seventies – Tough Bananas

We recently got a puppy under a few conditions, one of which is that I would get up with him in the mornings and walk him. I am still not a morning person, but four months in…I’m not mad about it.

On one of these quiet mornings with just me and the pup, I decided to bake some cookies and listen to music. The night before I had fallen down a rabbit hole thanks to TikTok and fell asleep to the musical musings of Kenny Loggins.

If you think I was revisiting the 80s and the Top Gun version of Kenny, let me stop you right there. I was deep into the 70s Kenny of the duo Loggins and Messina and their hit, “Danny’s Song” and then “House at Pooh Corner” and then “A Love Song” because that’s how rabbit holes (and my brain) work. These were all recorded years before I was born, but my parents were big Anne Murray fans and she had covered several Loggins and Messina ballads back in the day, so this Canadian kid was in the know.

On this morning, “Danny’s Song” replayed based on my search history, and was followed by “Leader of the Band” which was a song I only vaguely recalled…until the chorus. When that chorus hit I found myself singing along word for word without error or thought.

The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man
I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band

I was shocked. Who is Dan Fogelberg? How did I know that was the artist’s name? Where did this hidden knowledge come from? What else do I have locked away in my brain?

This must be what a sleeper agent feels like when their code word is finally spoken and they are activated.

I let the random playlist continue in order to test my spy hypothesis. There were a couple of false positives such as when I began singing along to “Operator, can you help me place this call” before Jim Croce (didn’t know I knew his name) began to sing the opening bars.

Recollections I never knew were sealed away in my mind interrupted this kitchen concert for an audience of one. I was time travelling while baking cookies and, unprompted, I could clearly picture our old console TV and how I’d change the channel with my feet (no clickers back then). I could feel the texture of high-low shag carpet in our living room and the burned spot from when my brother dropped a light fire log on it. Granted, the seventies were a wild decade of very questionable fashion and decor tastes, so it is also possible I repressed these memories. Really repressed them.

Another possibility is that I really am a seventies music fan, but don’t want to admit it. Many of those artists and songs would have been a background soundtrack to my life. My parents had an extensive vinyl collection back in the day and while they leaned more to Roger Whittaker, Anne Murray, and George Baker Selection, there must have been some of the others mixed in there.

And there’s another explanation. That puppy we recently brought home? His name is Denver. As in John Denver the folk singer of the seventies. An artist who is in my favourites playlist. And yes, I suggested his name.

But let’s not rule out the sleeper agent theory, because I didn’t name him Fogelberg, did I?

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Ever have a sleeper agent moment? I can’t be the only one. Let me know I’m not alone in this.

My dad and I have a special relationship. It might be because we are both the baby in the family or just the way the genetics worked out. Nature versus nurture – who knows? I do know that it’s been a good thing, mostly.

I was born in the seventies, so our photo albums are rife with interesting clothing choices. He had a lot of polyester. A LOT. Our family photo from 1976 shows him sporting a sweet red suit. And he had the fashion sense to match it with something like this (and yes, he had tinted glasses – better to go all-in, right?):

Courtesy of dressthatman.com (really wishing I'd saved some of Dad's stuff right now). — Courtesy of dressthatman.com (really wishing I’d saved some of Dad’s stuff right now).

Then there was the infamous animal shirt. I think my brother at one point refused to be seen in public if Dad wore it.

It was just like this, but with more ducks.

Guys, these examples pale in comparison to The John Deere Snowmobile Suit.

One piece.

Bright green.

And, according to Dad, it wasn’t limited to snowmobiling.

He wasn't being ironic — He wasn’t being ironic and yes, it was that green.

It was the early eighties. I was about 9 or 10, tagging along on some errands with my dad. I guess it was winter because he was wearing the JDSS. We must have gone to the usual spots – gas station, possibly Canadian Tire, with a final stop at Big V Drugstore (raise your hand if you remember those).

I was in the cosmetics aisle checking out the various choices of nail polish and lip glosses when from at least two rows over I heard, “Jan! JAN! JANICE!! Something in his voice told me to duck and cover but it was too late. He rounded the corner and spotted me, held up a big blue box and asked, “ARE THESE THE TAMPONS YOUR MOM USUALLY BUYS?”

Dad, I am grateful that I inherited many of your excellent qualities, one of which is the ability to laugh at yourself. I am equally grateful that I inherited Mom’s “indoor voice”. Happy Father’s Day.