The ordeal began somewhere on the outskirts of Buffalo, about an hour into a 5-hour drive, when my full-time spouse and part-time editor remembered that SiriusXM was promoting a free week.
So I scrolled through the menu options on the car radio and found the satellite radio service. I skipped past Outlaw Country, past Siriusly Sinatra and beyond Elvis Radio, until Mary spied 70s on 7. I tapped on it. The next four hours I shall never get back.
“Gypsies, tramps and thieves …” burst through the speaker. It was the 1970s revisited, and Mary was singing along in lockstep with Cher. “We’d hear it from the people of the town, they’d call us gypsies, tramps, and thieves …’’
“This reminds me of high school,’’ she said, nailing every word of the lyrics.
This posed a lifelong question that I have never been able to understand.
“Why is it that girls remember all the lyrics, and guys don’t?’’ I asked.
Simple, Mary responded, right after she confirmed no Sonny Bono poster was pinned to her bedroom wall.
“We were sitting in our rooms listening, but guys are usually out playing sports or watching games on TV. We pay attention to details. Songs are stories. They are moments in time and memories. There are love songs and ballads. We are listening.”
Without a break, she joined in with Englebert Humperdinck. “So I sing you to sleep after the lovin,’ with a song that I just wrote yesterday.’’
I was impressed.
“I had a transistor radio,’’ she explained, “and I took it everywhere. It was always playing when I was in my room or doing my homework.”
Ah, yes, the 1970s. That decade mimicked today in the sense that the radio was ever present, similar to the earbuds you spot in the gym, grocery stores and buses.
But unlike the boombox era that arrived in the 1980s, transistor radioes had a cardinal rule – don’t disturb the people around you, especially within your household.
If rainy weather granted your father, the athletic director and summer recreation supervisor, a quiet afternoon or evening, he might place a stack of vinyl records on the family stereo. Ed Ames, John Gary or Robert Goulet could induce snoring in the family room that was only interrupted by the next LP plopping down on the turntable. God forbid if you interrupted that bliss with WSLB-AM blaring on a transistor.
The family TV room had similar rules. No radioes, no frequent talking, no arguing. My parents got the chairs and the six of us jockeyed for center positions on the floor. If you were lucky enough to get a chair, you could reserve your spot by announcing: “Coming back!” You had a five-minute limit. Many a petty argument erupted over the time limit.
Of course, seemingly every time a snowmobile roared down the street, the picture was disrupted. Someone had to adjust the vertical or horizontal hold dials. Cable hadn’t reached Morristown so we only got WWNY out of Watertown and two Canadians stations – CJOH from Ottawa and CKWS from Kingston. There was no remote, either.
As Mary kept belting out the hits, I reasoned we needed rules like those in our car. She was on a roll, crooning with Melissa Manchester on “Midnight Blue,” then moved effortlessly into “Everything is Beautiful” by Ray Stevens. I remained astounded. She hadn’t missed a word of the lyrics.
“At the rate you’re going,’’ I wisecracked, “you’ll break Cal Ripken’s streak before we hit the Ohio border.’’
She was smirking and laughing with an overconfident smile. Her shoulders were rolling and she began to bounce in the driver’s seat to irk me.
“I’m just waiting for ‘My Ding-A-Ling,’ ” she said, referencing a silly song from Chuck Berry.
“I don’t know if I can stand this for three more hours,’’ I complained.
She reminded me of the car rule – driver picks the radio station.
This was difficult. As the miles piled up, there wasn’t a hint of Carlos Santana or Earth, Wind & Fire. The only song I enjoyed was Van Morrison’s jazzy “Moondance.’’
When the obscure “Last Song” by Edward Baer flashed upon the menu, she never missed a word. Explaining the kitchen prohibitions in pickleball seemed easier.
“You know,’’ she reminded me, “if this was some Clancy Brothers ballad or Irish song, you’d know all the words.’’
That was true, but it struck another chord. I was thinking of all the 1970s hits I could not stomach. They remain Immediate channel changers:
Captain & Tennille — Muskrat Love might have been the dumbest popular hit ever.
The Carpenters – Similar saccharine music.
Lionel Ritchie or The Commodores – First girlfriend at Buffalo State; bad memories.
Neil Diamond — Fenway Park’s seventh-inning stretch standard, “Sweet Caroline,’’ remains a haunting reminder of the former Cleveland Indians blowing the 2007 American League Championship Series in Boston after squandering a 3-1 series lead in their own ballpark.
When The Village People broke in with “Macho Man,’’ Mary was bouncing in her seat again. I pronounced myself ready to check into a YMCA. Then Mary got overconfident.
The next tune over the radio was the melodramatic “Nadia’s Theme,’’ which became the theme song for “The Young and the Restless’’ soap opera.
“Oh, I don’t know the words to that one,” she said, feigning ignorance. But we both knew there were no lyrics.
That’s when a voice from the backseat set the world straight.
Asked Katie, innocently, “Can you turn on country and western?’’
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
Holleran Gets It Write 
This could have been in our car!! Thanks for the chuckles. (But did you change the station to Country and Western?)
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