Springtime in the Golden Country

Part 1

Springtime in the Golden Country

It was a mild April day in Western NY. The windows were rolled near half way down in the family Oldsmobile. The breeze had a slight chill after a few minutes, but coming out of the cold of winter it felt good. That first day each year of being in the car with the windows down was always one of my favorites. I hung my hand out of the window and felt the resistance of the air pushing back. Wind poured over my arm and the open glass and whisked across my face.

There was a familiar scent in the air that came along with each Spring, or a hot summer day right after a soaking rain. The smell of damp ground drying out in the radiant sun and worms shriveling on the pavement. The songs of the returning birds carried upon a gentle breeze, passing over new flowers and through budding trees.

The family, that is, my Mom and Dad, my brother, and I, were all packed into the family sedan, Dad at the wheel, on our way to an afternoon of mandatory family fun outside. We stopped at a red light and Dad fiddled with the radio. He turned up the volume a little bit for REO Speedwagon. The song was, “Golden Country.”

I never paid attention to the words until I was much older. That song is 50 years old now and every word of the lyrics could have been written this morning. Nothing has changed except I’ve grown to be older today than my father was that day in the car.   

The words to the song touch on the lack of attention and will of the public and of the government which is “of the people, by the people,” or so they say, to properly deal with economic inequalities and injustice, the utter failure to address poverty while always having plenty of money for other less important things, prejudiced race relations, and discrimination or outright hate of those who deviate from the accepted lifestyle norms. "The freaks." The lyrics are a warning that if these issues are not eventually addressed with serious intent, one day, this golden country will literally burn.

I found as I grew up that not many people really paid much attention to the lyrics of songs. They just enjoyed the rhythms or the guitar jams… They liked the sound of the music and maybe only knew a few words from the choruses. Their curiosity ended right about there. Deeper thinking was not in the cards. This was a pretty critical, socially aware song that got regular airplay out of millions of car stereos for the past 50 years - many driven by people who would ultimately vote against all of that stuff and scream until they were red in the face about the evils of socialism and wokeness.

“I’m so glad it’s finally getting nicer outside. It’s time to get out of the house and have a little fresh air for you kids,” Mom said, while she lit a cigarette from the front passenger seat, void of any irony at all. The fresh air blowing through the windows was welcomed.

Day to day back at home, life smelled like scented markers and scratch n’ sniff stickers. The shavings from the wall mounted pencil sharpener in the kitchen by the phone. Old books with plastic covers and yellowed pages from the town library. Pine-sol and lemon pledge. Empty beer cans and ashtrays stuffed with Camel butts. The haze of lingering cigarette smoke.

Saturday morning cartoons were often disturbed by the roar of a small electric motor and the smell of burning hair and the slipping rubber belt that drove the beater brushes on the old Kibry vaccum cleaner. Mom kept spare belts in the junk drawer. 

From the kitchen came the wonderful scent of Mom’s cooking or baking. Out in the family room, Dad’s recliner by the TV, pumped full of beer farts and ground in potato chip crumbs. Scented candles or burning incense on the mantel. Dress clothes, hairspray, and perfume on Sunday mornings before Mom shuffled us off to church.

In the car, my brother and I sat in the back seat. I felt the fresh air on my face. I always sat behind Dad because his seat was back farther and I was younger. I used to be smaller. The lack of legroom didn’t bother me when that arrangement started, so my older brother Scott always sat behind our Mother who was a little shorter. Scott was staring out his window wearing a pair of headphones, listening to his walkman.

I was born 5 years after Scott. My parents weren’t planning to have any other children after he was born. I became my Dad’s little buddy and of course I was Mom’s baby. I used that all the time to my advantage, as best and as often as I could. Why not? It seemed like life could be awfully tough and unfair, so I supposed I ought to enjoy getting away with as much as I could. I sure wasn’t going to insist my parents be stricter with me.

My brother hated that, and being the first born, my parents were much tougher on him. Sometimes I even felt a little bad for him. He was an only child until he was almost 6 years old and suddenly I stole his spotlight. He was too big to whoop on me much when they weren’t looking, so he took to verbal abuse with me instead. It wasn’t just a teenage thing - he’s still very sarcastic towards me to this day. He acts like he knows more than I do because he’s older, and is resentful because he thinks I was the favorite child who could do no wrong.

I was excited to be going to the park. Scott seemed less than thrilled, but he wasn’t given much of a choice anyway. The ride in the Oldsmobile was smooth and I couldn’t wait to get out on a trail and look around in the woods. There is peace to be found out there I’ve come to enjoy more with age. On that day, I was just ten years old and ready for the closest thing I could get to a real adventure outside of my house or my neighborhood.

The radio had a special comedy bit they used to play back then at noon every day. A siren wailed through the speakers and there were a few random audio bits from, “The Flintstones,” “Firesign Theater,” and the DJ would do a fake Russian accent describing himself as, “only friend of working force in U.S. of A.”

Then they announced the beginning of a block, which was 4 songs in a row, that on that day was to be all songs from a group called, “The Beatles,” and on came a voice singing, “Good day sunshine!,” over and over again. Spring had come to upstate, NY and in a few minutes we’d be off hiking under the trees on a well worn path in Southern Ponds Park.