If You Could Read My Mind

I’m sure you heard, Gordon Lightfoot died this past week. If you’re close to my age, you may have felt the acute sense of loss I did. His songs were symbolic for a lot of people in my generation. His music, along with that of Paul Simon, Jim Croce, and John Denver was ever present in our house during those days when I was a stay-at-home mom with small kids. Our little boys danced to “Early Morning Rain” or “Steel Rail Blues” in front of the speakers on the living room floor and groaned when I continued to honor my Lake Superior roots and play “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” over and over when they were teenagers. Being subjected to that was one of their rites of passage. When I think of that time, things seemed simpler somehow. That might only be because I’m looking back. I remember our family considered it a treat to be able to splurge and buy burgers and fries for all five of us at the local Burger Queen for a total of five bucks. (Yes, there actually was a place called Burger Queen in Morehead, Kentucky, where we lived then, though whether it still exists or not, I have no idea.) We camped all over the place, at state and national parks, without ever having to make a single reservation ahead of time. The veterinarian gave us what he called a “fleet rate”, where he came out to our van and vaccinated our various pets all at one time, without us having to make an appointment for each dog or cat independently. Funny, the things I think of when I remember the nineteen seventies. I took a long walk when I heard Gordon Lightfoot died and I teared up while I listened to several of his songs in a continuous loop through my air pods. I cried for the loss of what was a unique talent and I cried for the loss of simpler times. Thank you, Gordon Lightfoot. May your spirit find rest in a Canadian province of peace.

Photo courtesy anncapictures at Pixabay.com