Last week, Olivia Newton-John died and, for the record, it was a sad moment for me. Ms. Newton-John’s is one of those iconic faces that emerge from the fog as I started becoming aware of the culture around me at the dawn of the 1980’s. There was Pac-Man, E.T., the “Jaws” theme, the Mandrell Sisters, “The Dukes of Hazzard,” Kenny and Dolly, the Smurfs, Debbie Harry and:

• Newton-John as Kira in Xanadu
• Lou Ferrigno/Bill Bixby in/as The Hulk
• Marc Singer and Tanya Roberts in The Beastmaster
• Sam J. Jones, Brian Blessed (and Freddie Mercury’s voice) in Flash Gordon

Looking back at most of those shows, they were not what one could call, well, good or high art.

Nevertheless, I watched them and, given the fact that I still remember them, I must have watched them lots of times. And that means my (poor?) mother must have watched them with me lots of times, too.

My mom never had, and still doesn’t have, snobbery about films and TV shows. If the people are nice and are doing nice things, she’s supportive. If nasty people are doing nasty things, she awaits their come-uppance after hissing. If the adventure makes your heart skip a beat, she’s willing to suspend her disbelief. While my snob reflex is complaining about cheap emotional manipulation, my mom gladly enjoys the feeling she was engineered to feel. And because of this, she winds up enjoying a great many things from a great many genres. And this has always been so.

Luckily, despite the fact that these shows were, well, not all that great, and because my mom was quite tolerant of their, eh, foibles, I got to appreciate some great, bad movies. I suppose that’s where my tolerance — if not outright enjoyment — of camp ("Mommie Dearest"), failed ambitious movies (Lynch’s Dune), and howlingly bad movies comes from (the aforementioned, Flash Gordon).

I suppose I want to say: I loved watching sci-fi and fantasy shows (of dubious merit) as a kid, with my mom, in that quaint house in Cypress, Texas at the dawn of the decade that would define my childhood. And I’m glad that the memories of enjoying camp nonsense together with my mom featured the glorious feathered blonde hair, the dentist’s dream smile, and china-blue eyes of Ms. Newton-John (and a space-disco psychedelic soundtrack by ELO). And I’m sad that ON-J’s death means that someday those memories will be washed in time. But for a brief moment, let us shine like neon in Xanadu.