Feelin’ Groovy, Thanks To Mom

My parents were born under Eisenhower. They like to remind me that everything cost 15 cents “in their day.” They like to remind me that it was “a different time,” when the hair was longer, the love was freer and the drinking age was lower. And they really like to remind me about all the bands they were lucky enough to see (“I saw Jim Morrison get arrested on stage!”). Between all their stories and nostalgic recollections, my Baby Boomer parents kept me in a retro bubble for the tender years of my youth. It was kind of like Back to the Future, only without the time travel.

This meant that we watched TV like it was 1965, which of course set unrealistic expectations for how my life would turn out. Would I ever be in a Gilligan’s Island-esque situation and need to make a raft out of coconuts? Would I ever have the opportunity to demand the cone of silence as if I were on Get Smart? Would I ever have a ridiculously large New York apartment and an oh so cute boyfriend like the immaculately dressed protagonist on my mom’s favorite show, That Girl?

No? How disappointing.

This also meant that the only music I listened to until middle school was from the 20^th century. For the fifth grade yearbook, I said that my favorite band was the Beatles, not because I thought I was more cultured than the ten-year-old heathens in my class, but because that was the only band I knew by name. A few years later, Led Zeppelin entered my life via the mixed CD that played on constant loop in our 1985 Chevy Station Wagon. My mom noted that “Stairway to Heaven” had been her favorite song since it came out when she was in high school, so I made it my favorite song too. Now it’s our thing. To this day, we listen to Zeppelin every time we’re in the car together—especially “Black Dog” because it starts with Robert Plant howling “hey hey Mama.” (Although I really don’t think he was referring to his actual mother…).

Recently, I saw a video of a man playing Zeppelin riffs for his 3-year-old daughter, who knew the names to all the songs and was also wearing an Elsa dress. As you can imagine, it warmed my heart and soul immensely so I sent it to my mom. This was her response:

Yes, we call each other “my favorite Zeppie.” More often though, she calls me ‘Dove,’ which I think is very Woodstock.

Being raised on classic rock also means that I run with an older crowd. Last summer, my parents and I went to a J. Geils Band concert celebrating the 30^th Anniversary of 100.7 WZLX, Boston’s Classic Rock station. I was without a doubt the youngest person there. Everyone else was a comfortable 40+, a true motley crew of ex-hippies with long, once glorious hair alongside your typically “wicked” Bostonians double fisting beer and Dunkin’ Donuts. Once I got over the fact that I was the only teenager in the arena, I totally grooved and my dad totally grooved and my mom definitely grooved. And it was wonderful.

But even though my mom is responsible for half of my record collection, she was by no means a hippie. In high school, her turtlenecks matched her knee socks. She was also in “The Rainbow Girls,” which may sound bohemian, but was actually a Masonic youth organization and probably a cult. So by extent, I was never truly a flower child. After all, my upbringing also consisted of Girl Scout meetings, many Nancy Drew novels and approximately three golf lessons. But over time, I’ve become more self aware about what decade I seem to be stuck in. And if my collection of tie dye shirts keeps growing, I just might be on track to become a socks and (knock off) ‘stocks wearing organic farmer/peace activist living in a commune with more Bob Dylan albums than is appropriate for one person.

Even if I don’t become the hippie kid that every parent dreams of having, I’m really happy that my mom shared the seventies with me. We sing along to the same songs on the radio. We both get excited about far out thrift store finds. One day, I hope that we can stick it to the man together. But more so, I’m grateful to have such a loving and supportive mother—the kind of mother who sends homemade oatmeal cookies in the mail, supports impulse mandolin buying and ironically wraps your Christmas presents in Justin Bieber wrapping paper.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom–thanks for being so groovy.

About the Guest Collaborator/Birth Giver: Jean Hildebrand Clapp reliably signs all her texts “xo.” She loves golden retrievers, bicycling with her husband, and the couple on HGTV’s “Fixer Upper.” When not investigating adverse medical events,she can be found making a mean batch of lemon bars and falling asleep on the couch.

Images via Sarah Clapp.