Just before beginning my senior year of high school I started keeping a journal, in which I wrote about the events in my life and my thoughts about them. I figured that if someday I ever wanted to write a book that would reflect a definitive high school experience, it would be a good idea to have some notes I could reference for authenticity. I don't know how useful it would be now; I suspect if I tried to write a high school book and relied on that journal for background information, any YA readers would respond with something like, "Oh, tell us more about what the world was like when Huey Lewis and the News were popular and payphones cost a quarter, Grandpa!"
That journal, which was a slightly larger than normal notebook of 100 spiral-bound pages, filled up in about a year and a half. By that time it had become such a habit for me I bought a replacement notebook at my college's bookstore, and another one after that, and another after that, stretching into the earliest years of my teaching career.
I began writing 'Summer Vacation' in May of 2009, which now makes it six years old. My original reason for starting it wasn't that different from why I kept a journal -- I wanted to give myself one more way to practice writing. If you were to click through the archive listing on the right side of the screen you're looking at right now, you'd see there have been a lot of posts written in those six years. Interesting little fact: I didn't realize this when I began the daily blogging this month, but it turns out that today's post, the final one of this month-long marathon, is also the 400th post I've published here. Since this was also the month the blog went over 10,000 hits, this other milestone being reached makes it sort of a landmark month. Overall, I feel pretty good about how this year's blogging marathon went. The posts were coming easier than they did even just a year ago, there were several of them I was proud of, and only once did I feel like I had phoned it in.
There's a saying that I've seen passed along and repeated in different articles or web pages related to writing, which says, in essence, that each writer needs to write a million words before they know their voice well enough to be ready for the serious work. I think it's a safe bet that if I only counted the writing done between all of the pencil and paper journaling (it was always pencil, by the way) and six years of blogging, I've gotten those first million out of my system, and then some. I think 'Summer Vacation' has served its purpose as far as giving me a different way to practice, and I'm ready for the serious work. And I likely have been for awhile. Even though it's been coming to me in tiny increments, I think I'm comfortable with that now.
The last time I spoke with my agent was a little over a month ago. Our conversation spiraled through twenty or so different topics, some that had nothing to do with writing and some that did, including a bit of talk about the business end of the writing world. I was surprised to discover how at ease I was talking about it. I figured part of that came from her being awesome, and part from a lot of the writing world still feeling theoretical to me, in some ways. But thinking back on that, I'm pretty sure part of it also came from me just knowing I'm ready for the serious work. And I know that keeping up with this blog has been a part of what got me here.
As for the future...well, May is over tomorrow, so the daily posts are done with for at least another year. Beyond that I don't know what's going to happen with the blog. Maybe the day will come when it makes more sense for me to build an entire website instead and start a different blog as a component of that, or maybe it will just fade off to a natural end the same way my journals eventually did. I don't think it makes a lot of sense to overplan things like this since it's impossible to really know what direction life decides to go. But as things are now, 'Summer Vacation' will absolutely be around for the foreseeable future. After all, just because I've reached a different plateau with writing and I'm starting to feel more at home there, that doesn't mean I still don't need the practice.
To anyone who followed my progress here throughout the month: Thanks for reading, even this final post which kind of ended up being a blog post about blog posts. If you got anything out of any of the posts that showed up here over the past month, or earlier, be sure to check back. There will definitely be more to come.
Sunday, May 31, 2015
Saturday, May 30, 2015
Day 30: The Kings and Queens of Oakes Avenue
My grandmother’s house was incredible. She lived in Superior, Wisconsin, a city that shares the westernmost tip of Lake Superior with Duluth, Minnesota. Back in the days of 55 mph speed limits with my dad behind the wheel, it was a three-hour drive from the Cities for us to get there.
We felt as welcomed and embraced there as we did in our own home. The house was covered with blankets, pillows, and comforters all implausibly soft with age, ready to be used by any number of cousins who’d be staying there and would need a couch or a spot on the floor for sleeping if our parents had claimed all of the beds, which often happened even though the front bedroom upstairs probably could comfortably sleep seven. The bathroom had an amazing claw-foot tub that took forever to fill. The house was warmed by a wood-burning stove in my younger days, which was replaced by a more radiant heater in the later years. There was a small ramp in the floor that led from the kitchen and down into the dining room, that was either the result of some construction plan I never understood or the house settling over time (I was too young to ever find out which it was). It was the only house I’ve ever known that had an actual pantry, which we (meaning my sisters and me, and many of our cousins) only cared about because that’s where the cookies and cereal were kept. Even in the cold of winter -- which, since this is Superior and Duluth we’re talking about, was a serious level of cold -- the house was always just on the edge of being too warm for comfort from all of the people usually filling it.
Gram’s house was just as much a museum of our family as it was her home, with treasure troves of history stashed away in every corner: photo albums, stacks of paperback novels, framed photographs hanging on every wall (each person in the family was represented at least once), my aunt’s paintings, sheet music from decades past, old comic books, board games, sets of poker chips and decks of cards wearing thin from overuse, both in the construction of hundreds of card houses (my cousin Paul created one he named “The Belgian Cheese Factory”) and poker games, both small and epic (Jacks or better, trips to win, anyone?). The only game of Monopoly I’ve ever played to completion was played with my cousins Chris and Kelly. It took over four hours. We had the board spread out on the dining room table, a monstrously heavyweight piece of furniture which felt like it could sit at least thirty people at a time and probably came close to doing just that a few times.
Whether we went up there for a holiday or just a stray weekend visit, it was a better time when the cousins were around. There were always adventures to be had, even if they were little more than walking two blocks to 7-11 for Cherry Coke Slurpees when we were kids or walking to Godfather’s Pizza when we were older, because it was close, the pizza was all right, and they had a Ms. Pac-Man table. We had favorite bowling alleys, favorite movie theaters, favorite record stores, and even favorite restaurants -- we weren’t too picky about those because we were teenagers; thankfully there was a McDonald’s only a short drive away, which saved my cousin John and me during one Christmas dinner when one of our aunts got a little too creative with the recipes and we needed to make a quick run for fries before dessert was served.
Summers were always good for a ride over the singing bridge and out to the beach at Wisconsin point, where we could walk something close to a hundred yards (if I remember right? I was smaller) from the shoreline before the water would even get waist deep. There was snow football in the winter, exploring the train tracks that ran less than a block from the house, and for some of us, role-playing stories from “Hogan’s Heroes,” which was almost too perfect. After all, the house probably predated World War II, and we could always pretend our grandma was a German guard without her even knowing (she was Grandma Schulz, after all).
Whenever we were together for the bigger events and holidays (there are an amazing number of teachers spread out over three generations of the family and there always have been, so we always got together over Christmas break) there were sure to be sing-alongs around the piano. Aunts and uncles and cousins, occasionally getting out guitars or other instruments that had been brought along for accompaniment. I didn’t know most of the songs and wasn’t big on the sing-alongs anyway, so it’s ironic in a way that I have that same piano in my home now. If I get my face close enough, I can still smell the intoxicatingly thick varnish that covered it.
We all spent that early part of our lifetimes creating so many moments there that became monuments of personal history for us. I’m pretty sure we even had the presence of mind inside of those moments to understand and recognize that what we had together, while not always peaceful and idyllic, was unusual and special.
But a house that old couldn’t last forever. The generations shifted, and our headquarters eventually reformed about two hours south in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. One family of cousins had grown up there, and after our uncle passed and our aunt relocated, our cousin Dan bought his childhood home and converted it into a remarkably comfortable and impeccably decorated cabin. We had all put in a lot of time at Turtle Lake growing up, so it was a natural shift. So many years later now it’s almost as much of a Mecca for the family as our grandmother’s house in Superior had been. We’ve spent weekends there when people have come together from five or six different states, as well as three time zones.
The cabin is always there for any of us to visit, but there are a few big draws every year, with none bigger than the Turtle Lake Fair. It’s exactly the tiny county (tri-county, actually) fair you’d expect a small town to have and not remarkable on its own, but it’s been an excuse for us to get together now for well over twenty years. We’ve reached the point where there’s actually an activity schedule, along with a huge cookout on Saturday evening, followed by a night of music in the basement that goes late into the night. There are enough instruments set up down there to stage a small concert -- including the light show -- and we’ve done that for ourselves many times over. What used to be playing show tunes around the piano has evolved into dozens of people taking turns singing and playing with the band. The remarkable thing about the fair weekend is how we can have close to seventy people (I’ve counted before) from four generations together in an average-sized residential yard, and for us there’s absolutely nothing unusual about it.
I know there are a lot of people who have next to no relationship with their extended families, and there are just as many who get along well. It’s different for us, though. I know everybody wants to say that to show just how close their family is, but in our case it really, really is true. And unless you’re ever fortunate enough to get a chance to tag along with one of us for a weekend in Turtle Lake, you’ll just have to take my word for it here.
But if you were lucky enough tag along, I promise you’d be welcomed with open arms.
We felt as welcomed and embraced there as we did in our own home. The house was covered with blankets, pillows, and comforters all implausibly soft with age, ready to be used by any number of cousins who’d be staying there and would need a couch or a spot on the floor for sleeping if our parents had claimed all of the beds, which often happened even though the front bedroom upstairs probably could comfortably sleep seven. The bathroom had an amazing claw-foot tub that took forever to fill. The house was warmed by a wood-burning stove in my younger days, which was replaced by a more radiant heater in the later years. There was a small ramp in the floor that led from the kitchen and down into the dining room, that was either the result of some construction plan I never understood or the house settling over time (I was too young to ever find out which it was). It was the only house I’ve ever known that had an actual pantry, which we (meaning my sisters and me, and many of our cousins) only cared about because that’s where the cookies and cereal were kept. Even in the cold of winter -- which, since this is Superior and Duluth we’re talking about, was a serious level of cold -- the house was always just on the edge of being too warm for comfort from all of the people usually filling it.
Gram’s house was just as much a museum of our family as it was her home, with treasure troves of history stashed away in every corner: photo albums, stacks of paperback novels, framed photographs hanging on every wall (each person in the family was represented at least once), my aunt’s paintings, sheet music from decades past, old comic books, board games, sets of poker chips and decks of cards wearing thin from overuse, both in the construction of hundreds of card houses (my cousin Paul created one he named “The Belgian Cheese Factory”) and poker games, both small and epic (Jacks or better, trips to win, anyone?). The only game of Monopoly I’ve ever played to completion was played with my cousins Chris and Kelly. It took over four hours. We had the board spread out on the dining room table, a monstrously heavyweight piece of furniture which felt like it could sit at least thirty people at a time and probably came close to doing just that a few times.
Whether we went up there for a holiday or just a stray weekend visit, it was a better time when the cousins were around. There were always adventures to be had, even if they were little more than walking two blocks to 7-11 for Cherry Coke Slurpees when we were kids or walking to Godfather’s Pizza when we were older, because it was close, the pizza was all right, and they had a Ms. Pac-Man table. We had favorite bowling alleys, favorite movie theaters, favorite record stores, and even favorite restaurants -- we weren’t too picky about those because we were teenagers; thankfully there was a McDonald’s only a short drive away, which saved my cousin John and me during one Christmas dinner when one of our aunts got a little too creative with the recipes and we needed to make a quick run for fries before dessert was served.
Summers were always good for a ride over the singing bridge and out to the beach at Wisconsin point, where we could walk something close to a hundred yards (if I remember right? I was smaller) from the shoreline before the water would even get waist deep. There was snow football in the winter, exploring the train tracks that ran less than a block from the house, and for some of us, role-playing stories from “Hogan’s Heroes,” which was almost too perfect. After all, the house probably predated World War II, and we could always pretend our grandma was a German guard without her even knowing (she was Grandma Schulz, after all).
Whenever we were together for the bigger events and holidays (there are an amazing number of teachers spread out over three generations of the family and there always have been, so we always got together over Christmas break) there were sure to be sing-alongs around the piano. Aunts and uncles and cousins, occasionally getting out guitars or other instruments that had been brought along for accompaniment. I didn’t know most of the songs and wasn’t big on the sing-alongs anyway, so it’s ironic in a way that I have that same piano in my home now. If I get my face close enough, I can still smell the intoxicatingly thick varnish that covered it.
We all spent that early part of our lifetimes creating so many moments there that became monuments of personal history for us. I’m pretty sure we even had the presence of mind inside of those moments to understand and recognize that what we had together, while not always peaceful and idyllic, was unusual and special.
But a house that old couldn’t last forever. The generations shifted, and our headquarters eventually reformed about two hours south in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. One family of cousins had grown up there, and after our uncle passed and our aunt relocated, our cousin Dan bought his childhood home and converted it into a remarkably comfortable and impeccably decorated cabin. We had all put in a lot of time at Turtle Lake growing up, so it was a natural shift. So many years later now it’s almost as much of a Mecca for the family as our grandmother’s house in Superior had been. We’ve spent weekends there when people have come together from five or six different states, as well as three time zones.
The cabin is always there for any of us to visit, but there are a few big draws every year, with none bigger than the Turtle Lake Fair. It’s exactly the tiny county (tri-county, actually) fair you’d expect a small town to have and not remarkable on its own, but it’s been an excuse for us to get together now for well over twenty years. We’ve reached the point where there’s actually an activity schedule, along with a huge cookout on Saturday evening, followed by a night of music in the basement that goes late into the night. There are enough instruments set up down there to stage a small concert -- including the light show -- and we’ve done that for ourselves many times over. What used to be playing show tunes around the piano has evolved into dozens of people taking turns singing and playing with the band. The remarkable thing about the fair weekend is how we can have close to seventy people (I’ve counted before) from four generations together in an average-sized residential yard, and for us there’s absolutely nothing unusual about it.
I know there are a lot of people who have next to no relationship with their extended families, and there are just as many who get along well. It’s different for us, though. I know everybody wants to say that to show just how close their family is, but in our case it really, really is true. And unless you’re ever fortunate enough to get a chance to tag along with one of us for a weekend in Turtle Lake, you’ll just have to take my word for it here.
But if you were lucky enough tag along, I promise you’d be welcomed with open arms.
Friday, May 29, 2015
Day 29: My Life in 15 Songs
Sometime in the past year or so, Rolling Stone magazine began an interview series with artists called “My Life in 15 Songs,” in which they review their musical careers and highlight fifteen songs that were significant in some way. When I saw the article the first time, I thought it was going to be more like the artists listing any fifteen songs that had been important to them. It got me thinking it would be fun to try, so I started a list.
The only rule I made was that the song had to have some significant tie to my life that went beyond the song or artist itself; you won’t find any “I heard this the first time and checked out the band and then they became one of my all-time favorites” here, because that would be too easy. I don’t know if all the songs I’ve included would be the fifteen most definitive of my life or would even come close to making my list of favorites, but, as you’ll see, they’ve all attached themselves to specific and important moments. Some were related to formative experiences, some are tied to very specific memories, and some relate to things so deeply personal I’m a little surprised I’m even writing about them here. But, you know -- Day 29 of the month of daily blog posts. Ideas are running short.
Usually I’d preface a song list with “In no particular order,” but tonight I’ll try to be as chronological as I can:
“Dancing With Myself” by Billy Idol: In the time before cable television reached the rural emptiness where my family lived in the 1980s, the only time I could ever see MTV was when we visited my cousins Chris and Amy. Twin Cities radio was sadly generic back then, so some of the songs from the early MTV videos seemed like they came from outer space. When my family caught up and had cable installed, this was the first song I watched MTV specifically hoping to see. I loved the way the guitar sounded just a little too tightly wound, then buzzed into so much distortion as the song progressed that the whole thing sounded like it was in danger of coming apart.
“Every Little Kiss” by Bruce Hornsby: Bruce Hornsby’s album “The Way it Is” was one of the first CDs I bought. If I ever mention to one of the younger people on the staff at school that I own CDs older than they are, this is one of them. As cut off as I felt from my friends while growing up in the middle of nowhere, and as much as I thought I wanted to put my hometown behind me, this song helped me find an appreciation for it. The vaguely country-tinged pop sound of the album reminded me of a slower and usually simpler rural life as I got further into college. The whole album, and this song in particular, was probably one of my very first nostalgia triggers. When this came out I could still kind of almost play the piano, and I’d bought the sheet music for “Every Little Kiss” just to try and learn the evocative piano solo in the first thirty seconds. It was well above my ability even at my peak, but I was proudly able to piece most of it together.
“Where the Streets Have No Name” by U2: I remember the big deal that was made about “The Joshua Tree” coming out in early 1987, and how everybody at college suddenly claimed to be a huge fan of U2, even if the band had been little more than a glorified “college rock” band before that, with the exception of one or two recognizable hits. The two guys who lived in the east corner room on my floor in my freshman dorm had this album almost right away, and local radio was playing this song as an album track long before it was a single, so we all recognized it. The song opens with this resonating chord progression that sounds like a melody created by the engines of an interstellar spacecraft. The guys in the corner room would play this song over and over just for that opening part. Since they had the loudest speakers on the floor by far, the sound could make your teeth vibrate from the other end of the building. This didn’t sit well with the metalheads and hippies on our floor, but the rest of us, who were so tired of listening to their music being played too loud, loved it.
“She’s the One” by Bruce Springsteen: Specifically, the performance of this song from the Tunnel of Love Express Tour at the Met Center in Bloomington, MN in May of 1988. When the E Street Band launched into this about mid-show, supported by a full horn section, it came together in a moment that stood as the single greatest musical moment of my life for a long, long time.
“Edge of a Broken Heart” by Bon Jovi: This was one of my first “holy grail” songs, the ones I would only hear on the radio and never had any luck finding in music stores. It only appeared on the soundtrack to the movie “The Disorderlies,” staring the 80s rap group The Fat Boys. Never saw the movie, but the song was getting a lot of airplay in the peak of Bon Jovi’s popularity. It’s a good pop-rock & fairly generic Bon Jovi sound, but it had hooks I couldn’t get out of my head. So many years later the song was included on a Bon Jovi greatest hits boxed set, and since the iTunes store would let me download individual tracks, I finally tracked it down. It sounded just like I’d remembered even if I hadn’t heard it in over two decades.
“Driving the Last Spike” by Genesis: This song became important to me in two different ways and at two different times for the same purpose. It’s a ten-minute epic that tells the story of the hardships suffered by the men who worked on constructing England’s railway system. I didn’t relate to that directly, but I connected to the struggles while I was out looking for my first teaching job. The job market back then was a waking nightmare for teachers, so there was a lot of frustration involved in that search. I learned to lean on this song as a source of perseverance.
There was also a weekend around that same time when one of my cousins had a graduation open house, so the whole extended family made the road trip and congregated for it. The first night there turned out to be one of those exceptional times that I think can only happen when you’re young enough: My cousin Jeff and I were set up with sleeping bags in the family room for the night and were just catching up before going to sleep, when Jeff’s sister Kelly walked in and joined us. The three of us wound up talking until about five in the morning. That night, and the rest of the weekend that followed, gave me a big push of confidence as I kept on driving around the state looking for a teaching job. I’d remember what an extraordinary family I came from and how many remarkable people I had in my corner supporting me. I kept reflecting on this each time I heard the song when one particular line came up: “They’ll never see the likes of us again.”
“Manhattan Project” by Rush: This is a song about the creation and use of the first atomic bomb. It’s a great song, but again, I assigned a separate personal meaning to it that became more important than the intended context. When my sister Jenny was pregnant with her first son, she overshot her due date and was understandably frustrated. One night, after we had all gotten together at her house for dinner and everyone who lived further away had gone home, I went out walking with Jenny, her husband, and their dog, to try and get things moving along. It was a beautiful spring evening, and this song kept playing on repeat in my head. I didn’t understand why at first, but after my oldest nephew Ben was born, I finally figured out it was because of one line that unknowingly had become some kind of a personal mantra for me during those events: “All the powers that be / and the course of history / would be changed forever more.”
“Primal Scream” by Motley Crue: No story here -- this is just my all-time #1 song to listen to while working out. It deserves a spot on the list just for that.
“Champagne Supernova” by Oasis: I have a decent-sized list of songs with bittersweet tones to them that always seem to work into my usual music rotation close to the end of the school year, the kinds of songs you might expect would fit over the closing credits of a movie after the story had ended and the characters sadly had to go their separate ways. I don’t always have the same misty feelings about the last day of school like I used to (because I’m just cranky and old and jaded and unpleasant now) but sometimes cracks will form and I can feel how much I will miss my kids and the place the had in my life for so long, particularly when I taught 5th grade and those kids would be moving on to different schools and I knew I wouldn’t be seeing most of them again. “Champagne Supernova” is one of the heavy hitters on that list of songs, and really only for the musical feel it has. The lyrics are so brilliantly nonsensical they allow you to easily to attach your own interpretation.
“We All Need Some Light: by Transatlantic: This is very possibly my favorite song, in that I can’t think of another one off the top of my head that would be able match it for that title. It’s a beautiful song, both so powerful and understated it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.
“Surrounded / Mother” by Dream Theater (& Pink Floyd): This song eventually tied “She’s the One” as the best musical moment of my life. I heard Dream Theater play “Surrounded” on their Chaos in Motion Tour, with an extended guitar solo that left my jaw hanging open. When a live album was released after the tour, I bought it just to have this song, and the version of “Surrounded” on that has probably become my all-time favorite solo. It’s tough to describe, because it’s played in such a quiet and slow part of the song but is as fast as anything else you could imagine, and somehow it all comes together perfectly. At the end, John Petrucci incorporates a recognizable passage from the David Gilmour’s solo in Pink Floyd’s song “Mother,” which on its own was also in the running to make this list. “Mother” was one of the emotional turning points from Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” which was an album I listened to over and over and over for months while I was trying to piece together how I felt about my aforementioned cousin Kelly being deployed to Iraq in 1991.
“Soldiers of Misfortune” by Filter: I’m sure I’ve mentioned writing playlists on ‘Summer Vacation’ before. A lot of writers use them to capture certain tones or feelings while they work. This song, as much as any other, had a very important role in my writing Following Infinity. I had to reinvent the context once again to apply it to what I needed, but it suited that purpose very well.
“You’ll Be Bright (Invocation Part 1)” by Cloud Cult: The first song I heard in my car on the way home from the vet’s office after taking in my dog Spencer for the last time. I can’t hear this song anymore without remembering how that felt, and it has me choking up almost every time.
“A Letter to Georgia” by The Airborne Toxic Event: A very simple and beautiful love song, but absolutely heartbreaking. The type of song that makes you think about and remember people who were once in your life but aren’t anymore, and how the pain of not being able to have them with you fades over time but never truly disappears.
“Drops of Jupiter” by Train: One morning in the months after my sister Erin died, I had a dream that I was at her funeral. It wasn’t her actual funeral but a dream version of it, the kind that made sense in the dream but wouldn’t have anywhere else. I was looking at her body in its casket and saw the casket slightly shift. Afraid it was off balance and about to fall, I hurried over to stabilize it, but before I could get there my sister sat up. She was a child now, a child that didn’t look anything like her childhood self, but I knew it was her all the same.
She smiled widely at me as I hurried over and I was slightly taken aback. “I’m dreaming right now, aren’t I?” I said to her, and she nodded, still smiling. As soon as I realized that I knew the dream was likely moments from falling apart. “Well, you look happy,” I said. She didn’t say anything in reply but just laughed. I tried to think of what I would say to her or ask her while I had the chance, but couldn’t put it together in time before I abruptly woke up.
I sat up in bed so quickly I startled Spencer, heart racing, immediately alert, on my feet, wondering over and over, “Was that just some weird dream or did that really happen?” It was easily as vivid of a dream as I’d ever had; years later I can still remember so many details, down to how the pale yellow paint on the walls in that room had been old and just beginning to chip.
Now that I was out of bed and the sun was out, Spencer figured it was time for a walk, and began dancing around my feet. I robotically led him downstairs, put him in his harness and leash, and let him guide me down the block. As we walked, “Drops of Jupiter” started playing in my head. It reminded me a lot about Erin, since there are several lines in it that seem to wondering about what somebody the singer had lost was doing now that they had moved on. It stayed in my head until we were home and I went back upstairs to shower. Once in my bedroom I turned the radio on, and of course “Drops of Jupiter” was playing. My body broke into goosebumps that were almost painfully tight.
Since then, the song has come on at several other opportune moments, usually when I’ve been worried about something and needed reassurance or encouragement that things were going to work out. I don’t listen to the radio much anymore so that takes away from the chances I might randomly hear it, but I still remember the last time it happened: I was driving to pick up some take-out I’d ordered, for a little celebration dinner after first learning I had a full manuscript request from the woman who would become my agent less than a month later. True story, all of it. Promise.
And that brings us to fifteen songs. Definitely a longer post, but an important one to me. Thanks for sticking with it if you got this far.
The only rule I made was that the song had to have some significant tie to my life that went beyond the song or artist itself; you won’t find any “I heard this the first time and checked out the band and then they became one of my all-time favorites” here, because that would be too easy. I don’t know if all the songs I’ve included would be the fifteen most definitive of my life or would even come close to making my list of favorites, but, as you’ll see, they’ve all attached themselves to specific and important moments. Some were related to formative experiences, some are tied to very specific memories, and some relate to things so deeply personal I’m a little surprised I’m even writing about them here. But, you know -- Day 29 of the month of daily blog posts. Ideas are running short.
Usually I’d preface a song list with “In no particular order,” but tonight I’ll try to be as chronological as I can:
“Dancing With Myself” by Billy Idol: In the time before cable television reached the rural emptiness where my family lived in the 1980s, the only time I could ever see MTV was when we visited my cousins Chris and Amy. Twin Cities radio was sadly generic back then, so some of the songs from the early MTV videos seemed like they came from outer space. When my family caught up and had cable installed, this was the first song I watched MTV specifically hoping to see. I loved the way the guitar sounded just a little too tightly wound, then buzzed into so much distortion as the song progressed that the whole thing sounded like it was in danger of coming apart.
“Every Little Kiss” by Bruce Hornsby: Bruce Hornsby’s album “The Way it Is” was one of the first CDs I bought. If I ever mention to one of the younger people on the staff at school that I own CDs older than they are, this is one of them. As cut off as I felt from my friends while growing up in the middle of nowhere, and as much as I thought I wanted to put my hometown behind me, this song helped me find an appreciation for it. The vaguely country-tinged pop sound of the album reminded me of a slower and usually simpler rural life as I got further into college. The whole album, and this song in particular, was probably one of my very first nostalgia triggers. When this came out I could still kind of almost play the piano, and I’d bought the sheet music for “Every Little Kiss” just to try and learn the evocative piano solo in the first thirty seconds. It was well above my ability even at my peak, but I was proudly able to piece most of it together.
“Where the Streets Have No Name” by U2: I remember the big deal that was made about “The Joshua Tree” coming out in early 1987, and how everybody at college suddenly claimed to be a huge fan of U2, even if the band had been little more than a glorified “college rock” band before that, with the exception of one or two recognizable hits. The two guys who lived in the east corner room on my floor in my freshman dorm had this album almost right away, and local radio was playing this song as an album track long before it was a single, so we all recognized it. The song opens with this resonating chord progression that sounds like a melody created by the engines of an interstellar spacecraft. The guys in the corner room would play this song over and over just for that opening part. Since they had the loudest speakers on the floor by far, the sound could make your teeth vibrate from the other end of the building. This didn’t sit well with the metalheads and hippies on our floor, but the rest of us, who were so tired of listening to their music being played too loud, loved it.
“She’s the One” by Bruce Springsteen: Specifically, the performance of this song from the Tunnel of Love Express Tour at the Met Center in Bloomington, MN in May of 1988. When the E Street Band launched into this about mid-show, supported by a full horn section, it came together in a moment that stood as the single greatest musical moment of my life for a long, long time.
“Edge of a Broken Heart” by Bon Jovi: This was one of my first “holy grail” songs, the ones I would only hear on the radio and never had any luck finding in music stores. It only appeared on the soundtrack to the movie “The Disorderlies,” staring the 80s rap group The Fat Boys. Never saw the movie, but the song was getting a lot of airplay in the peak of Bon Jovi’s popularity. It’s a good pop-rock & fairly generic Bon Jovi sound, but it had hooks I couldn’t get out of my head. So many years later the song was included on a Bon Jovi greatest hits boxed set, and since the iTunes store would let me download individual tracks, I finally tracked it down. It sounded just like I’d remembered even if I hadn’t heard it in over two decades.
“Driving the Last Spike” by Genesis: This song became important to me in two different ways and at two different times for the same purpose. It’s a ten-minute epic that tells the story of the hardships suffered by the men who worked on constructing England’s railway system. I didn’t relate to that directly, but I connected to the struggles while I was out looking for my first teaching job. The job market back then was a waking nightmare for teachers, so there was a lot of frustration involved in that search. I learned to lean on this song as a source of perseverance.
There was also a weekend around that same time when one of my cousins had a graduation open house, so the whole extended family made the road trip and congregated for it. The first night there turned out to be one of those exceptional times that I think can only happen when you’re young enough: My cousin Jeff and I were set up with sleeping bags in the family room for the night and were just catching up before going to sleep, when Jeff’s sister Kelly walked in and joined us. The three of us wound up talking until about five in the morning. That night, and the rest of the weekend that followed, gave me a big push of confidence as I kept on driving around the state looking for a teaching job. I’d remember what an extraordinary family I came from and how many remarkable people I had in my corner supporting me. I kept reflecting on this each time I heard the song when one particular line came up: “They’ll never see the likes of us again.”
“Manhattan Project” by Rush: This is a song about the creation and use of the first atomic bomb. It’s a great song, but again, I assigned a separate personal meaning to it that became more important than the intended context. When my sister Jenny was pregnant with her first son, she overshot her due date and was understandably frustrated. One night, after we had all gotten together at her house for dinner and everyone who lived further away had gone home, I went out walking with Jenny, her husband, and their dog, to try and get things moving along. It was a beautiful spring evening, and this song kept playing on repeat in my head. I didn’t understand why at first, but after my oldest nephew Ben was born, I finally figured out it was because of one line that unknowingly had become some kind of a personal mantra for me during those events: “All the powers that be / and the course of history / would be changed forever more.”
“Primal Scream” by Motley Crue: No story here -- this is just my all-time #1 song to listen to while working out. It deserves a spot on the list just for that.
“Champagne Supernova” by Oasis: I have a decent-sized list of songs with bittersweet tones to them that always seem to work into my usual music rotation close to the end of the school year, the kinds of songs you might expect would fit over the closing credits of a movie after the story had ended and the characters sadly had to go their separate ways. I don’t always have the same misty feelings about the last day of school like I used to (because I’m just cranky and old and jaded and unpleasant now) but sometimes cracks will form and I can feel how much I will miss my kids and the place the had in my life for so long, particularly when I taught 5th grade and those kids would be moving on to different schools and I knew I wouldn’t be seeing most of them again. “Champagne Supernova” is one of the heavy hitters on that list of songs, and really only for the musical feel it has. The lyrics are so brilliantly nonsensical they allow you to easily to attach your own interpretation.
“We All Need Some Light: by Transatlantic: This is very possibly my favorite song, in that I can’t think of another one off the top of my head that would be able match it for that title. It’s a beautiful song, both so powerful and understated it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.
“Surrounded / Mother” by Dream Theater (& Pink Floyd): This song eventually tied “She’s the One” as the best musical moment of my life. I heard Dream Theater play “Surrounded” on their Chaos in Motion Tour, with an extended guitar solo that left my jaw hanging open. When a live album was released after the tour, I bought it just to have this song, and the version of “Surrounded” on that has probably become my all-time favorite solo. It’s tough to describe, because it’s played in such a quiet and slow part of the song but is as fast as anything else you could imagine, and somehow it all comes together perfectly. At the end, John Petrucci incorporates a recognizable passage from the David Gilmour’s solo in Pink Floyd’s song “Mother,” which on its own was also in the running to make this list. “Mother” was one of the emotional turning points from Pink Floyd’s “The Wall,” which was an album I listened to over and over and over for months while I was trying to piece together how I felt about my aforementioned cousin Kelly being deployed to Iraq in 1991.
“Soldiers of Misfortune” by Filter: I’m sure I’ve mentioned writing playlists on ‘Summer Vacation’ before. A lot of writers use them to capture certain tones or feelings while they work. This song, as much as any other, had a very important role in my writing Following Infinity. I had to reinvent the context once again to apply it to what I needed, but it suited that purpose very well.
“You’ll Be Bright (Invocation Part 1)” by Cloud Cult: The first song I heard in my car on the way home from the vet’s office after taking in my dog Spencer for the last time. I can’t hear this song anymore without remembering how that felt, and it has me choking up almost every time.
“A Letter to Georgia” by The Airborne Toxic Event: A very simple and beautiful love song, but absolutely heartbreaking. The type of song that makes you think about and remember people who were once in your life but aren’t anymore, and how the pain of not being able to have them with you fades over time but never truly disappears.
“Drops of Jupiter” by Train: One morning in the months after my sister Erin died, I had a dream that I was at her funeral. It wasn’t her actual funeral but a dream version of it, the kind that made sense in the dream but wouldn’t have anywhere else. I was looking at her body in its casket and saw the casket slightly shift. Afraid it was off balance and about to fall, I hurried over to stabilize it, but before I could get there my sister sat up. She was a child now, a child that didn’t look anything like her childhood self, but I knew it was her all the same.
She smiled widely at me as I hurried over and I was slightly taken aback. “I’m dreaming right now, aren’t I?” I said to her, and she nodded, still smiling. As soon as I realized that I knew the dream was likely moments from falling apart. “Well, you look happy,” I said. She didn’t say anything in reply but just laughed. I tried to think of what I would say to her or ask her while I had the chance, but couldn’t put it together in time before I abruptly woke up.
I sat up in bed so quickly I startled Spencer, heart racing, immediately alert, on my feet, wondering over and over, “Was that just some weird dream or did that really happen?” It was easily as vivid of a dream as I’d ever had; years later I can still remember so many details, down to how the pale yellow paint on the walls in that room had been old and just beginning to chip.
Now that I was out of bed and the sun was out, Spencer figured it was time for a walk, and began dancing around my feet. I robotically led him downstairs, put him in his harness and leash, and let him guide me down the block. As we walked, “Drops of Jupiter” started playing in my head. It reminded me a lot about Erin, since there are several lines in it that seem to wondering about what somebody the singer had lost was doing now that they had moved on. It stayed in my head until we were home and I went back upstairs to shower. Once in my bedroom I turned the radio on, and of course “Drops of Jupiter” was playing. My body broke into goosebumps that were almost painfully tight.
Since then, the song has come on at several other opportune moments, usually when I’ve been worried about something and needed reassurance or encouragement that things were going to work out. I don’t listen to the radio much anymore so that takes away from the chances I might randomly hear it, but I still remember the last time it happened: I was driving to pick up some take-out I’d ordered, for a little celebration dinner after first learning I had a full manuscript request from the woman who would become my agent less than a month later. True story, all of it. Promise.
And that brings us to fifteen songs. Definitely a longer post, but an important one to me. Thanks for sticking with it if you got this far.
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