to my mother’s place in central Pennsylvania, I dip into a sweet little coffee shop called Little Amps. Their mascot is the amp, and the decor, some of it anyway, includes LPs on shelves high enough that you have to ask for help reaching them. They also have some milk crates of records, which I always flip through, and from time to time, I buy one. Simple wooden bench seats abut big windows, so that on a
