My dad rarely takes off of work. When I say rarely, I really mean never. He'll occasionally sneak a half day that he generously over compensates for by working an extra umpteen hours a week. So when Big Red, the family van, pulled into my college driveway in May of 2007 I knew this could be considered an 'event'. It was an event, because my father ventured the open road, the three long treacherous hours between Green Bay and Eau Claire to pick up his sophomore daughter from her University and bring her home for the summer.
When I say 'pick up', I really only mean transport. I guess in all of my dad's long educational history, he never took any "How to: Heavy Lifting" classes. However, he did take plenty of delegating courses, which have served him in many avenues in life. Including, 'picking' his daughter up from college.
Erik and I loaded the van while my dad stood on our rickety porch that had a slightly detectable slant (which gave you a searing undeserved headache if you spent too much time looking at the house or on the porch). He sat in the shade and executed his plans with all of the comfort us slave laborers lacked.
I didn't really mind though. Actually, I didn't mind at all. He's my dad after all, and I couldn't love him more. He took off of work to come get ME. Not a half day, but a whole day, which would mean incomprehensible compensation on the other end. He must really love ME.
I can't deny a large lingering irriation as the foreman of my 20 year old existence leaned into the back of Big Red, looked at our seemingly logical placement of my things, and ordered that it needed to be arranged, because it wasn't packed 'correctly'. He had a vision, and we were the executers.
I waved goodbye to Erik, and my dad and I hit the open road. It was a beautiful sunny day, and I had him all to myself. I was overly nostalgic about the year that just passed, and was flooded with emotions that I had a van full of my belongings, and was closing a chapter of an unforgettable year.
But here's the thing. Dad's know. They get this. They've been there. My dad didn't make me talk, although us being together on a weekday should've mandated hours of Q&A. He brought a c.d. with, which surprised me at the time, yet in hindsight was absolutely perfect.
The Best of Bruce Springsteen.
It was in that 3 hour car ride home with my dad that I was so acutely aware of that very precise moment. The fact that it was singular, and would become something I would recall with fondness for the rest of my life. We road with the windows down, talking occasionally, blaring Bruce through the highway of my college-hooddom.
And so was today. On a bus from Palermo to Catania in a part of Italy that spread its culture as thick as peanut butter, that protects its heritage and language so thoroughly you hope that by some miracle you become bi-lingual; I heard it. Softly at first. Through the rolling Sicilian mountains, our bus was playing Bruce Springsteen. Bruce Springsteen on a bus filled with native Italian speakers. I was already in awe of the vivid and lush colors of the grass, and the cascading hills, with protruding rocks, but hearing Bruce made it all too much. A whopping face full of perspective. Very (almost, I say almost (!)) cliche. But here was Bruce, my spark. Wacking me around like a rag doll, meshing past and present. Today was a good day. A very good day. It wasn't Big Red, and it wasn't Wisconsin, but it was Bruce, and that was all it took...
"You can't start a fire without a spark."
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