The other evening, I was driving home from work. My moon roof was open for the vitamin D courtesy of Mr. Sun, and my radio was on courtesy of a satellite service, which is an indulgence I embrace while I’m working a hybrid schedule.
My early adult years, meaning my twenties, were shaped by music from the 1980s, so normally my audio is set to an exclusive station dedicated to that era. A song came on that I wasn’t in the mood to hear, so I flipped the selection to my second-place network of 1970s songs.
That was when Donny Osmond’s voice filled the cabin with “Sweet and Innocent” from 1971.
Suddenly I was struck with memories of myself as a tween on the way to twelve years old and sitting at a comfortable table with my parents at the hottest dining spot in town. A sprawling restaurant called Green Valley was the place for anybody from six to eighty-six. A basket of bottomless pretzel sticks greeted diners at every table, and a jukebox hugged an entire wall like an alter to Euterpe, endlessly playing requests for quarters. Sinatra, Presley, the occasional country ballad provided background noise non-stop during all business hours. Some of the tunes were familiar to me from television performances, but my focus was on what kid’s ice cream sundae to get for dessert. They used real ice cream and whipped cream, and the portions were generous.
Something made my mind itch with curiosity that evening, and I asked for a quarter to see what was on the jukebox. I don’t remember what I selected for my parents, maybe Sinatra. I had heard of the Osmonds but had never had the urge to play something unfamiliar for myself. What if I wasted my quarter? Worse, what if I didn’t see somebody from school there and they judged my selection?
I took a chance.
The actual song I chose was “Puppy Love,” which was the gateway for most new Donny Osmond fans, but within a few bars, I suddenly discovered that my young body was holding a gate closed on hormones and dopamine, and they ran the warden down in a frenzy. Ice cream? What ice cream?
The jukebox became my insatiable source of entertainment outside the house, and my stereo at home, formerly the place for educational records and Disney soundtracks, started causing my poor parents years of dealing with adolescence and fandom.
Green Valley shut down and underwent a few facelifts and owners (it is standing, but the name is given to an adjacent tennis club), and jukeboxes are now mostly found at themed diners or nostalgic locations that don’t have the heart to remove them. Bubblegum and pop music have surrendered to, of all things, modern Disney soundtracks which are geared to today’s tweens. Sinatra still has a network on satellite radio, and Elvis remains an enigmatic piece of history. Donny Osmond is a married dad in his golden years but still appreciates the old-school fans.
When I flipped the station back to the music of my twenties, with a sigh of resignation, I realized I truly was in a new phase of life in which the memories are often warmer than the sun shining into my car through the moonroof.
And those pretzel sticks still taste even better when dipped in a good quality ice cream.
