I often feel sorry for kids these days. I grew up in the 70s, when we weren’t marinating in mass media. TV wasn’t on 24 hours a day; reruns were a disappointment. You actually went outside and played, and you learned to entertain yourself. My friends and I invented characters, intricate plotlines, and sets and costumes. A lot of kids had imaginary friends. We knew how to create something out of nothing, no problem. We were storytellers, or “content creators” in today’s terminology.

Since we had a lot of time to fill, our minds were allowed to wander. My favorite daydream time was during my family’s weekly trips to my grandma’s house, 20 to 30 minutes away, depending on which route we took. There certainly was a lot of fighting and fussing in the station wagon. But there was a lot of peace, too. We usually listened to AM radio, soft rock that was unthreatening, soothing, and sappy. Cringey.

I listened and I heard. The stories told in these songs were more enlightening than any Grimm’s fairytale. (I could never figure out what lesson I was supposed to take away from those things.)

But 70s soft rock spoke to me.

She ran calling Wildfire.

Don’t it make my brown eyes blue.

Sara, smile.

You fill up my senses like a night in the forest.

I listened and I learned. I imagined the singers and their muses. I developed plot points connecting the origins of the song to how they played out, and beyond. I puzzled over some very adult themes, far more adult than my elementary school brain could comprehend. I get it now.

And sometimes I cringe, but doesn’t John Denver sort of hit you right in the solar plexus sometimes? Don’t you want to walk right into one of his stories, clad in flannel with your shoulders warm from the sunshine, and hang out for a while? I sure do. Still.