By Denise Etheridge
Music and memory go hand-in-hand. I was reminded of this last month. My husband and I don’t usually venture out on a weeknight, but this time we accepted an invitation to join friends for a concert at the Boot Barn in Gainesville. It was our first time at the venue and it did not disappoint.
I bought the tickets online after having researched the band. Canyonland proved to the tenth degree it is a talented group after delivering a high energy show. Lead vocalist and acoustic guitarist Michelle Malone, along with bandmates Mike Rizzi, Mark Lehi Jones, Nelson Nolen and Doug Kees remained true to the original songs.
They performed music made famous by Linda Ronstadt, Crosby, Stills & Nash, Fleetwood Mac, the Eagles and other true rock legends.This was the music of my youth. And now I was listening to it live in concert. It had literally been decades since I’d been to a rock concert. It was worth staying up past 10 p.m.
Once Frank and I passed through security, a 20-something hostess directed us to our table down near the front of the stage. I awkwardly hopped up to sit on the high bar chair and immediately swiveled to take a 360-degree look around the large, open space.
The place was packed with old people.
I saw heads of white hair, salt and pepper hair, dyed hair - like mine - to cover the encroaching gray and lots of bald men. Then it hit me. This is my demographic now. These individuals are my peers.
How the heck did this happen? How did I get to the age of Medicare eligibility so fast?
Still, I maintain that those of us who grew up during the tumultuous 1960s and transformational 1970s were the original cool kids. Today’s youth can learn a thing or two from us. We did it all, and we didn’t get caught.
Our teenage years were magical, at times even mystical - and in my case, without illicit drugs. We never thought we’d grow old. We were too busy enjoying life and anticipating a bright future.
Every kid I knew felt like they had some modicum of freedom. Yet our generation was responsible, too. If you wanted to buy anything extra ̶ clothes, 8-track tapes, concert tickets, stereo equipment or save for a car or college ̶ you got a part-time job and worked full-time during the summers.
So, if you ever watched that 70s show, where a group of midwestern teenagers hang out in a friend’s basement, you’ve peeked inside my suburban life as a typical middle-class Atlanta teen. We lived through a recession and didn’t know it. We could commute into downtown Atlanta from Tucker in less than 30 minutes. This was before our once sleepy state capitol swelled to the size and disposition of a monstrous kraken.
Our youthful priorities revolved around friendships and dating. There was no Big Brother technology to spy on us. Thank God we could get away with stupid stuff and live to laugh about it.
There were no cell phones...just push-button landline phones attached to a wall. If a boy called me I would use our kitchen phone, because the cord was extra long. I could answer it on the first ring, wind the cord around the door frame into the dining room and creep down into our formal sunken living room. There I could speak in a whisper without my mother hearing me. Or so I thought.
We spent hours talking to friends face-to-face. We’d sit in each other’s driveways or carports. We’d meet at the movies or Farrell’s Ice Cream Parlour. We’d roam around Northlake Mall or cruise through Stone Mountain Park.
There was no social media, so we learned how to actually be sociable.
I’ve tried to pass these habits on to my children and grandchildren. For the most part I’ve succeeded. Although, there are times my six-year-old granddaughter stands in front of her 33-year old father, while he’s listening to a podcast on his smartphone, and insists he put his device away.
“It’s time to talk,” she tells him, hands planted firmly on her hips.
Yup, she’s a cool kid.
Denise Etheridge is the senior reporter of The White County News.