1986. THROUGHOUT MY CHILDHOOD, I treasured my stuffed animal collection. It grew larger after every bone-corrective surgery. One of my other favorite (if less traditional) playthings was my dad’s antique Pioneer stereo, which he bought in 1972. The behemoth system seemed to take up half our small, one-window living room. I was mesmerized by it. The base system, tuner, and equalizer were stacked on top of one another, layered like metal cakes, and it had reel-to-reel, a cassette deck, a turntable, and a radio. The entire thing towered over me. At seven years old, most things did. Beneath the stereo system, piles of colorful square sleeves with big round records tucked inside stood against the wall. A pair of white bubble headphones slept on top of the stack, its wire coiled neatly underneath it. Dad liked to play the Beatles and the band America, but the album I heard most was Fiddler on the Roof. In the evenings when he came home from work, he’d make himself a rum and Coke and sing along to “If I Were a Rich Man”
