My wife and I couldn’t go to Chicago, so Chicago came to us.

I’m talking about the iconic rock band, not the city. In this case “iconic” can be interpreted as “old enough to involve carbon dating.”

The band Chicago Transit Authority was formed in 1967, the year I turned 10. That means I was 13 their romantic tune “Colour My World” hit the airwaves. Thirteen is a formative time in any young man’s life, but especially so for a gawky, gangly pimple-faced prairie dairy farm kid who’s struggling to figure out what, exactly, that romance stuff is.

Chicago Transit Authority had to shorten their name to Chicago when people purchased tickets to their show and expected to get a bus ride. The real CTA’s revenues were sharply reduced when the public discovered that attending the band’s crowded concerts was infinitely more enjoyable than riding on a crowded city bus.

When I was a teenager, I would have given all my money to attend a Chicago concert. That would have been a bargain as far as I was concerned, mainly because I had no money. Getting to the concert would have also been problematic as my car — a junky 1959 Ford Fairlane — was about as reliable as a 90-day weather forecast.

As time went on, Chicago pumped out hits with the regularity of baseball pitching machine. I’m a chronic radio listener so Chicago’s music became intricately interwoven with the fabric of my life.

When we learned that Chicago would be holding a concert at the Dacotah Bank Center in Brookings, it seemed as if the universe was telling us that we simply had to attend. The concert would be so close to our house that I could have gotten there on foot. And if the concert was sold out, it would probably be loud enough to be heard from the Dacotah Bank Center’s parking lot.

We scored outstanding seats: in the front row of the bleachers, which meant that we had an unobstructed view of the stage. There were a lot of gray and bald heads in the audience although I also saw a smattering of kids that were grade schoolers. They were probably there at the behest of grandparents who were eager to show the youngsters how real rock music sounded, directly from its source.

Moments before the concert began, a slideshow of iconic Chicago album covers splashed across a big screen on the stage. “I had that one!” my wife exclaimed. “And that one! And that one too!”

I didn’t realize that she was such an avid Chicago aficionado. Great minds!

Chicago took the stage and began to belt out their tunes. Listening to them live in a concert setting is much different than hearing them via the tinny, fist-sized speaker in an AM radio. For one thing, their horn section — a trumpet, a saxophone, and a trombone — is so brassy and forceful that it blows your hair back.

A pair of drum kits, each containing more percussion pieces than a college marching band, thumped out the rhythm. Clapping along proved so irresistible that my wife and I almost developed blisters on the palms of our hands. At one point during the concert, Chicago’s two percussionists played a thunderous duet that lasted long enough to warrant its own LP.

When the band launched into the “Get Away” portion of “Hard to Say I’m Sorry”, my wife exclaimed, “Wow, I feel like I’m sixteen again!” Along with the rest of audience, she rose to her feet and clapped and tapped to the music.

As she stiffly sat back down, I heard her mutter, “Oof. I’m definitely not sixteen anymore.”

The song “25 or 6 to 4” rushed out across the audience like a roaring waterfall. There may be some bafflement regarding what that song’s title means, but there was no confusion about its rollicking, pulsating beat. My toes began to tap as if they had minds of their own.

“Feelin’ Stronger Every Day” has special meaning for me. It helped me deal with the jolt of being jilted by a romantic interest when I was a teenager. More recently, it became the theme song that played on my mental jukebox during the aftermath of my cancer treatments. In both cases, I literally felt stronger every day.

The instantly recognizable opening bars of “Colour My World” gently floated out over the arena. As the soothing flute solo played, I reached over and held my wife’s hand. She looked back at me and smiled, and it dawned on me that maybe, at long last, I’ve figured out that romance stuff.

The concert was a transportational experience. Thanks, Chicago, for all the colorful memories!

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.com and in bookstores nationwide.