It is the present that gave me back my past. For decades they stood like dusty relics in a museum diorama, always there, with stories to tell, but rendered silent by the passing of time. “Damn the Torpedoes.” “Aja.” “Déjà vu.” My albums took up considerable space on the closet floor and even though their time had come and gone, I couldn’t part with them anymore than I could part with my arms or my truth. They were me. At my best and at my worst. But this Christmas, my husband gifted me a return ticket to my youth, and to that great big collection of emotion. He gave me a Victrola stereo record player. It took me several days to decide which album to play first. Talking Heads? Neil Young? The Johnny Mathis Christmas record that was once my mother’s? The gift of a record player this Christmas has allowed columnist Donna Vickroy to play her old LPs again and revisit the soundtrack of her life. (Donna Vickroy/Naperville Sun) It was an enormous decision, something I knew would reduce me to tears. Whichever record I chose would immediately deliver me back to another time, a time when there was more life ahead of me than behind, a time when fear and hope walked hand-in-hand, a time when I wasn’t absolute that who I thought I was would sync with who I would become. Time is life’s most precious gift because it enables everything — love, growth, learning, recovery, forgiveness, adventure, quiet. At the edge of youth, on the precipice of adulthood, you need something to keep you on your path, to give you courage when all you feel is fear, to give you confidence when you’re beset with uncertainty, to tell you that yes, you can pursue your dreams, yes, you can blaze a new trail, yes, you can hold your own even when you feel like you don’t belong. That something for me was music. And, for these most dramatic and influential times of my life, that music came in the form of vinyl LPs. My mother’s legacy was a love for music. She was a member of the Columbia Record Club back in the ’60s. I looked forward to those regular deliveries of new stuff, even the songs that never made WLS or WCFL or the Loop’s playlist. Frank Sinatra, Motown, the soundtrack to “Camelot.” Tony Bennett, Vicki Carr, the Mamas and the Papas. Creedence, Sam the Sham, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. There were so many albums, so many lyrics, so much poetry and truth and beauty, all of which conspired to instill a magical kind of force compelling me to dream of worlds where no one I knew had ever been. You can do this. You can do this. Music will help you through this. And it will be there when you’re done. I never had a television in college. I had a stereo and I played it around the clock. Before a test, after a speech, while writing a paper, in the morning, between classes, late at night. Whenever I felt alone, doubtful, afraid or anxious, music was my strength, emboldening me to do it anyway. Before and after every joyful or scary thing, music was there to lift me from the depths or bring me back down to Earth. Job interviews, giving birth, watching my mother die, helping my father through old age, nerve-racking reporter assignments, making mistakes, making recoveries, moving into new neighborhoods, saying goodbye to my sister for the very last time. I don’t know if I could have done any of it without music to hold my heart. It has been my comfort, my fire, my rage, my defeat, my consolation, my hope. Mostly, it has been my release, allowing and enabling me to feel whatever it is I am feeling, without judgment or shame. And now, music is my mirror. On the day after Christmas, I slid the vinyl out of its worn sleeve and placed the record on the turntable. The quiet crackle. The smell. The rotation. And then, the sound. Soft guitar chords. A beautiful crescendo leading into sweet lyrics. “Ripplin’ Waters” on The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band’s “Dirt, Silver and Gold” compilation was among the many songs I played on repeat my last year of college. The album belonged to my roommate, Margie, but I borrowed it so many times that she gifted me a new one at graduation. “Dirt, Silver and Gold,” a 1976 compilation album by The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, was played during almost every monumental event in her life, columnist Donna Vickroy says. (Donna Vickroy/Naperville Sun) I played it before commencement, as one life was ending and another beginning. I played it on my wedding day, on the day I brought my oldest daughter home from the hospital, on the day we moved into our first house, on the day I was hired into the newsroom. There were so many beginnings, so many things that went right and so many things that I wish had gone differently. All of them stowed in my memory. I continued to play the album for years, up until technology forced my hand and I relegated the record collection to the closet floor. But now, in so many ways, the past is my present again. I have lived a million lifetimes since I last played that record. I cried at the first chord. But this time, they were tears of gratitude. I am thankful for all of it, the wins and the losses, the joy and the heartache. Because triumph and pain and jubilation and sorrow are the souvenirs of life. They are badges of courage. They are scars of struggle. They are the lyrics of my soundtrack. Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at [email protected].