There’s a space between memory and forgetting.
That’s where this journey begins.

Imagine yourself in a room with no walls, no color, no shape—just a dim light cast onto a table. And on that table sits a vintage 1980s boombox—glowing softly, waiting in silence. Patient. Like it’s about to take you somewhere… if you’re willing to listen.

I've been in this room before. In one way or another, we all have.

Step closer. The light begins to reveal scuffed corners, faded dials, scratched surfaces worn smooth by time—and, I suspect, more than a few road trips, front porches, and late-night parties.

This boombox holds a life inside it—not in any literal sense, but in the way the mind holds memory… and sometimes refuses to let go. 

I press the tape deck eject button. The cassette door opens with a soft mechanical snap. Inside sits an old mixtape. I gently lift it out, turning it in the light. A handwritten label—slightly smudged, the ink worn thin at the edges. It reads:

Side A: Fire and Flight
Side B: Echoes and Redemption

I slide the tape back in and press the door shut. The click hangs in the air—louder, longer than it should. 

Silence leans in again, lingering… because even the sound effects in my memory tend to be a little dramatic.

I look over the boombox now. Admiring it.

A row of small sliders and unlit LEDs stretches across the center—an equalizer waiting to shape a sound that doesn’t yet exist. On either side, circular speakers frame the face—bold, imposing—hinting at the strength and power of a sound I long to hear.

At the top, two meters sit alongside a horizontal band of AM and FM frequencies, tucked behind a long, clear plastic window. There, a bright vertical indicator rests near the middle—idle, ready to search and find that one song that pulls you back into a memory… into another time. 

With no trace of a cord, there’s only one way to find out if this machine still has any life in it. I hold my breath, reach forward, and flip the power switch from Tape/Off to FM.

And just like that, the boombox comes alive. Lights flicker on. Needles jump to life. A low hum breaks the silence, filling the emptiness of the room. Not music—at least not yet—but sound—something stirring beneath the static.

I turn up the volume and extend the antenna, chasing clarity through the noise. Vibrations ripple outward from the massive speakers, pulsing through the stillness—through the room, and through me… like a memory trying to find its way back.

The mind works the same way, I think. You don't always know what's powering it—you just flip the switch and hope something comes through. Preferably not something embarrassing—like my wardrobe choices in 1987.

For me, searching for a memory has always felt like tuning an old radio—the dial turning slowly, the signal flickering in and out, never quite settling. Some stations come in clear and bright. Others are buried under interference, half-heard and half-imagined. And some frequencies carry so much weight that when they finally break through, I relive them—whether I want to or not.

When I thought I had it figured out, the effects from chemotherapy rewired the whole system. Signals faded. Stations drifted. Some never came back.

What’s left are fragments. Images, voices, feelings—and the stubborn echo of moments that refuse to be forgotten, no matter how many times I tried.

This is Through the Static—a collection of those fragments, tuned in and carried through the boombox, one memory at a time.

Each month, I'll share a new story from this collection—some from farm life in Wisconsin, some rooted in nostalgia, and some from the sidelines… just watching it all unfold.

They won’t be polished. They won’t be perfect. Some will feel unfinished around the edges—and they won't arrive in any linear order, because that’s how memory shows up. 

Together, they form a kind of mixtape—spanning decades, moving between tragedy and celebration, drifting through fear, hope, and all the wonderfully weird moments in between.

Some will make you laugh. Some will sit heavy. Each one a short read—ten minutes or less—entertaining and wrapped in the beautiful, honest noise of a life fully lived.

The boombox runs on batteries. I don't know how long they'll last. Nobody does. That's the point of living life.

So here we are. At the beginning of something.

Turn the dial. Find a frequency. Let the memory in through the static.

The first story is coming.
And I promise it's worth the wait. 

Probably. 
Maybe?

📻 Stay tuned—next signal locks in on May 1st.

Keep On Keepin’ On!
— Duke
👉 derekadametz.com