Turn, turn … turn!

 

Yours Truly KOMA

Turn, turn … turn!

Kissing Tone

By Stephen L. Wilmeth

 

            The reoccurring question this morning became, where were you in the summer of 1968?

            In the case of our world, it was the last summer before life changed forever. Nine months later, high school graduation would start the great scatter, the time when too many of us would never see each other again. The summer of ’68, though, could be bronzed and locked in the archives as the snippet in time when that world seemed normal.

            Oh, sure, Viet Nam was raging, hippies were smoking pot in San Francisco, LBJ was trying to act presidential, football camp was on the horizon, and I had spent a hitch or two with Hugh in the wilderness, but the real world was alive and well starting each evening at sundown draggin’ Main in downtown Silver City.

The route was fixed.

            Starting at the A&W on 180 East, the route traced Silver Heights Boulevard southwestward to where that street became Pope. On Pope the cruise continued south to the intersection of College Avenue. A quick turn east before the turn south again on Bullard set the stage for the idle downtown through the town’s historic district.

            We had no idea what that history implied. That was not a consideration until years later when we started realizing what a great place Silver City was to grow up.

            In succession on north Bullard, there were the string of what became quaint little shops that were largely nondescript at that time. Clifton Chevrolet was passed as was Dr. Anderson’s office on the west side of the street going past 7^th and then 6^th Street. Robbie Step’s family’s Army and Navy Store was across the street. On past the Gila Theatre and the heart of downtown unfolded. The Model Shop, Penney’s, Phillips’ Gift Shop, the Silco Theatre, Schiff’s Men Store, Colby’s Sporting Goods, R.O. Schmidt, and Paul R. Gantz Jewelry was passed before the stop light on Market Street halted traffic. From there, it was The Dime Store, Blackwell’s Jewelers, Wayne Woodbury’s law office, Schadel’s Bakery, Buffalo Bar, Cosgroves’ Hardware, and Howell Drug before the stop light at Broadway. Finally, it was on past American National Bank and Borenstein’s Department Store before the U-turn was made on West Spring Street to start the trip back up through town and on to the A&W on the hill where the milkshakes and fries lit the shook.

            A reverse recapitulation of sorts was the itinerary.

            Sure, there was some rubber burned and cutouts opened, but the speed was traditionally slow. The unwritten rule was to see and to be seen. There were no barriers or conditions. In that circumstance, we were simply the kids of Silver City. Windows were rolled down, greetings were passed back and forth, and … the music of KOMA was turned up loud enough to create a three-mile stereophonic corridor.

            Yours Truly KOMA

            At that time and the truth be known, most kids across a swath of New Mexico, Arizona, Wyoming, Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska, Texas, and, of course, Oklahoma didn’t survive on a diet of country and western music. There just weren’t any contemporary country music radios stations. It was the magical blend of personalities, jingles, contests, and fun that entered our radios after sundown from the 50,000-watt signal of KOMA, Oklahoma City, that defined our era and our musical influences. The mighty 1520 seemingly was our elixir and became our choice because that was all we could get.

            Looking back, though, it was a time of change and that included innocence.

            The war was discoloring our views of society. Granted, we cut our hair to the image of the early Beatles, but the changes that were starting to become standard by ‘68 weren’t popular. The beards, the beads, and the flower heads left our crowd largely in suspense.

            It was one thing to listen to Gary Puckett sing Woman, but it was completely another to listen to the categorical corruption Yellow Submarine ushered in. Little did we know that the best years of radio would come to a close. Even KOMA would recognize that inevitable theme, and just before 3:00 PM, September 12, 1980, disc jockey, Gregg Lindahl, queued up and played John Denver and Thank God I’m a Country Boy.

KOMA went home … the scraggly facial hair, the drugs, the psychedelic hooliganism, and the self-indulgence of a screwed-up generation forced a change.

            Kissing Tone

            The savings grace for our local music scene was local bands that never left their roots. Dances at the Sheriff’s Posse, the Murray Hotel, the armory, and various other venues bound us to a better time and music. I was certainly reminded one night at the American Legion Hall on College Avenue. With a room largely filled with city kids, Ralph Walker came over from the Bayard area to the dance. I don’t remember his partner, but the two of them waltzed and two stepped in such form, grace, and harmony that most of the crowd simply stood back and watched.

            It took me home, too, and the temptation for something else never materialized again.

            Music is timeless only if it is good, and, to be good, you need to be able to dance to it. A little kissing tone, emotion, and atmosphere works as well. There have been some great dance floors. From under the stars at places like Penticton’s Lake front, Kingsburg’s gun club and Riverland, and the Ranching Heritage Center in Lubbock our kind of music has been played and enjoyed. Looking back, it has held generations together. It has helped us keep our way of life and our identity.

            As our world becomes even crazier, there are fewer and fewer things that seem to make sense. We need to hold to those things dear that bind us, and discard those things that divide us.

           

            Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Draggin’ Main once in a while might work wonders.”