My daughter and I were out and about running errands when she decided to switch the radio station. She pressed it a few times pausing briefly before pushing the button yet again in search of one that could hold her interest. As she reached to switch channels once again, I said, “Wait!” I had heard the unmistakable gravely voice singing a song of my youth. To my delight, that voice was belting out the lyrics to “Born in the USA.”
I found myself instantly transported back as a giddy young girl crammed into a small white Ford Escort with several of my girlfriends. We were on a road trip to the Los Angeles Coliseum to see Bruce Springsteen’s Born in the USA Tour. With months of planning behind us, we could barely stand the thought that the day had actually arrived for us to see our idol. We had planned for at least a four-hour drive. Still traffic was even worse than we thought it would be and the trip seemed to be taking us twice as long as it should have. We didn’t care.
We had left in plenty of time, had brought along snacks and of course, every single one of Bruce’s cassette tapes. (And yes, we did call him Bruce. We didn’t think he would mind.) When were weren’t butchering his songs with our raucous singing, we were discussing what we loved most about “The Boss.” Some of us loved his dark curly hair, others were mesmerized with his dark brooding eyes. All of us agreed that his posterior, which had been so prominently featured on the album cover, was something to behold.
As we got closer to the arena, the excitement level rose. We started to see flags, painted windows and hand-written signs on the other cars professing their love of all things Bruce. In our enthusiasm, we started honking our horn and yelling out the window with the other fans. We could barely stand it.
The actual concert was all we had hoped for and more. Watching Bruce up on stage, singing with such passion that sweat was dripping off of him was something to see. We screamed at the pure joy of being in the same (very large) room with him until we all lost our voices. Just watching him…
“Mom. Mom. Can I change the station now?”
I found myself jolted back to the real world. As I grinned at my daughter and started to reminisce with her, I paused as I heard the beginnings of the familiar strains of Cyndi Lauper’s Time after Time.
“Oh my gosh, this is a great station. I’ve never heard it before, what is it?”
My daughter rolled her eyes and merely said, “It’s the Oldies Channel, Mom.”
Oh. Glory Days indeed.