1973: My father obtains a position in the fledgling Russian department at Grinnell College and moves, with my mother, from Baltimore to a tiny town in south-central Iowa. Their families think them crazy; they might as well be joining the Peace Corps and shipping off to Zaire.

1975: Grinnell College scores a major coup by bringing to campus a relatively unknown young singer-songwriter named Bruce Springsteen. It turns out when he’s on the cusp of a national breakthrough; he plays Grinnell a month after releasing Born to Run and a month before landing on the covers of both Time and Newsweek.

My mother and father attend the concert to see what all the fuss is about. It’s held in Darby Gym, an ancient barnlike basketball structure a block and a half from their house. Darby has a high, curved roof and an ornate brick facade; it’s a gymnasium, of course, so the acoustics aren’t the greatest. My parents are there for only a few songs when my father decides to leave. My mother stays a little longer, but my father, about to turn forty, deems it simply too loud.

1983: “Dancing in the Dark” is taking the pop charts by storm, its video in heavy rotation on MTV, to which I am glued whenever possible. We’re renting a row house in Greenbelt, the my mother’s hometown near DC. I spend the evenings bouncing off the walls in my pajamas, listening to Top 40 radio in the bedroom my brother and I share, trying to stave off bedtime. I thrash around on the bed, imitating Courtney Cox’s dance moves from the video.

1985: Singles from Born In The USA are still ruling the charts; now it’s “Glory Days”, Springsteen’s hokey bar-band anthem about summer, baseball, and drinking. I only really like one of those things I and I still love the song.

I’m watching the video on MTV one afternoon in Greenbelt, the volume cranked way up, when my father comes thundering into the living room, raging at me about God forbid his sons should go outside, God forbid they should read a book once all summer, about Goddamn it watching this crap all day.

I sadly hit the volume button on the TV’s remote, and the E Street Band’s rollicking good times fade into the background.