Tag: writing

I'm so happy to be here!

The Ties That Bind: Stories of Love, Family, & the Legacy We Leave

darin

Our First Date

Bruce is a storyteller, which is likely the reason I became such a huge fan; the characters and struggles and dreams and disappointments he writes into each of his songs are tangible to me. As a coming-of-age kid, dealing with all the natural and hormonal confusion of that transition, and then to have life sucker-punch the breath out of you, I found myself in Bruce’s lyrics, like Growin’ Up.

I took long month vacations in the stratosphere you know it's hard to hold your breath
I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared, I was the comic kid in full costume dress,
Well, my feet they finally took root in the earth, I got me a nice little place in the stars
And I swear I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parts car
I hid in the mother breast of the crowd but when they said, "Pull down," I pulled up
Ooh... growin' up.

Bruce sang, “I found the key to the universe in the engine of an old parts car.” That old parts car, for me, was the ’65 Mustang Dad and I built. When he died, it was the biggest piece of him I had left to hold on to. My buddy Todd and I spent every waking hour—when we weren’t stalking Shari—tinkering on our cars. (Todd’s car by the way, was a ’69 Chevy with a .396 just like the one mentioned in Bruce’s song, Racing in the Street.)

The opportunity I’d been waiting for finally dawned. News broke of the Born in the USA Tour coming to the Orange Bowl on a Monday. Tickets would go on sale at 9AM Thursday morning. Local radio stations reported there were already hundreds of people in line. In Miami. We were smarter than that. 

What’s driving four-hours and spending two-and-a-half days camped outside a Ticket Master box office in downtown Orlando to a young fool in love?

We were first in line in Orlando, with lawn chairs, Little Debbies, Doritos, a pizza, and a cooler full of Cokes. Thursday, 9AM sharp, BAM! Stadium floor. Center. 20 rows off the stage! 

Then it was time to make the call. 

I’d thought through every possible course the conversation could take … except the path it took. Shari said, “I’d love to go, but my mom wants me to ask if you can get a ticket for my boyfriend too.” Never saw that one coming. 

Todd read the panic on my face. He’s nodding and mouthing, “Yes! Absolutely!” What a friend! He was ready to give up his second ticket for my date’s boyfriend. 

I knew her boyfriend was finished an hour later when Shari called me back (a momentous moment, by the way, the love of my life called me!!!) to say he didn’t want to go. “He’s not a Springsteen fan.” Too bad. If he was, he’d have known where this story was going.

I met her on the strip three years ago
In a Camaro with this dude from L.A.;
I blew that Camaro off my back,
And drove that little girl away!

Shari wasn’t a Springsteen fan yet. Like every other kid in America, she heard the singles off the new Born in the USA album playing around-the-clock on the radio and MTV. But beyond that, she had no clue what she was in for. The long car ride to the stadium that night gave me a chance to tell Shari about my affection for (or addiction to) Jersey Shore rock-n-roll, the relatability of Bruce’s storytelling, and the phenomena known as “The Big Man,” Clarence Clemons. I knew the E Street Band’s epic live show reputation would deliver an unforgettable experience. There was one song in particular I wanted her to hear.

We were about three hours into the show when Bruce led off the first of his three encores with Born to Run. I looked into Shari’s eyes during Clarence’s sax solo and I knew—She gets it! She gets me! She sees us!

Born to Run is the story of a guy and a girl who dream of escaping the confines of their circumstances and the pressures of coming of age; two dreamers on the run, searching for freedom beyond the horizon; their place in the sun, their happily-ever-after. 

In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream,
At night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines;
Sprung from cages on Highway 9,
Chrome-wheeled, fuel-injected, and steppin’ out over the line;
Oh Baby, this town rips the bones from your back,
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap, we gotta get out while we’re young;
‘Cause tramps like us, Baby we were born to run.

Wendy, let me in, I wanna be your friend,
I wanna guard your dreams and visions;
Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims
And strap your hands 'cross my engines;
Together we could break this trap,
We'll run 'til we drop, baby, we'll never go back;
Oh, will you walk with me out on the wire?
'Cause, baby, I'm just a scared and lonely rider,
But I gotta know how it feels;
I want to know if love is wild,
Baby, I want to know if love is real.
Oh, can you show me?
Beyond the Palace, hemi-powered drones
Scream down the boulevard;
Girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors,
And the boys try to look so hard;
The amusement park rises bold and stark,
Kids are huddled on the beach in the mist;
I wanna die with you, Wendy, on the street tonight,
In an everlasting kiss.
The highway's jammed with broken heroes
On a last chance power drive;
Everybody's out on the run tonight,
But there's no place left to hide
Together, Wendy, we can live with the sadness,
I'll love you with all the madness in my soul;
Oh, someday, girl, I don't know when,
We're gonna get to that place
Where we really wanna go and we'll walk in the sun;
But 'til then, tramps like us,
Baby, we were born to run.

This was our story. We both knew it. 

That Monday night after the show, she slid into that car next to me … and never left my side.

To be continued …

I'm so happy to be here!

The Ties That Bind: Stories of Love, Family, & the Legacy We Leave

darin

I’m composing a series of posts for my author/writing website that will, through the course of the series, tell the story of my wife’s and my relationship–and how it somewhat paralleled that of my parents’ relationship. The notes on my parents’ relationship come from my mom’s handwritten story of her life, marriage and family that I came into possession of after she died (at 86). We lost my dad many years earlier (when he was only 54 and she was 52). I am hopeful this series will especially be a blessing to my children and my siblings (and extended family and friends). I’m calling the series The Ties That Bind and I’m going to call this first entry ...

The Roughneck & The Valedictorian

Let me tell you a story.

Long ago, there was a beautiful young girl of 16, devoted to her studies, on her way to becoming Valedictorian, busy with extracurricular activities—captain of the cheerleading squad, student-government treasurer, class activities planner, chorus, and so on—she also worked part-time in a lakeside diner to help out her family. 

There was this hot-rodding, roughneck character who started hanging out down by the lake. Like Jungleland’s Magic Rat, he “drove his sleek machine” (an immaculate, souped-up ‘47 Ford pickup truck, banana yellow with polished chrome,), “over the [town] line,” revving its loud engine and making a scene. 

Once he’d laid eyes on the girl, everywhere she went he’d show up, revving his engine when he saw her. If she looked, he flashed a smile. If she didn’t, he’d rev the engine again. He’d strut into the crowded diner like he owned the place and try to scheme his way into her section. He’d position himself to flirtatiously block her path as she served, forcing her to step around him, smiling as they made eye-contact. He was annoying. “A real pain in the ass.” 

But charming.

One day the girl came home from school and her mother met her at the door. “A boy named George called. He wants to stop by,” she said. The girl was thrilled. She thought George Hintzman, the captain of the basketball team, was coming over to ask her out on a date. 

Then she heard the roughneck’s loud hot-rod pulling in. 

The girl’s mother was very strict. ‘This guy has no idea what he is walking into,’ she thought, certain that once her mother saw that this boy was actually a smart-ass young man from Libertyville, and heard that his plan was to drive her daughter, in that hot-rod, far away from Grayslake where they lived and into downtown Chicago to see the Harlem Globetrotters, she just knew his plan would be dead in the water and that he’d be “out on his ear.” She sat in mouth-wide-open-shock when her mother said yes. He’d pick her up Saturday.

Saturday, she slid into that hot-rod next to him … and never left his side.

I got a ’69 Chevy with a three-ninety-six, Fuellie heads and a Hurst on the floor,
She’s waiting tonight down in the parking lot, outside the Seven-Eleven store;
Me and my partner Sonny built her straight out of scratch, 
and he rides with me from town to town,
We only run for the money, got no strings attached,
We shut ‘em up and then we shut ‘em down.
Tonight, tonight the strip's just right, I wanna blow 'em off in my first heat,
Summer's here and the time is right, for racing in the street.

[Bruce Springsteen, "Racing in the Street," track 5, Darkness on the Edge of Town, 1978]

Working on the car with Dad was a right of passage in the Shaw family—each of the five of us Shaw kids had our turn. The stories are legendary in family lore. Cherished memories. 

So many invaluable life lessons Dad taught me along the way … like how to turn a can of WD40 and a lit cigarette into a flame thrower! No kidding, as we were working on the car one night, I watched the old man take out a nuisance flying hornet, mid-flight. He pulled the lit cigarette from his lip, lined it up with a can of WD40 … Aim. Fire! POOF! Torched!

Hornet ash rained down. The, without missing a beat, like a gunfighter holstering his smoking side-iron, Dad twirled that cigarette right back onto his lip, took a deep drag, and went on working like nothing happened. 

Each of us siblings have stories of working on our first car with Dad. Mine was the cream-colored, classic ’65 Mustang Dad brought home when I was 14, giving us plenty of time to “tinker on it,” as he liked to say. 

That whole “she slid into the seat next to him …” thing, you could say the beginnings of Shari’s and my story was written in my DNA.

To be continued …