THERE was a moment in time.

"Mama" was an Italian immigrant -- all of 4"-something, but full of pepper. She ran a fifties-style diner in the middle of South Berkshire County -- in 1976. There you were, driving along through cowpies, and bugs, and trees -- and then WACK! This two-and-a-half story harp-shaped, fully lit iridescent sign hit you in the face, looming over a converted ranch house. There it was glowing against the horizon, calling you to stop at "Mama's Hideaway."

She was the cook. You didn't dare call her a chef. Most of the time she just wore the apron and took off her shoes, sat down with the customers and enjoyed a glass of Chianti because she was "too tired to cook." Really, the place was about the bar, anyway. And the jukebox.

That's all there was out here, amid the cowpies.

That's about when you started to relax a little yourself, and to glance around at the bar -- to notice just who, on any given night was sitting there.

That’s how the records got in the jukebox. Mama made them. The fellow sitting at the bar now, the one she told she was too tired to make dinner got up and put in a quarter.

“Ah!” she says, “That’sa our song. Now youa play oura song so Ia maka you dinner?” The place burst into a snicker.

“But Mama,” said Arlo,”You’re an artist too.”

“I see what I can do,” she said slipping her shoes on and heading into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Mama returned with a sandwich.

“Kitchen aclosed for anight!” she said settling back to her glass of Chianti.

I was 16 when we used to frequent Mama’s – too young to drink, and I didn’t even yet have a driver’s license. I’m not even sure exactly which town the “Hideaway” was in (All trees look alike to a city kid – I’d love to figure it out, if anybody knows).

Mama and Arlo, though, are still one of the favorite pieces of vinyl in my collection. Best .75 I ever spent!