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| Songs Remind Me Of Time With Mom |
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| Opinion | |||
| Written by Kevin Gray | |||
| Wednesday, 18 March 2009 08:00 | |||
When Saturday mornings come along, and I’m driving around in my truck — fingers punching away at the buttons, channel surfing on my radio’s buttons — something doesn’t seem right until I pop my Ricky Nelson Greatest Hits in the CD player, more for old times sake than anything else. Isn’t there that certain sound, that certain singer or musician you once listened to somewhere in the past? We all have different tastes and interests, so I wouldn’t attempt to interject Nelson as the greatest … and, if you don’t know who Ricky Nelson was, then Google, right now, this early teenage idol from the dawn of rock and roll. Try www.ricknelson.com and give it a listen. Never mind that my first two records — they called them 45s in 1962 — were Ricky Nelson singles. “Young World” and “Summertime” were released Feb. 24, 1962 and “Teen Age Idol” and “I’ve Got My Eyes on You,” on Aug. 4, 1962. Remember? Two songs on what they called the A side and the B on black vinyl. This isn’t some teenage memory of mine — not when I was only 10 years old. The songs bring back memories, the more pleasant ones (time spent in the car with my mother, that is) of Saturdays long ago, when my mother took me to get my asthma injections. Every Saturday morning, I had to leave my cartoons behind, hoping I could make it home to see Roy Rogers with his wife, Dale Evans, and Roy’s horse, Trigger, followed by “The Adventures of Rin-Tin-Tin,” the heroic German Shepherd, who always saved the day. Dr. Owens stuck me with three shots every single Saturday, but, surprisingly, the needle slid right in. His nurses didn’t have nearly that much luck. When mom first took me to see Dr. Owens, the testing procedure had been rough for a 4-year-old. He dotted my back with his ink pen in what seemed like endless rows. It kind of tickled, but what followed — those repeated pin-pricks — had me close to tears. No way have I ever had a desire to get a tattoo, not after my back had been used for stippling practice. Mom and I spent our every Saturday morning drive time listening to WLEE in Richmond, Va. Ricky Nelson was played to death, but this didn’t matter to my young ears. We made stops after the shot regimen. Sometimes to Sears for me — clothes, shoes or a snack at the candy counter — or better yet the bakery in our suburban neighborhood for a gingerbread man. Lunch came at a pre-McDonald’s-age burger joint with similar arches in green called Kelly’s. Two burgers, fries and a drink for 50 cents, while Ricky played on their radio dial. Back in the car, Ricky sang out of the speakers, interrupted occasionally by Neil Sedaka’s “Breaking Up is Hard to Do,” and lyrics about holding each other tight and kissing through the night, and here I was the little boy who still said “yuck” to kissy scenes in movies. But it all sounded so mysteriously inviting. To this day, I call this the beginning of what I termed my “Juke Box Education,” even if it all began with me riding in the front seat with my mother while listening to the radio in a brown Dodge on the way to get my shots.
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