Back then, I had many “happy places.” Our home, of course, was one. The neighbors didn’t like our house; it was too contemporary—too different—for them. Dad loved it, of course. He egged their disapproval on with whatever means he could find—liberal political signs; wacky, colorful butterfly gardens growing wild and rampant in our yard; far too many bumper stickers on his Isuzu Rodeo.
Bray Farms, of course, was my second happy place. Even if the four-acre dump of a barn wasn’t enough for me—which, of course, it was—the combination of Oliver, Zoe, Joey, and Santana made it one of the most special places in the world.
But Rhodes Records was a close third.
Stepping into my father’s record store was like stepping into another era. Really, it was like stepping into all the eras, mixed toget
