Blinded by the Light

I heard 'Blinded by the Light' by Manfred Mann's Earth Band today. It was playing on Sirius, the satellite radio company, of which I have been a faithful subscriber for 5 years. I immediately added it to my favorites, and here's why: It takes me to another time. I have memories of the 70's that are actually very nice. I was 9 years old when the 70's ended and I still remember them. This song always reminds me of that decade. Probably because my mother was an ex-hippy and got into those post-Flower Child rock bands.


I have early childhood memories. I remember at 5 years old begging my mother to let me watch Saturday Night Live, back when Belushi, Ackroyd, Bill Murray, and Gilda were still on there. I do believe that I got my dry, witty, smart-assed sense of humor from being exposed to this show at such an early age. It also contributed to my enduring love of New York City, where I WILL live at least once before I die (white guy alert!). I would watch the opening credits and skits that referenced the city and thought to myself, how cool would it be to live there? I only confirmed this to myself when I spent time there in 2001, before 9/11.


I remember watching Yankees games on the Armed Forces Network, the only games we could get, when my dad was in the Army in Germany during the 70's. My dad's good friend, named David, was a Newyorkrican from the Bronx. When they went out, which was quite often, they would take me by his place, ostensibly so he could baby-sit for them. I think it was more because he was just thrilled to have a young mind to meld and warp with his love of the Bronx Bombers. And I didn't mind, cause I loved baseball and I loved David, and because of him, I still love the Yankees, the only sports team for whom I would bleed and die and support with unquestioning loyalty. I learned a lot from David, mostly colorful language shouted at the TV in Spanglish, especially considering we were watching during the Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson days. I often wonder what happened to David. I wonder if he's still in the Bronx?


I remember listening to my uncle's LP's of AC/DC, Van Halen, and Aerosmith. I was weaned on classic rock, both from my mom's enduring love for 60's music and his obsession with mullet rock. I remember the awful colors of the 70's. The cafeteria on base in Germany was painted this horrible mixture of very light orange and bright red. My room when we came home from overseas was painted light purple with wallpaper on the bookshelves and closet door that were huge, psychedelic flowers in all shades of purple. I remember awful 70's TV. I loved Sanford and Son, the Gong Show, and WKRP in Cincinnati, my three favorite shows. I remember when we got cable in '79. I remember standing on line for Star Wars in '77 and being scared shitless when a guy dressed as Darth Vader, who worked for the theater, walked down the line shaking hands with the crowd. I remember the '80 Republican Convention and the shock at Reagan being elected, especially since my parents were die-hard Democrats. I remember a whole host of memories that I haven't the time to post now.


Perhaps my most telling memory of the 70s was finding out where I really came from. To look at me, you would think I could trace my lineage back to when white met bread. I assure you that I am exactly 0% WASP. On my way home from the new school I was attending, in downtown Pensacola, after our return from Germany in '78, I was greeted at the street corner (I walked home cause it was so close, down by Pensacola Bay) by a large, very dark skinned man with tight white curly hair. He said, in his marble-mouthed coastal accent that so many second generation fisherman have down here, "Hay Maaaak. Hai yew?" as he held out his meathook of a hand, crusted with callouses gained from hours of working shrimp boats. I took it, uncertain, and he held it firmly but gently as he led me down the street and to my grandmother's house, where we were staying at the time. He dropped me off at the front gate and didn't leave until I went in and shut the door.


Later, I asked my mother who the black man who led me home was, thinking he must be an associate of my grandfather, who was a part-time fisherman in addition to being a part-time house painter and full-time fireman. My mother very matter-of-factly told me that he was my Uncle Bernie. She also told me that he was my blood. She told me my grandmother's people were Cuban, having come to Pensacola from Havana by way of New Orleans. She also informed me that my grandfather's people were Jews from Russia. I didn't exactly know what that meant at the time, though I did recall a couple of trips to Dachau (the old Nazi concentration camp) while a child in Germany. I knew it was a grave and serious place, and that something very bad had happened there. I would later lean that I was also 1/2 Irish from my father's side, a mixture of Scots Irish from Ulster and Irish-Catholic from Cork.


These are the memories that have shaped my life. More than the 80's, where I clumsily came of age, or the 90's, where I learned what it meant to be a strong-willed, independent person. I look back now and realize that I would not be the person I am today if not for those memories of a decade many people scarcely remember except in cornball retro movies and idiotic VH1 "Remember When" specials.


And that song jettisoned me back there in an instant.