70s Fever Part 4: When I Wore a Younger Man's Clothes

In a previous Joel Has Soul post, I briefly touched upon the origins of my Billy Joel obsession.  You may or may not recall that my mom was the person who first introduced me to the Piano Man when my age was still just a tiny elementary-schooler.  My mom is also the reason behind my love of the 1970s; the product of a 70s childhood, she has always been my primary source for all knowledge of the era.

My grandma still lives in my mom's childhood home.  Time stands still in that house (evidenced by the fact that she doesn't even own a microwave), and I've come to cherish it as my direct link to those golden years of yore that I love to study.  32 Glenn Circle is my favorite place on Earth.

This post is a tribute to my mom (if this post is already too gooey you can stop reading now and I won't be offended). I fell in love with the 70s and Billy Joel's music not through in-depth analysis of historical events and famous melodies, but simply by listening to stories my mom used to tell me about her childhood, rummaging through the endless boxes of high school yearbooks, albums, and other artifacts, and by sharing the same meals on Thanksgiving and Easter that my mom's family always has.

As a lover of the past, I believe that at the heart of history is the everyday people who live it as the present.  I love hearing about the individual experiences of people that culminate in what we categorize in broad terms like "the culture of the 1970s".

The individual story I want to share with you today is the story of my mom, Joan Portanova.

My mom was raised in Erdenheim, Pennsylvania, which is about 30 minutes north of Philadelphia and exactly two hours north of our current home in Maryland.  Erdenheim is so small that it comprises literally one main strip of shops, a park, and a few neighborhoods before it melts into a different town.  Like my grandma's house, it hasn't changed that much either.  There's a farmer's market, a car wash, and a disproportionate number of small Italian restaurants (if you're ever there, go to Scoogi's).   If you turn right into the small cul-de-sac at the top of the hill, you'll find a house with a perfectly symmetrical oak tree in its tiny front yard.
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It's 1970. In the front yard, my mom chases her dog Banjo around the wide Oak tree, its colors shifting into golds and reds. She laughs gleefully as my grandma calls her inside.

In the living room, she gathers in front of the Christmas tree with her brother, my Uncle Mike.  On Christmas Eve, they decorate the tree with homemade ornaments and strings of popcorn, a pot of cheese fondue resting patiently on the mahogany coffee table.

In the dining room, she waits expectantly at the helm of the plaid-drenched dining room table for my Grandma to serve the punch and english muffin pizzas to her and her friends: birthdays always call for a special meal.

In the kitchen, she slides across the tiled floors and sneaks Pepperidge Farm cookies out of the cabinet to enjoy while watching soap operas after school.

Through the narrow hallway and up the stairs, she learns how to waltz with my grandpa; Johnny Cash and the performers of Broadway guide each step through the ever-present mouthpiece of the recordplayer.

In her room, she listens to her own albums on a blue and purple portable turntable.  Learning the chords to James Taylor songs on guitar becomes a principal pursuit.

From downstairs, my grandma calls my mom to hurry: it's time to go.  Back in the front yard, she hugs her boyfriend goodbye and packs into the station wagon filled to the brim with clothes, excitement, and expectations: it's 1979, and a new decade at Penn State awaits my mom as she pulls out of 32 Glenn Circle.
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the Christmas tree, present-day

the view from the window of my mom's room

my mom, ca. 1975