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I promised my mother that I would clear out the remainder of my father's record albums before leaving for a month's worth of research in Columbus on my book about The Ohio State University Marching Band.  The devastatingly emotional nature of the job demanded that I split it-- for nearly all of my best memories of him are set to music, whether standing on top of his shoes as he taught us to cha-cha, or singing together to a Bobby Darrin CD in the company van.  It is a task I wanted out of the way.

So I rose from behind the keyboard and began boxing up the Glenn Campbell and the Enoch Light Parade, the 50's compilations and Christmas Eve on Sesame Street.  I had seen all of these before, either in my own hands as a little girl, or last year, when I separated them into small piles so that my father's weakening arms, wasted by chemotherapy, could manage them. 

As I lifted a handful into a cardboard box, I found myself looking at an album I had never seen before.  When I showed it to my mother, she couldn't remember it either.

Sharp-eyed The Readers will, of course, note this particular detail of the album cover:

I have no idea what's on this record.  It was in no way part of my childhood; perhaps if it were, my life may have taken a different track.  But it wasn't time for me to hear it yet.

There no sentimental connection whatsoever and zero memories of spinning on the living room floor with my sister to whatever sounds are within this sleeve, and, until six months ago, when I was first packing these away, I would have tossed it in the Goodwill crate with no more reaction than a perhaps a pair of rolled eyes.  But now, I see Script Ohio on the field of the stadium, I am driven to my knees in gratitude, and I remember that there is no such thing as coincidence.

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