John Denver is my hero. Stop laughing, punk, I’m dog-down serious here. He has been my hero since I was a small child and his untimely death has not diminished his stature in my mind at all. I don’t say this because of his environmental work (which was inspiring), or his simplistic yet eloquently naive way of viewing the world, or even his idealistic enthusiasm that was large enough and contagious enough to virtually put Aspen -and Colorado - on the map as a destination of choice. Nope, these are all good reasons for admiration, but mine is a little more personal. He is my hero because his records always brought a vacation with them.
I notice you fellow sharers are currently sporting a bemused expression of ‘que?’ or possibly ‘quoi?’ on your befuddled countenances, so I will kindly explain. When I was little, my parents owned a copy - vinyl for those of you old enough to remember that relic of bygone days - of John Denver’s greatest hits. My father would put that record on and get this dreamy faraway look in his eyes. We’d listen to it a couple of times, everyone singing along, and by the end of the day he’d be all high strung and energetic. The next thing I knew we’d be packing up the family vehicle and heading for the hills. Time and $$ didn’t always allow for a trip to Colorado or Wyoming (though frequently we didn’t let that stop us), so we’d often make due with the hills of eastern Oklahoma or the Ozarks of Missouri/Arkansas, but one way or another we’d be high in the mountains by week’s end. Almost without fail.
When I got old enough to reckon out cause and effect I’d often bring out that album on purpose when I felt a road trip was in order. And you know what? Most of the time it worked. Like magic. To this day I don’t know if Daddy knew he was being manipulated or if he just didn’t care, but off we would go, bouncing down the highway, eating ham sandwiches , drinking kool-aid, and singing wildly along with the radio. Is there really anything better in life, I ask you? Nope, not much.
I inherited my love of the open road from my father and I cannot hear the strains of “Rocky Mountain High” or “Country Roads” without this insane urge to hit the highway and head for the hills, just like him, so I suppose I inherited that bizarre tendency too. Genetics and environment collide in strange ways sometimes. All I know is that days like today, when the first rush of real spring weather makes the dogwood explode and the scent of blooming flowers and trees is all around, cabin fever is an understatement. Staying cooped up is out of the question, but lack of funding may keep me prisoner despite my wishes.
Hmm, wonder what my dad is doing right about now. And where did I put that cd?....
Joke of the Day: A little old lady was running up and down the halls in a nursing home. As she walked, she would flip up the hem of her nightgown and say "Supersex." She walked up to an elderly man in a wheelchair. Flipping her gown at him, she said "Supersex." He sat silently for a minute or two and finally answered, "I'll take the soup."
