Then spent eight months restoring it.
Evenings.
Weekends.
Every spare hour I could find.
I rebuilt the selector mechanism.
Repaired the amplifier.
Replaced worn wiring through the appropriate safety procedures.
Cleaned the record-changing assembly.
And sent the chrome components to a specialist in Fort Wayne.
When the polished pieces returned, they looked almost new.
I sanded the wooden cabinet carefully.
Matched the original honey-brown finish.
Replaced the bulbs.
Then spent hours cleaning the little metal labels beside the selection buttons.
I left Grandpa’s sticker untouched.
There was dust around its edges.
I removed it gently with a soft brush.
But I wouldn’t replace the sticker.
I wanted the original.
The mark he’d left.
Then I began finding the records.
Mom still had her wedding album.
On the final page, Grandpa had written the seventeen songs he’d loaded into the jukebox for their reception.
I copied the list one Sunday afternoon while everyone else watched a football game.
Some records were easy to find.
Others took weeks.
A few came from collectors who wanted to discuss their collections at length before agreeing to sell.
The most important was Anne Murray’s “Could I Have This Dance?”
Mom and Dad’s first dance.
I found a clean original single through a collector in Ohio.
He talked for nearly forty minutes about the singer, the recording, and the changing sound of country music.
I listened politely.
Then bought it.
When all seventeen records were installed, I tested the machine using other records first.
I didn’t play the wedding selections.
I wanted Dad and Mom to hear them together.
I placed the first-dance song at button D7.
Then opened my spiral notebook.
On a fresh page, I wrote one word.
Dad.
Beneath it, I left space for the date and the song.
I imagined him pressing the button.
The lights moving across the front.
The record beginning to play.
Mom smiling.
Perhaps Dad remembering his father standing behind the bar all those years ago.
I’d spent around four thousand dollars on the project.
And almost an entire year of free time.
I didn’t regret a dollar.
I believed the gift would mean something.
Dad’s birthday party was held in our parents’ backyard.
About thirty people attended.
Coworkers from the plant.
Neighbors.
Relatives.
Aunt Bev.
Kaylee and her boyfriend.
I brought the jukebox early that morning.
Used my van’s liftgate to unload it.
Then rolled it into the garage.
It fit beside the workbench with only a few inches to spare.
Exactly where it had stood when I was six.
I covered it with a clean sheet.
Placed a large red bow on top.
Then waited.
Kaylee gave Dad his present first.
A smartwatch.
She fastened it around his wrist and showed him how to check his steps, heart rate, and notifications.
Dad was delighted.
He held up his arm.
The guests clapped.
He laughed like a little boy who’d just received something wonderful.
I smiled.
I was glad he liked it.
Then I asked everyone to come into the garage.
Dad looked puzzled.
I stood beside the covered machine.
For a moment, my hands trembled.
Then I pulled away the sheet.
The chrome gleamed.
The lights began moving.
And Grandpa’s jukebox stood in its old place, looking almost exactly as it had in the photographs.
Mom covered her mouth.
Aunt Bev gasped.
“Is that Augie’s jukebox?”
I smiled.
“The same one.”
I looked toward Dad.
“I found it in Tipton. Restored the whole thing.”
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then I continued.
“It’s got all seventeen songs from your wedding. Grandpa’s sticker is still on the side.”
Mom stepped closer.
Her eyes were shining.
Dad walked around the machine.
He touched the cabinet.
Looked at the chrome.
Then gave a short laugh.
“Well, I’ll be.”
I smiled.
He tapped the side.
Then said loudly, “Where am I supposed to put a refrigerator that plays music?”
Several guests laughed.
I looked toward him.
For a moment, I thought he’d make another joke and then ask to hear it.
But he turned toward Kaylee.
She was looking around the garage.
Then she said, “You know, Dad, I was planning to store some staging furniture in here.”
Kaylee had become a real estate agent.
She staged houses before listing them and had accumulated sofas, lamps, decorative pillows, and other furniture she needed somewhere to keep.
Her apartment was getting crowded.
Dad looked toward the open space beside the jukebox.
Then shrugged.
“We’ll figure it out.”
Mom reached toward the selection buttons.
But Kaylee called her back into the yard to help cut the birthday cake.
Dad followed.
He looked over his shoulder.
“We’ll play it later.”
They never did.
I stayed until evening.
Helped clean up.
Carried folding chairs into the shed.
Then left the little instruction card on top of the jukebox.
I’d typed a list of all seventeen wedding songs and their buttons.
The key ring rested beside it.
I figured I’d return the next morning.
Show Dad how the machine worked.
Then finally hear the music with him.
When I arrived at seven thirty the next morning, the jukebox was at the curb.
For a moment, I thought I was looking at the wrong house.
The machine stood on the grass strip beside the mailbox.
The red bow was still attached.
A piece of cardboard had been taped across the glass.
FREE.
I stopped my van.
Then sat motionless.
The garage door was open.
Inside, where the jukebox had stood less than twelve hours earlier, there was a white couch covered in protective plastic.
Two decorative lamps sat beside it.
One had a base shaped like a pineapple.
Dad stood on the porch wearing his robe.
The smartwatch was still on his wrist.
He looked toward my van.
Then raised his coffee cup.
“Morning, Hollis.”
I stepped out.
For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
Then I looked toward the jukebox.
Dad followed my gaze.
“Kaylee needed the space.”
I stared.
He continued.
“She brought her staging stuff over last night. I figured somebody might want that old thing.”
My throat tightened.
For a moment, I looked toward the cardboard sign.
Then back at Dad.
“You put it outside?”
He shrugged.
“It doesn’t fit anymore.”
I swallowed.
“Dad, I spent eight months restoring it.”
He looked uncomfortable.
“Well, I appreciate the thought.”
Then he added, “But I can’t keep everything.”
For a moment, I felt eleven years old again.
Standing in the driveway.
Watching the jukebox leave on a trailer.
Only now, I’d spent nearly a year bringing it back.
And Dad had given it away again.
I took a slow breath.
“Is it really free?”
He looked confused.
“What?”
“The jukebox.”
He nodded.
“Anybody who wants it can take it.”
I stared at him.
Then said quietly, “All right.”