Along Thunder Road

I’m watching Father’s Day inch its way closer. Like any day, it comes before you know it; like graduations, birthdays, anniversaries; like December 31st--that rascal day that pops it’s head out of the ground so repeatedly and flat out, you do a doubletake every year. Wait, what?

Father’s Day this year has snuck up behind me because it’s coming without a dad. How did that happen? How did a parent die after a full life and the rest of the world resumed without skipping a beat?

Easily. It happens every day and it’s supposed to, and while the head knows this, the heart doesn't.

The thing about death, it gives us pause to look back on time. It’s part looking forward, and part looking back. When I think of my dad I think of our difficulties, our chuckles and joys, and our potential. I think of how the span of time made it all blend together to create something that will take another span of time to understand.

And That’s Alright With Me

You’d think it was a hundred years ago by now that Bruce Springsteen’s song “Thunder Road” was propelled out of my classmates’ mouths during our ordinary teen confusion and dreaming. I came of age in the 1980s in New Jersey. That song was our song because we were the young hopefuls Bruce was singing about. If any of the rest of you laid claim to it, you did so by imagination rather than lineage. ‘And that’s alright with me.’ There’s plenty of song for everyone.

My family and I lived across the river from Philadelphia, where my siblings and I went through the school system then left for college. Our parents continued in that house until this March when my dad passed away and my mom then started the gradual process of tinkering with her new solitary space and her new kind of life.

Moving through the teen years is sometimes like riding the waves blindfolded, regardless of how prime the water conditions are for you. For us kids back then in New Jersey we rode them like anybody did, except we also had Bruce Springsteen. Whether you like him or not, whether you even know who he is these days, he was on our side back then. I wasn’t the biggest fan myself, but we were his people, and he ours. Whatever he said in those songs of his, they were messages to us. When we were at a loss for what to do, how to act, or which direction to move, we always knew we could relent to the unknown, roll down the window, and let the wind blow back our hair—all from Thunder Road, wherever that was.

“Thunder Road” was a coming-of-age song and it blared at the gym dances that we all crowded into in middle and high school. We’d sing the song at the top of our lungs. One single line will still catch my throat after all these years. So, you're scared and you're thinking that maybe we ain't that young anymore.

After my dad died, I heard this song one day on my playlist while I was cleaning out my shed. As soon as the harmonica intro began, and then the nostalgic piano, I stepped over to a shelf along the wall, hooked my arm onto the edge, hung my head, and sobbed.

Life passes so quickly. You have no idea of this when you’re young, but eventually, if you’re lucky, you really aren’t that young anymore and it sinks in. And when death shows up at the door, any potential you had with the deceased is now closed. This is one part of the meaning of finality.

So, you’re scared

These three words were the center of ‘Thunder Road’ for me when I was a teen. Partly because I wished struggle wasn’t par for the course back then, as struggle isn't exactly a warm welcome committee. But over the decades the meaning changed. It turned into a bittersweet knowledge that you end up prevailing in the long run—bitter because you didn’t always know this; and sweet because you finally learn it. Life is a journey of learning.

And you realize that everyone makes this journey no matter the circumstances, including your parents, and you begin to move into a state of middle-aged compassion for those who came before you and those who come after.

Maybe we ain’t that young anymore

A year before my dad passed away, he asked me if I’d join in a little bird competition with him to see who could identify the most birds in 2021. It was a chance for the two of us to get to know each other a little better. I said yes immediately.

At first it was a series of short texts back and forth. Then things started to develop. Our messages became longer and involved more than bird talk. We emailed pics of birds, and then info on other tidbits of our lives. We started to chat on the phone. We were getting to know each other better. It was a small miracle. The miracle of the bird.

One day in the Spring of 2021 my dad, mom, and I met halfway in Delaware to go birding together in a wildlife refuge there. My dad was weakening noticeably by that point from his cancer, so we moved our cars around the big, looped drive in the park, stopping on the side of the road to view our bird options from next to our cars. It was during Covid, so we drove separately, but we connected each time we pulled our cars over and got out to scan the area for different species.

Dad couldn’t walk too far or very fast. The birds cooperated though, having flown from all over the southern hemisphere and crowding in profusion to show my dad and I how a father-daughter bonding experience can land in joyful fashion. We laughed, talked, pointed, peered through binoculars, flipped through bird guides, scrolled on our phones for similar birds, took photos, hoped out loud, shrieked in delight. It was completely obvious to me in the moment how precious it all was.

As our birding year progressed and my interest in birds increased, I started to imagine what it was going to be like when Dad finally died, as he didn't have long. When I spotted a new bird for my list, I wanted to tell Dad straight away. I was hooked, and Dad was part of that hook. I had visions of the future, of me spotting something intriguing and wanting to share it with Dad, but my father wouldn’t be there anymore. That’s what happened the other day.

I was standing in front of one of the windows in my kitchen. I saw something chubby and small but with a streak of unmistakable blue on its tail. What was that?

I ran like a maniac to find my binoculars and luckily came back to the little critter still sitting on its branch. “Dad,” I mumbled, peering thru the binocs, “I’m thinking this is a juvenile of some sort.”

Eventually, I was able to identify it as a juvenile Eastern bluebird, one of the most common birds in my yard. I was pleased that I was now able to distinguish between adult and child. It was a progression of bird knowledge, albeit slight. And I celebrated it with my birding buddy even though he wasn’t there.

Imperfect

One of the reasons I’ve been so moved by Springsteen’s aging rock song all these years is because it’s a story about imperfect people. Mary isn’t a beauty. The narrator can’t face the loneliness of being rejected. The people in the song are vulnerable, just like the youth of the world, the middle-aged, the elder, and the dying—all of us.

The change in Bruce’s voice when he sings, “Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night,” is when the song shifts to possibility. Something magical might be possible regardless of our imperfections if we’re first willing to believe and take a chance.

Is there ever a day when we don’t want to believe there is magic in the night?

There’s robust conversation out there about whether this music ever truly lived up to its hype. That doesn’t concern me. Music is mostly for the human spirit to make sense of itself, to celebrate living, and to move our hearts. You can’t make criteria for such things. They happen in conjunction with the mysteries of life, and music is our dependable vehicle.

I know I’m fortunate that I was able to live long enough to bury an old father, to say a long goodbye. I wished him well, trusting that whatever benevolence lived inside his heart would carry him from his grim fatigue and the failure of his body.

I also had the good fortune to count to forty-five birds in 2021 alongside my dad. As for our bird competition, I lost--by a lot--but I tried. We both tried. We tried to see each other through tiny creatures, small joys, and simple talk. In the end, I think we did.

I think we’re always riding down Thunder Road, despite its calamitous nature sometimes, its chaos, its storms. We emerge at the end of the journey in some form or other. Either way, we're unimaginably lucky to have had it.

Happy Father’s Day to every dad out there. Hug your dad if you can, or call. Or talk to him like I do now, watching the bluebirds out your window or listening to the owls in your yard at night. You can tell him what you see, what you’re hearing. You can ask him how he’s doing, even if he’ll never answer that question in this world ever again. And that’s okay. It’s a bit of magic in the night.

Be well, friends.