Seeing Springsteen, again and again and again
Feb16

Seeing Springsteen, again and again and again

So, yeah. I’m obsessed. I began following Bruce Springsteen as a schoolboy coming of age in mid-1970s Omaha. A few seconds after graduation, I loaded up my Mercury Bobcat (creamsicle orange paint, white vinyl top) and headed east. Crossing the Jersey state line, I popped in the cassette tape I had been saving for that moment and sang al’ong with Bruce about “barefoot girls sitting on the hood of a Dodge, drinking warm beer in...

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Looking For a Toolbox of Memories
Oct26

Looking For a Toolbox of Memories

Since my father died just shy of his 80th birthday, I’ve visited his grave only a few times. My mother finds comfort in sitting on the nearby granite bench, listening to the small planes come and go from a nearby airport and communing with her husband of more than half a century. But for me, the memory of burying his ashes in that place remains too close, too raw. Instead, when I travel to Jacksonville, the Florida city where he...

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