My mother was mystified and delighted to find a box set of 33 1/3 long playing records on our doorstep. Like the letters she'd receive from far-off friends, she didn't open it until we were at the dinner table. There was no return address, no indication of who it was from.  5 record albums of classical music. Brahms, Hayden, Dvorak, Bach. Anonymously, somebody wanted my family to have this or knew we needed it. My mother was elated. My dad was amused, equally perplexed and played along, but there was this one thing, we all felt it, across the table...my old man only allowed music to be played in the house on Sunday mornings...for his Bloody Marys, cigar and newspaper. Dorsey Brothers, Peggy Lee, Rosemary Clooney, Sinatra. This wasn't the break-down of the family, transistor radios in our pockets with ear plugs up our sleeves were. But this gift my mother blasted on our Philco while vacuuming was an excellent start.