In a roundabout way, my love of maple syrup traces its roots to my father’s dance band, aptly named “The Noteables.”

As a child growing up in suburban Ohio in the late seventies and eighties, my brothers and I were subject to many culinary convenience trends, such as Kool-Aid, Wonder Bread, Oscar Mayer Bologna, and, of course, plastic jugs of Log Cabin Syrup, endorsed on television in those days by singer Eddy Arnold — who seemed nothing if not trustworthy on the matter of syrup. On Sunday mornings we frequently ate homemade waffles or pancakes, and, although they were made from scratch, they were embellished with this thick, brownish, viscous topping (which currently is owned by Conagra Brands, which acquired it from Pinnacle Foods, which acquired it during the bankruptcy of Aurora Foods, which acquired it from Kraft General Foods, which acquired it from a company founded by grocer Patrick J. Towle, who had invented it in 1887 as a way to dispose of leftover corn syrup — a noble history indeed).

During the era of my childhood, which saw such a rapid advance of bad processed foods, I was fortunate at least to be spared from exposure to the rapid advance of bad processed music. My parents were vigilant about what stations we were allowed to listen to on the radio and what records and audio tapes we were allowed to purchase. Thus, they kept much of the electronic invasion and vapid tunes and lyrics far from our ears. Instead, my brothers and I grew up to the sounds of my father’s trumpet, Uncle Greg’s jazz guitar,  Mr. Borgert’s bass, Dr. Joe’s drum set, the alto and tenor saxophones of Mr. Cole and Johnny Weaver, respectively, and Miss Jennifer’s lyrical voice emanating from our basement, which hosted weekly rehearsals for The Noteables.

The ensemble played band music for local events, mostly dances, in that age when adults still danced socially at parties of all sorts — work parties, retirement parties, Christmas parties, the occasional St. Patrick’s Day Party, and of course many, many weddings. Disc Jockeys pressing buttons to electronically distribute recorded music through a dance hall was not yet the norm. (It’s interesting to note that the rise of the DJ coincided with the demise of partner dancing, but that’s a topic for another day.)

Noteable arrangements are forever imprinted on my memory. I fell asleep once a week to melodies ranging from “In the Mood” to “Mood Indigo.”  But the song I loved the most was “Moonlight in Vermont.” If you have not yet heard it — and if you do not have access to a dance band in your basement — then the best introduction is the 1956 recording by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong on Verve records.

The Noteables practiced these songs, but Dad also hummed them, sung them, tapped them out on the piano to compose new arrangements, and rehearsed them during his own personal trumpet practice throughout the week. Something about the mysterious, lilting sound of “Moonlight in Vermont,” which frequented this paternal soundtrack to my life, always captivated me and made me long to bask someday in that special moonlight myself.

The day finally came when my parents took us on a family vacation to visit the maple-forested fourteenth state. My peers grew up dreaming of Disneyland, but I dreamt of moonlight in Vermont. I so clearly remember the moment, at the end of our first day of vacation, when the sun had set and the moon was on the rise. My father I and had just walked out of a restaurant. We both stopped next to the car and gazed up. It was a beautiful night, the air was calm, the quaint town of Bondville was quiet, and the light of the moon cast a hazy glow, which seemed to soften everything around us. I started singing and Dad joined in. All the childhood magic I had ever felt in the song swirled around me at that moment.