Still free . . . to love it

Tucked inside my Welcome Back Kotter album case were the go-tos: It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown; Six Magical Folk Tales; and of course, Free to Be . . . You and Me.

Lying on my green shag rug, I'd follow along with the Great Pumpkin storybook. But Free to Be had that hand-drawn, kids-as-letters album cover in gorgeous magenta. I especially loved the guy with his legs wrapped around the "o" in you - no storybook needed.

I'm pretty sure I wasn't quite dialed in to the groundbreaking nature of that 1972 album, never informed how nothing previous had addressed gender equality (or neutrality) as powerfully, eloquently, simply.

But I certainly got the messages: I should dress how I want. Looks are overrated. Housework should be shared. Don't act entitled. There's no such thing as guy things or girl things. Friendship can't be beat, and conformity can.

I didn't know Rosey Grier was a big football player, who Marlo Thomas was, that Alan Alda and Mel Brooks were Emmy Award winners - just that they all contributed to music and stories that still make me want to ride a unicorn where the river runs free.

As I got older and my record player was replaced by a cassette player that was replaced by a CD player, that album case eventually was transferred to the basement. I forgot all about how William's grandmother bought him a doll, how Dudley Pippin was blamed for tipping over the sand table at school.

Then, nearly 10 years after my last listening, I'm drinking at a get-together of grad-school classmates and Free to Be comes up. One of them has the tape. We listen to it, and I am, for lack of a better term, born again. Then - in an act of near godliness in the days before you could find everything retro on the Internet - she gives me her tape.

After that reunion, I played it during runs, through headphones as I painted or drew. I begged my sharp-eared husband, born of another generation, to play it on a road trip, and he agreed it was special. Even now, writing this essay, I'm listening from my phone, downloaded from iTunes.

And my goodness, the lessons remain ever relevant. Argue with your partner recently about housework? Still waiting for permission to wear red jeans out of the house? And how grateful are you for those best friends? Thought so.

After my son was born, he learned a lot of James Taylor, Fleetwood Mac, Neil Young - by osmosis; the stereo was just always on. But I wouldn't let his ears hear Free to Be ... without a formal introduction: "This, Harry, is important, so pay attention."

He was three months old, and I swear he smiled just as those first banjo picks sounded.

At a barbecue soon after, I ran into another woman with a newborn, and asked her while scooping quinoa salad what she named the cutie who was wearing rainbow tights and a tutu.

"Atalanta."

I looked up. Not the mythological Greek goddess. Could it be?

"You mean, from Free to Be?"

"YES!" she shouted.

You've never seen two such sleep-deprived people show so much pep. A sister!

I thought about my own son's legacy, how special it was to be named after my late grandfather, one of the most comfortable-in-his-skin, original individuals I have known (a Free to Be trait, of course). But this girl was named after the princess who escaped marriage by winning a race against all the kingdom's suitors.

Beloved grandfather.

Made-up character in a children's album.

Which continues to prove a point.

Free to Be may be in its 40s, but its message is hardly middle-aged. It's just as beloved and necessary, full of meaning and depth, in 2014 as it was the year I was born.

Just last week, Harry, now 3, was dumping newspaper scraps into his trash trucks on the kitchen floor. I told him it was a good thing he planned to be a trash-truck guy for Halloween.

"Maybe I'll be a dancer," he said. This was new, I thought.

"You want to be a dancer instead of a trash guy?"

"Noooo," he said correctively. "I'm still going to be a trash-truck guy. But trash-truck guys can be dancers, too."

Amen, kiddo.

An evening of music, film, and reflection on the groundbreaking album Free to Be . . . You and Me, with Lori Rotskoff (editor of When We Were Free to Be), singer-songwriter Chana Rothman, and Carole Hart (original album producer).

7 p.m. Wednesday at Christ Church Neighborhood House, 20 N. American St.

Tickets: $8-$10.

215-854-2437

@fs_paper