songs.

Family gathered around long tables while my mother moved effortlessly through a kitchen that was the same size as the two-bedroom apartment I used to live in. She prepared brisket, stuffed cabbage, chicken soup, and homemade pies—always more than enough, just in case lingering cousins or unexpected friends happened to stop by.

There was laughter.

Conversation.

And always music.

My mother rarely sang along. Instead, she smiled, clapped, and watched the people she loved enjoying one another.

Looking back, I realize it wasn’t the size of the kitchen that mattered.

It was the size of her welcome.

Music wasn’t simply something we listened to.

It was part of who we were.

My father had been a child singer, hired to sing prayers over brides and grooms at Jewish weddings. His beautiful voice became part of one of life’s most meaningful moments for countless couples. He even recorded 45s.

Years later, when my brother married, he was there.

When I married, he was there.

His voice had grown older, but it still carried the same love it had when he was a young boy singing over brides and grooms.

Standing beside him was our family friend, Cantor Sol Zim. While the world knew him as a renowned cantor and recording artist, we simply knew him as Sol.

Sol officiated my brother’s wedding. Years later, he officiated mine. Later still, he stood with my grandparents as they renewed the vows they had made decades before.

As I held one of Sol’s albums in my hands, I smiled.

His voice wasn’t just preserved on vinyl. It became part of the landscape of my life.

He was there.

At the milestones that shaped our family.

At the moments we still remember.

Then, tucked among the albums, I discovered something I had forgotten I owned—a first pressing of a recording from the very synagogue my daughter would attend as a two-year-old.

Instantly, I was back on her first day of school.

While other children clung to their parents, she happily walked through the classroom door, turned, waved goodbye, and disappeared inside.

No tears.

Just joy.

I realized that what had once been my beginning was quietly becoming hers.

In one small stack of records, three generations quietly found one another.

The next albums carried me upstairs to my childhood bedroom.

Puss in Boots.

The Wizard of Oz.

Disney’s Mother Goose.

Yogi Bear.

Fairy tales.

Musicals.

I spent countless afternoons listening to those stories on the little mustard-yellow record player my grandfather gave me. I can still see myself carefully placing a record on the turntable and lowering the needle, waiting for the familiar crackle before the story began.

As I listened, I often imagined Grandpa sitting beside me.

He died when I was seven.

After that, I spent a great deal of time alone.

I never felt lonely.

The stories became companions.

The music filled the quiet spaces.

Somehow, I always felt as though Grandpa was still close by.

More than fifty years later, that little mustard-yellow record player was sitting only a few feet away from the very albums that had once spun across its turntable.

Waiting.

Just like the memories.

In many ways, I am still that little girl.

Some days I put on a favorite piece of music, silence my phone, and let the world fade into the background. Time slows. My thoughts become quieter. Once again, music carries me somewhere beyond the noise of everyday life.

Music has never been just something I listen to.

It has always been somewhere I’ve gone.

Then came the albums my mother loved most.

Opera.

Symphonies.

Leonard Bernstein.

Mario Lanza.

Mantovani.

As a little girl, I remember sitting beside her while she pointed to the album covers and told me stories about my grandfather.

“He loved this one.”

“This one was his favorite.”

As a child, I found it surprising that my grandfather, a New York City cab driver, loved opera and symphonies with such passion. Those worlds seemed so far apart.

My mother explained that his father had introduced him to this music. Our family on his side was Austrian, and with them came a love of opera, symphonies, and the arts.

Holding those albums, I realized the music hadn’t begun with my grandfather. It had been handed down from one generation to the next, becoming part of my family’s legacy.

My mother wasn’t simply introducing me to composers and performers.

She was introducing me to him.

Through the music, I came to understand another part of her story and, in turn, another part of my own.

I only had my grandfather for seven years.

Yet somehow, I have never let him go.

Years later, my mother and I found our own connection through this music. We shared favorite pieces and eventually discovered the extraordinary voice of Andrea Bocelli.

What had once connected my mother to her father quietly became something that connected the two of us.

Three generations.

One melody passed from heart to heart.

As a child, I never questioned why Disney stories shared shelf space with Gershwin, why Allan Sherman made us laugh before a Broadway cast album filled the room, or why a KISS record eventually found its way beside Jewish folk music.

It was simply our home.

My parents never taught me what kind of music I should love.

They simply taught me to love music.

And in doing so, they taught me that there is room in one life for children’s stories and grand symphonies, synagogue choirs and rock concerts, laughter and reverence.

Every album held a memory.

Every worn corner told a story.

I thought I was opening a box of old records.

Instead, I found pieces of myself.

When I offered the collection to my young friend, I thought I was passing along vintage vinyl.

I didn’t realize I was holding a family archive.

For the record, I think I’ll hold on to these records a little while longer.

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For my mom…our favorite song. I hope you enjoy it.

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Author’s Note

If this story touched something inside you, I’d be honored to hear your reflections

Whether you’ve lived through chaos, rebuilt your voice, or carried wounds no one else could see, your story matters. Sharing reminds us that we are not alone in the slow, powerful work of becoming.

If this piece resonated, I’d be grateful for a like, a comment, or a share.

With Gratitude-

Chellie 🩷

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A Few New Ways to Learn, Grow & Thrive Together

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Chellie Grossman is a Certified Life Coach, Keynote Speaker, and Writer who empowers leaders to reclaim their voice, embrace their strength, and lead with authenticity and purpose.