There are days when I forget I’m old enough to collect Social Security. Then there are days when I feel like putting on some go-go boots and rocking out to Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Recently, I found an old metal box I’d purchased when I was a young teen. The box locked, perfect for an oldest sister with curious younger brothers and sisters.

I’d decorated the outside of the box with the names of my favorite recording artists – The Monkees, Dave Clark Five, Davey Jones and Lesley Gore.

Back then, we’d save our money and buy 45-rpm records. You had to have a yellow plastic clip in the middle if you wanted to play the record on a stereo, and those were as valuable as money.

We’d write our favorite stars’ names on our notebooks and decorate our rooms with their posters. My youngest sister and her best friend loved Donny Osmond, and my younger sister thought Mick Jagger and Steven Tyler were the bomb.

There were the movie and television stars we dreamed about – Michael Landon, Robert Redford, David Cassidy, John Travolta and Will Smith are just a few of the heartthrobs from back then.

I thought about those times when our 14-year-old granddaughter checked her phone and noticed a new episode of her favorite show was being released that day.  When she screamed, I thought something was wrong. But when her younger sister joined in, I realized those were yelps of joy.

The old fogey in me wondered why they were so excited about something on television, a streaming service these days. Then I remembered and thought about two of my favorites on the screen, The Beatles and Tom Jones.

The Beatles surfaced on the music screen when I was in elementary school. When their movie “A Hard Day’s Night” came out, we couldn’t wait to see it.

The movie theater was packed when we finally got tickets. I didn’t hear one word in the movie because girls were screaming the entire time.

I went home angry because I’d paid to see a movie and didn’t hear any of the dialogue or songs.

A few years later, I became a huge Tom Jones fan. My siblings were forbidden from talking during the last 10 minutes of his “This is Tom Jones” show because that’s when the man would come out and perform.

Jones wore a tuxedo better than anyone else, including James Bond. He’d smile, the women would scream. He’d dance a little, and they’d scream louder. Then he’d go over to the audience and start kissing the women. At that point, I was screaming at home.

Literally.

My siblings thought I was crazy, and I was – for Tom Jones.

Now, I cringe at the memory.

I’m glad my granddaughters reminded me what it was like to be young, excited about seeing a favorite movie star on the big screen or a singer on stage.

They reminded me of how important pop-culture is in our teenage years. Most of us cried when we heard The Beatles were breaking up and then again when Diana Ross left The Supremes.

I thought about the afternoon I played The Beatles’ White Album backwards to hear “Paul is dead” for myself and the hours my friends and I spent figuring out the meaning of “American Pie.”

Pop-culture connect us and bridges the years.

On a recent car ride with some of my grandchildren, I played “Bad Moon Rising” and “My Girl,” and they loved the songs.

Later, six of us were singing every word to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” complete with air guitar during the instrumental hard-rock part of the song.

All of us have our music and big-screen legends. Some of those might be Frank Sinatra, Paul McCartney, Freddy Mercury or even an anime character.

Mine is that sexy singer from the 1970’s, Tom Jones.

   This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.