Turn on a classic rock station, and you might hear “Summer of ‘69.” Bryan Adams released the song in 1984, reminiscing about playing six-string guitar in a high school band, friends who got married, and evenings at the drive-in. Adams concludes by singing, “Those were the best days of my life.”
Since Adams was only 9 in the summer of 1969, he may have taken some artistic license. But for many of us, each summer triggers a lot of memories. We didn’t have a care in the world, except for the dreaded day after Labor Day when school resumed. Yes kids, summer used to last for a long time.
I was also not yet a teen in the summer of 1969. But I’ve latched on to that song because ‘69 was the year my world turned around.
For one thing, my dad got me a motorcycle, a Suzuki 100. Not exactly the beast of bikes, but I had wheels. Many of my friends were already driving cars. This was Bryant, Alabama, and the nearest cops were 35 miles away, so 12-year-olds could do as they pleased.
Dad didn’t think I was ready to drive a massive Buick on two-lane Highway 73 and our adjoining side roads. But he was confident I would be safe on a two-wheeler that could hit 80 mph, even while dodging loose gravel, stray dogs, and pop-up thunderstorms. I had just learned to ride a bicycle a few months earlier, and I wore a helmet that cost ten bucks. So this 12-year-old had a fast ride and a part-time job of reporting for the local paper. So, armed with a note pad and a Polaroid camera, the Carroll mobile news machine was in search of new preachers, golden anniversaries, and whoever caught the biggest fish.
Now that I was a journalist, I started paying more attention to news on TV, in the local papers, magazines, and especially the radio.
We had a very newsy summer in 1969. Richard Nixon had just been elected president, promising to get us out of Vietnam. It wasn’t as easy as he thought. Apollo 11 landed on the moon one Sunday night in July. I saw it live, but at first I wasn’t happy about it. You see, “Hee Haw” had premiered on a Sunday night a few weeks earlier, and I was hooked. So I tuned in for the latest round of pickin’ and grinnin’ and instead I saw Walter Cronkite getting emotional about Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the lunar surface. Being a rookie reporter, I soon realized the importance of this event, while comforted by the fact that Buck Owens and Roy Clark would return the following Sunday.
Muhammad Ali, Joe Namath, the Amazing Mets and even my Atlanta Braves were having good years. Hurricane Camille wrecked Mississippi and Louisiana. Sen. Edward Kennedy got in trouble for a deadly late night dip into the water at Chappaquiddick Island in Massachusetts.
And then there was the Woodstock Music Festival in New York. I was addicted to my AM radio, listening to the hits by Crosby, Stills and Nash, Santana, Sly and the Family Stone, and others who had achieved instant fame.
When I think of the Summer of ‘69, I think back to the incredible variety of songs and artists that were always on in the background. Elvis Presley’s haunting “Suspicious Minds.” Johnny Cash cracking me up with “A Boy Named Sue.” The Temptations trading verses on “I Can’t Get Next to You.” The Beatles enjoying each other one last time on “Get Back.” Rollin’ on the river with CCR’s “Proud Mary.” A church choir from California, singing their hearts out on “Oh Happy Day.” Mick Jagger singing about some dirty deeds in Memphis involving some “Honky Tonk Women.” I couldn’t understand half the words, but I knew he was up to something. The 5th Dimension sang about the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Neil Diamond and his “Sweet Caroline,” when good times never seemed so good. Every song was a different style, and I loved them all.
It may be 2024, but the summer of ‘69 soundtrack is always playing in my head.
