Surprisingly difficult

Back in 1991 I spent a good sum of money on a cool little system.  I thought it would be nice to have a good stereo to take to college.  It had great sound, played CDs (those new fangled things), tapes, AM/FM radio, and even AUX inputs.  TV sound could be run through this little gem!  I don't remember exactly how much I paid, but it was somewhere around $500.  Or in better terms, $192 less than one semester of tuition in the fall of 1992.

Recently I made the gut wrenching decision to retire the old system.  I had no idea it was gut wrenching at the time.  By "retire" I mean throw away.  Over the past few years it really was only functional to connect an XM radio to (something that had not been invented when I bought it).  The CD player motor is giving up the fight and rarely makes it through an entire song.  The tape deck emits mostly a shriek.  The LCD screen was off and on and only one of the orange glowing back lights works.  But the final nail in the coffin was what appears to be a short in the left speaker.

Again, I didn't realize it would be gut wrenching right away.  One afternoon I just decided to take it down and toss it.  No real reason that day was the day.  I took it down off the standard Res Hall room shelf that was its home in the beginning and now was going to be its last happy home.  As it sat on the floor I realized that this little hunk of entertainment bliss had been with me every step of the past 20 YEARS.  A few days turned into three weeks.  I couldn't throw it out.  Every house, every apartment, every Res Hall, every girlfriend, every party, every night I went to sleep and struggled to wake up.  The JVC Micro Component UX-1 was there.  Every bad bowling night, every tired duty night, every sad breakup, every frustrating class, every bad fashion choice, every KC Royals loss, and every loss of family.  It was there.  Kansas, Michigan, California, Oklahoma.  It was there.  The small infrared eye just waiting to play a happy tune or commiserate with a grouchy mood.  It was just as happy playing Metallica, ZZ Top, Rod Stewart, Guns & Roses as it was All Creatures Great and Small read by James Herriot, or a dramatic presentation of Wind In The Willows acted out on cassette.

So as the old friend sat on the floor I suddenly realized that I could not identify one single item I had with me the past 20 years.  23 moves, 78 bowling balls, one ex-wife, a house, three dogs, and girlfriends too numerous to name.  No clothes.  No furniture.  No books.  No memorabilia.  I can't think of one thing that has not spent some time in the attic at home or wasn't acquired after college started.  Nothing.  I was throwing out part of my history.

I'm not even sure why I am writing this.  It isn't alive.  It didn't record the last 20 years and won't give me advice on how to live the next 20.  It won't feel sad in the dumpster.  But I guess it and I are really the only ones that know the whole story of HS to now.  Not my friends, not my family, and nobody or nothing else.  It takes all my secrets to the landfill with it.  20 years from now can I or will I say the same thing about another item or person?  Next week I move out of what will probably be my last Residence Hall, and when I leave I won't be taking a friend with me that might know more about me than anyone else on the planet.  Thank you to an item that faithfully gave me the gift of music, and the magic of radio in good times and in bad for the past 20 years.  RIP, and don't tell my secrets to some strange toaster, egg crate mattress cover, or half eaten can of soup.
They wouldn't understand.