The tune that kidnapped me last week was “Son of a Poor Man” by REO Speedwagon, one of my favorite arena-rock bands from my teenage years.

Along with Chicago-based Styx, we claimed REO as ours, one of the preeminent stadium-rock bands of the late ’70s and early ’80s. I saw them only once in concert, in the summer of 1980 at Alpine Valley in Wisconsin.

It’s this cobwebbed image that got caught in my head last week when “Son of a Poor Man” came on the radio.

“And the son of a poor man, ain’t gonna turn your head around. But if you ever get lonely, just pick up the telephone. And the son of a poor man will bring you home.”

Most songs from our younger days grow old with us, with wrinkled lyrics and graying melodies in our minds.

A few rare old songs drift away from us at a young age and seem to wind up in some kind of music oblivion.

I was struck by that kind of song and, for a moment, it electrified my recollections.

I vividly remember my Grandma Davich and Granny Steen both having a cup or can of bacon drippings on their stove.

Last Sunday, when I poured my bacon drippings into a coffee cup and placed it on the stove, it wasn’t for practical purposes.

Gary Richrath