Tuesday, October 3, 2017

Somewhere You Feel Free!

My dad took me to see Tom Petty in concert when I was 16.  He got the tickets well in advance, and when the night of the event rolled around, I was mildly surprised to learn we were still going.  Oh, yeah.  A night with my dad.  I have to do this- no driving around aimlessly with my friends tonight, no sleepover at Jane's house, no movie at the dollar show.  I have to go see Tom Petty with my dad, go dancing at the zombie zoo.

It's what I'm seeing a lot on social media now, twenty years later, on the occasion of Petty's death.  The link between Tom and people's dads.  The dads of my childhood loved that guy.  And so did we, the good girls and Indiana boys.  I remember first discovering music and it started in my family room with the tapes and some shiny CDs that I would divide up between my mom's collection and my dad's.  My dad's collection was for sure a lot better.  Toni Braxton sucks. Chaka Kahn can only take you so far.  But my dad had the good stuff.  Journey.  The Stones.  Steve Miller Band, of course.  And Tom Petty.  I remember unfolding the lyrics in the cassette box and singing along with "Refugee."  "Breakdown."  "Here Comes My Girl."  And, yeah, man.  That Tom Petty was pretty rad.

We still talk about that Tom Petty concert, some twenty odd years later.  It was one of the most surprising nights of my youth, how much fun I could have with my dad.  We both sang our hearts out, and I remember looking over at him and seeing him in all his loud, sweaty, rocking out glory.  It's like those celebrity magazines, the ones that show famous doing ordinary things like grocery shopping in yoga pants.  "Stars are people, too!"  Except it was the reverse.  "Dads are awesome, too!"

And when Tom Petty belted out his cover of "Gloria" for his encore and the audience was crazy, thrumming, glowing, and feeling more alive than possible, I could officially admit it, out loud.  This was a hell of a lot more fun than a sleepover at Jane's.

Lately, I've been dwelling on some of the sour bits of my childhood.  I think this is mostly a function of looking at Andy and understanding that he's in the golden age of childhood- the years that feel like they physically form you forever.  I remember a lot about being seven, many more things about seven than being five, like Alex.  I'm quite sure I don't remember anything about being two, but I suppose it's all there, buried deep in my cells.  I'm looking at my kids and praying that when they reminisce about being young, at home with mom and dad, they will have wonderful, joyous, and happy things to say.  I am devoting myself to them, both selflessly and selfishly.  I give to them all I wanted as a kid, or at least I try.  And I attempt to hold the crazier parts back, but sometimes they come spilling out anyway.  You don't know how it feels, I sometimes think with an anxious flair.  To be me.

But when Tom Petty died, yesterday, I immediately thought about that concert with my dad.  One of the best nights of my younger life.  Despite the harshness with which I have sometimes judged my parents, there were shining, surprising moments that I need to give more equal weight.  You wreck me baby.  Yeah you break me in two.  But you move me, honey.  Yes you do.

I am nostalgic about the past and preemptively so about the present.  I take pictures of special moments, both spectacular and ordinary, so that my kids can look at them when we're all so old.  Running the bases at Wrigley Field.  Soccer on Saturday mornings.  That seven dollar ice cream cone.  Drawing in chalk on the driveway.  Riding a roller coaster at Six Flags. Buying all the flavors of Pringles at the store.  A stay at the water park.  Look guys!  Mom and Dad were fun!  They loved you so very hard.

I wonder which musician Andy, Alex, and Emily will associate with me?  Which otherwise happy songs will bring tears to their eyes?  I suppose that's not mine for knowing.  The kids will tell.  And me?  I'll just take it on faith, I'll take it to the heart.

Rest in peace, good man.

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