I remember the field in back of our house lit up with fireflies.
It was nighttime in the brief northern Michigan summer, and
there were hundreds of them, flickering away for my amusement.
My Father explained to me, these were bugs
that made a flashing light. He called them “lightning bugs”.
I was amazed. That happened nearly half a century ago, and it is
the earliest memory I have of this life.

I was born in a northern Michigan town, on the shores of
Lake Michigan, in early January, 1959. It was lunchtime. The Cold War was in full swing. Fidel Castro had just overthrown the Cuban
government, Elvis joined the Army, and Alaska gained statehood just a few days before. My Mother says the doctor who             
delivered me had to interrupt his lunch, and came in wiping his
mouth with a napkin. I Hope the poor guy got a chance to
finish his sandwich.

My parents were educators, and found better jobs to the
south, in Orchard Lake, Michigan. We had a house on the
lake, and I rapidly developed a love for water sports. I could swim,
catch fish, water ski and pilot a canoe solo before I entered
kindergarten, in 1963. I was getting ready for school one crisp fall day that year. The babysitter came in my bedroom, hysterical, and told me there would be no school that afternoon. President Kennedy had been shot. Although I was only four, I was quite aware of the mass panic that ensued. I will never forget Walter Cronkite breaking down on national television.

We were only there for four years, and it was time to move
again. My Father had landed a job as Superintendent of the
public schools, in DeWitt, Michigan. It was now 1967.

DeWitt (at that time) was a small farming village. We played
in the woods, cornfields and on the lawns and streets of town.
We reveled in our little Utopia, safe and friendly, uncluttered with the debris of the outside world. We freely roamed the landscape with no concern, as the Detroit riots raged, and our nation witnessed the murders of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy.

That same year, our parents bought a resort in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. If DeWitt was rural Americana, this was downright primitive. The place had a prehistoric quality. Giant pileated woodpeckers, and behemoth northern pike that resembled legless alligators. Bears. Luna moths. Massive salamanders and crayfish, seemingly forgotten by evolution. We spent our summers renting cabins to tourists on magnificent Milakokia Lake. My brother and  I spent our time coursing the thick, enveloping woods and cedar swamps, until we were afraid to go any further, for fear of not finding our way back. Baby sister would sit on the rocky limestone shoreline, and play with the pretty stones she found. Come early September, we would load up the Skylark wagon and head back to DeWitt for the school year.

Growing up in a rural 70's Midwest town was about as good as it gets. The youth of America, however briefly, had shown themselves a force to be reckoned with. Giant Rock and Roll concerts, parties, sit in protests and dances.  We  were part of something important. Our collective voices had been heard, and they actually made a difference. Nobody wanted to go to Vietnam to die for nothing. We had challenged the mighty American military/industrial complex, and won. And we were just a bunch of kids.

In the mid 70's, I was Captain of the high school swimming team, a top student, and the Vietnam War was over, so I no longer had the cloud of “the draft” hanging over my head. I graduated from DeWitt High School in 1977, along with 124 of my classmates, and headed for Michigan State University.

Although I did well in my college classes, I never did finish. This is a period where I made some rather poor decisions. Instead of finishing school, I married a beautiful Venezuelan girl, and went to work. The marriage lasted about as long as a stray dog in a Korean restaurant. I had no wife, no college degree, and no idea what to do next. So I took a job as a cook.

After a few years of drifting between parties and menial jobs, I decided to attend a two year Associate’s Degree program to become a paramedic. During that time, I supported myself playing in a wedding band called “Escapades”. I graduated near the top of my class and took the state exam. At 29, I was a licensed paramedic.

So, I began looking for a job as a paramedic. While scanning the want ads, I noticed an ad for a bass player. On a lark, I called the number. I had played a bass maybe three times in my whole life. I discovered the band was a very popular and well paid touring 50’s revue. I auditioned, and got the job because I was fluent with vocal harmonies. I had dodged the dreaded day job.

As the 90’s began, I was touring all over the Eastern U.S. and Canada, and was blessed with a baby girl. When I wasn’t on the road, I spent most of my time with her. Our show was well received everywhere we went. The hours were long, the roadtrips were grueling, and the parties wild. We played gigs with a lot of well known Oldies acts, like The Shirelles, etc. The road went on forever and the party never ended. I lived in the capricious light of semi – stardom, and had no idea at the time how fleeting that can be. In 1992 the bandleader quit, the guys disbanded, and the gig was up. The party had indeed ended.

With that experience in the bag, I had no trouble finding work as a guitarist. My friend Tommy Vale had a working band, and he hired me as a lead guitarist. Tommy was also a booking agent, so we usually had decent gigs, with an occasional dive thrown in to keep us humble. My rock star status had evaporated, but at least I had enough work to make a living. I played all over the Midwest with Tommy until 1996. The summer of 96, Tommy and I had a heated argument after opening a beach concert for Three Dog Night, and he fired me.

I decided to launch my own band, and “Ritchie and the Rockets” was born. We played a mix of oldies and classic rock. Tommy and  I had patched things up by then, and he kept us booked solid on weekends, since weekday work for bar bands had completely dried up by that time. My daughter lived full time with me, and spent weekends with her mother, enabling me to go play my gigs. We still have the same visitation schedule to this day. Even working weekends only, I managed to make a living, and still be a full time parent. I had developed pretty shrewd business practices by then.

In 2004, I was 45. With the live music scene dying a slow death, I decided it was time to get out. My era was over. I could not work as a paramedic, without taking the whole 2 year program over again, as my license had long since expired. Instead, I opted for an accelerated program that got me certified in several different medical occupations. I finished the course at the top of my class, and went right to work. Presently, I provide home healthcare services for the elderly and disabled, and write songs when the mood strikes. You can listen to them in the MusicZone.

Starting a new career at 46 is a challenge, to put it politely. All of my peers and even most of my superiors are a generation younger than me. It feels like graduating high school, only to find you are being sent back to kindergarten to start all over. Having said that,  my current job is secure and comfortable. Life is peaceful, stable and my lovely daughter is now 16. She has been with me full time since 1998, and she’s a great kid. Although I invested a lot in my music career, and wound up with nothing but memories, I don’t regret it. I had the chance to experience things that most people only dream of.

I know, it’s only rock and roll, but I like it.

Jim Ritchie     November 2006

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