Late Sunday evening I packed my bag and got in my car to head to the company event that has been consuming my waking (and a few non-waking) hours for the past several weeks.
It was a warm summer evening, in the gathering twilight that I like best when it is still light but the sky is beginning to gray and the lights of the cars and houses really seem to pop. I swung out onto the almost deserted highway and flipped over from radio to CD and was rewarded with a couple of songs from Springsteen’s Born to Run album.
The quality of light, the open road in front of me, a couple of anthems from my youth…it was as if a screen door slammed in my mind, a dress waved, and a vision danced across the porch as the radio played.
I put the pedal down and off I screamed into the night.
Just give us a funny picture or something, lik a squirrel
Squirrels are funny
John, I too considered Springsteen songs a reminder of carefree, happy days as a young man. Then, one day, in a truckstop somewhere in Wisconsin, in their display of dollar cassettes with such great artists as Boxcar Willie and Slim Whitman, I saw Born to Run. I won’t say I was totally devastated, but I was almost totally devastated. How old was I getting to be? I’m sure every generation goes through it; but that doesn’t make the reality any less harsh.
Marty: you want squirrels, come on over and check it out.