I’m so old now that I get to kick sentences off with such phrases as, “Well, in MY day…” while holding my aching back, aimlessly waving a crooked index finger and calling people “whippersnappers”.
So while you’re here, noshing on my snacks and drinking my beer, you will indulge me as I take you back to the 1970s, when I attended a little known school (so little, it doesn’t exist any more) called Coloma Elementary School in Sacramento (as opposed to it actually being located in Coloma, which is another city around here in California somewhere– jeez, you’d think we’d have had a field trip or something to the namesake of our school just to get some historical context or something). Anyway, what was I talking about?
Oh yeah – so once a week we had a bout of organized singing in class where we busted out hardcover songbooks from the class bookshelves and the teacher put a record on the turntable. Perhaps you’ve heard of records that now have the hipster term of “vinyl” so that they can charge five times more than what we paid for them when we were kids, but I’m digressing again.
We’d sing songs like, “This Land is Your Land”, “The Erie Canal”, and the one that goes, “Oh give me a home, where the buffalo roam…” – - what’s that one called? Anyway, it conjured up visions of The Lone Ranger and singing folk songs around the campfire, and Go America, Yeah! Which is why I wonder now if they weren’t brainwashing us kids into some insidious patriotic stupor.
Some people might call it Americana; I call it a conspiracy. (dun-dun-DUN!)
Yeah, that’s what it was. And the history books taught us how “we” discovered America (as opposed to the occupants at the time) while bursting westward in horses and covered wagons yelling something about “Manifest Destiny”, because you know, this land was made for you and me, not them.
On the other hand, we wrote on tan paper pages with blue hairs in it and ten fat lines to a page, so what do I know?













