That’s how I remember it.
Shag rugs, polyester couches and macramé owls that always seemed to be watching me.

Vinyl records inside the thin delicate paper sleeves secured in a cardboard album that had incredible art work or photographs adorning it.

Always had to be careful around the records because they weren’t mine.

Trying to understand what was happening all around.

Wanting to play, always wanting to run around, as fast as my legs would carry me.

The loud mufflers on the big cars the teenage kids would drive.

Riding in those big cars, no seatbelts, doing donuts in the snow with bad brakes.

Hot vinyl seats in the summertime after swimming at Wolf Lake.

Then Bill Withers sang “Ain’t No Sunshine”,
reality shows its’ face.

A wake up call, more like a wail,
by so many suffering souls.