A man much wiser than me once spoke of the resonance of walking down the street you grew up on with your children, holding their hands while pointing out the faces, the names, and the experiences that all provide sort of an added genetic trait that lives within you. And perhaps give a sense who you are and what you are passing on. My Labor Day trip with Jack to Philadelphia to see Springsteen was a walk not down Grace Avenue or Broadway, but down E Street, a land of hope and dreams that has shaped some of my life.
I never would have imagined during those hundreds (it may have been thousands) of hours listening to "Born to Run " or "Darkness" or "Wild and Innocent" in the solitude of my room that I someday would be listening to these songs with a child of my own.
But it happened.
The show was outstanding in a typical Springsteenian way: Three and a half hours (Jack made it all the way through), a few rarities, lots of singalongs, and "Rosalita." Jack got to hear his favorite "Death to My Hometown," although I think he was a bit disappointed that they didn't try to recreate the cannon blast from the recorded version. There was a distinct lack of intimacy in the 50,000 seat baseball park, but the look on Jack's face when our eyes met several times during the show made for intimate -- and treasured -- moments all their own.
Since we've been back in N.C., Jack hasn't spoken much about the trip; I hope it's something he remembers fondly in years to come. I think he will.
Life has a way of throwing so many curveballs and getting so crowded and overwhelming that it's easy to overlook the significance of certain events. For me, that night I made a promise I swore I'll always remember -- to never forget the feeling I got when seeing a nine-year-old's face light up when the lights went down on that sticky evening in that cavernous stadium.
I can only imagine that my face has looked exactly the same, about 110 times before.
No comments:
Post a Comment