MJ's View. Being There: The "Born to Run" 50th Anniversary Symposium & Academic Conference.

Clarence Clemons (left) and Bruce Springsteen (right) on the "Born to Run" album cover. Photo by Eric Meola.

It started out like the trip from hell, something Bruce Springsteen might call a "death trap," a "suicide rap," my journey to the Born to Run 50th Anniversary Symposium and Academic Conference held at Monmouth University, September 6-7, 2025.

Last April, when I learned that my paper proposal had been accepted, I was over-the-moon, excited to get back to some of the research I've been working for many years and honored to have been selected to present, given the number of proposals submitted. At the conference, I learned there were hundreds of submissions and less than one hundred made the final cut. I'd spent the summer writing, revising, and editing my paper, "Brilliant Disguise: Sin, Penance, Redemption and the Catholic Imagination in the Music of Bruce Springsteen" - don't roll your eyes at the title - I'm an academic, after all, so just go with it - I was ready for this latest scholarly adventure.

My husband Paul doesn't like to fly unless absolutely necessary and, since we weren't heading to Europe or the west coast, we decided to drive, using my hometown of Cleveland, OH as our midpoint destination for the first day of travel. So on a sunny September Thursday, we headed out into Chicago's always crowded morning traffic, leaving earlier than usual so we could make my late-afternoon dental appointment in Ohio.

What we didn't count on was a series of unfortunate mishaps that almost made me rethink attending the conference at all: First, a near-miss accident as we entered the Indiana Turnpike when a white SUV traveling at high speed (re: I'm guessing 85 - 90 mph) came up suddently from the left side and cut us off, rapidly moving across three lanes and almost hiting a semi traveling to our immediate right. It was a scary moment.

Five hours later, when we arrived at the dentist's office, the permanent crown I was having bonded didn't fit properly, and my anticipated short appointment turned into a 90-minute visit. As a result, we checked in to our hotel later than we'd planned and, by that time, having also rescheduled our dinner reservation, my husband suggested we have a glass of wine and toast a safe arrival.

As I went to open my suitcase, I heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor. The wine bottle had slipped out of the cooler. "Want me to call Housekeeping?" I asked.

At this point, I was ready to turn back. Would things get worse if we stayed the course on this trip? Maybe this was just a vanity excursion: I hadn't presented new research at a conference in awhile, mostly due to my shift in higher education from faculty to administration. For the past twenty years, I'd been teaching less and managing more, though I continued to publish and pursue scholarly pursuits as time allowed. Still, I could feel my mom's Old World superstitutions start to creep in: bad things happen in three's, maybe today's trifecta of calamities means the universe is telling you something: you're not supposed to participate in this conference.

The next morning, buoyed by my husband's encouragement that we were okay, my new crown fit perfectly, the hotel room had been cleaned and, most importantly, I had written a very fine paper (his words, not mine), we headed toward I-80 and the trek through Pennsylvania to New Jersey. Around 10:45 am, I received an email about Saturday's Symposium. In addition to the usual Intel about where to park and how to check-in, there was this somewhat cryptic message:

The afternoon session will be a phone-free experience. The use of cellphones,

smartwatches, smart accessories, cameras, or recording devices is not permitted

in the performance space... All phones, recording devices and smart watches will

be secured in Yondr cases that will be opened at the end of the event. Anyone

seen using a cellphone during the performance will be escorted out of the venue.

We appreciate your cooperation in creating a phone-free viewing experience.

"He's coming," I said to Paul, and then realized it sounded a bit like I was referencing Jesus. "I think Bruce is going to be part of the Symposium. Why else would there be such security around the event, and concern that the content of the panel discussions would be leaked via social media?"

"You think so? Paul asked. "Hmm." And then there was silence, with both of us processing the possibility that tomorrow's event might just be extraordinary. I turned on Sirius to the "E-Street Band" channel and we listened to his 2016 concert from Lille, France.

Except for the usual traffic delays and a brief detour due to road construction, we moved apace, entering New Jersey just after 4:00 pm. I'd been mapping the route to the JBJ Soul Kitchen in Red Bank (a pay-it-forward non-profit founded by Jon and Dorothea Bonjiovi to help those in need), and we decided it might be possible have dinner there before checking in to our hotel in Eatontown.

After a brief stop at the Jon Bon Jovi Service Area (this is New Jersey, remember), we found our way to the Soul Kitchen around 5:45 pm. The next hour was a kind of affirmation that social justice initiatives are still alive and well, and that the Soul Kitchen's motto is living proof that "hope is delicious." I'll write more about my JBJ Soul experience in a separate blog post, but my visit definitely confirmed that taking this trip was starting to make sense.

The next morning, with the threat of a thunderstorm later in the afternoon, I made my way to the Pollak Theater at Monmouth University, stoked for a day of panel discussions on the making of Bruce Springsteen's landmark album, Born to Run. The 700-seat theater had sold out within ten minutes of tickets going on sale last July, and I was fortunate I secured a spot as a conference presenter. Paul decided to take the day and explore the New Jersey terrain where he grew up.

The buzz in the room as I was shown to my seat was electric. Seated in a section with other conference presenters, I made easy conversation with academics and fans from all over the world. A woman in front of me had traveled from Liverpool, England, where she spoke fondly of seeing Springsteen there this past summer on the same night Paul McCartney joined him on stage. The man next to me was a Roman Catholic priest (Fr. Damian) also from Cleveland, and we shared memories of Springsteen's past concerts (he'd been to thirty-nine!), as well as favorite haunts in our home town. The range in topics from conference participants - from Bruce and politics to gender relationships in his songs - was as eclectic as it was interesting, suggesting that one of the reasons for Springsteen's longevity is not only the depth and range of his music, but how that appeal spans a global audience.

The Symposium was hosted by Founding Executive Director of the Bruce Springsteen and American Music Archives, Robert (Bob) Santelli, whom I succeeded as Education Director at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and Museum (RRHFM) back in 2000. As I listened to him outline the events of the day, I remembered the very first conversation I'd had with him when I was still teaching at Lake Erie College. I'd invited Bob as guest speaker to my History of American Popular Culture class, and we chatted afterwards about the importance of oral history, in this case, having preserved living documents in the words of rock and roll artists.

At the time, rock pioneers like Chuck Berry were still alive, but often reluctant to articulate the "how's and why's" of the songs they'd written and/or performed. I later learned, during my time at RRHFM that asking artists about the creative process could be frustrating, as sometimes lyrics emerge out of a need to find rhyme, meter, or musical cadence, and are not always the result of deep philosophical thoughts or ideas. We later heard the word "fishing" used by members of the E Street Band when describing how they came to Born to Run's final sound and track list.

A similar example was shared later in the afternoon when author Peter Ames Carlin, a panel moderator and author of the New York Times best-seller, Tonight in Jungleland: The Making of "Born to Run," asked Bruce why he chose the name "Mary" for the girl in the song "Thunder Road," and not Angelica or Christine. Before Bruce could respond, fellow panelist and current manager Jon Landau chimed in, saying, "I'm a believer in simplicity." Point made.

Of course, using Mary on the first track of the album set up inevitable comparisons to the metaphorical Christ story, especially with the "crucifixion" of a another character called "Magic Rat" in "Jungleland." Springsteen didn't shy away from the analogy, but also offered his own interpretation of how the album might be considered a Biblical allegory. As he did so, I smiled, knowing that my own read of his life and music was in sync with his comments.

But I've gotten ahead of myself, and given a clue that Bruce did indeed show up and participate in the afternoon's activities. But you knew that, right? More later.

The morning sessions included interviews with original E Street Band Members David Sancious (keyboards) and Ernest "Boom" Carter (drums), plus a panel discussion about Springsteen's tenuous relationships with Columbia Records prior to the making of Born to Run that included Bruce's former manager/producer Mike Appel. Columbia exec Paul Rappaport and current manager Landau, who famously wrote in a 1974 article for The Real Paper, "I saw rock and roll's future and its name is Bruce Spingsteen!"

Sancious and Carter both played on the "Born to Run" 45-rpm single in 1974, but left E Street to form their own band, Tone, before the album was recorded. They were, perhaps, the least talkative among the day's panelists, though Sancious' description of the musical sound created for the "Born to Run" single were about as detailed musically as one might imagine. And his impromptu singing of the decrescendoing chords that higlight the song's mid-section bridge, were as clear and resonant in their delivery as the record in powerful in its unconventional tonal structure.

Both conversations offered insight into how music was made in the early 1970s, specifically, how the underwhelming sales receipts from Springsteen's first two albums - 1973's Greetings from Asbury Park and 1974's The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle - made Born to Run a do-or-die effort, given it would be the third, and potentially final album in the three-record deal Columbia had signed with the New Jersey native. Appel, Rappaport, and Landau, who are as sharp and funny as they are recording industry savvy, shed light on what can be a politically tough, artistically fragile environment within the music industry.

One anecdate that I found revealing was Rappaport's story about a young Australian artist, also signed by Columbia, named Rick Springfield who, in his initial estimation, had all the makings of a real rock star. By 1974, Springfield already had a Billboard Top 20 hit, "Speak to the Sky," had a Saturday morning cartoon show on ABC called Mission Magic, and was working on second album called Comic Book Heroes (now considered a cult classic).

But when Rappaport traveled to Los Angeles to hear him perform, Springfield's unfortunate choice of stage apparel (he apparently walked out carrying a guitar and wearing only a fur thong), cost him his recording contract with Columbia and set back his musical career by almost a decade. Springfield would return in 1981 with the now-iconic single, "Jessie's Girl," but back in the 70s he violated an unwritten rule about the appearance and demeanor rock stars were expected to demonstrate.

As someone who still owns a vinyl copy of Rick Springfield's inaugural album (and has since secured a CD of Comic Book Heroes), I was surprised at the attention given to him by industry insiders, and the compliments they gave him about his music, despite his fashion faux pas at the Troubador. And, some of you reading this may know about the surname confusion between Rick and Bruce, with the former writing a parody of the jumble between the two, 1978's "They Call Me Bruce." In truth, according to Rappaport, Springsteen arrived at a concert venue about the same time, with the marquee reading, "Tonight: Bruce Springfield and the E Street Band." Go figure.

My favorite morning panel, though, was the conversation between Springsteen's photographer sister, Pamela, and Eric Meola, whose evocative photos grace the cover of the Born to Run album. Known for his brilliant use of color, Meola instead shot in the cover photos in black in white (because color distracts). The pairing of Springsteen with saxophonist Clarence Clemons was remarkable for both its design and for its clever juxtaposing of the white Springsteen next to the black Clemons, a gutsy, groundbreaking move in 1975.

Springsteen wanted Clemons on the cover, and Meola took over 900 photographs of the two in various locations, showcasing different sides of the musicians (and different placements of the "Elvis" pin Springsteen wore on his leather jacket). The photo that made the cover, though, is one that happened spontaneously, as Bruce leaned on his sideman in a pose that showed a deeper, more personal connection between the two (see above). Cover artist John Berg tweaked the photo by placing an imaginery dividing line between Clarence's hat and Bruce's head, so that the picture isn't fully realized until you open the album jacket.

Meola's precision as a photographer was stunning, made even more impressive as he walked the audience through a series of his celebrated photographs, including one of opera singer Beverly Sills ( http://browse.americanartcollaborative.org/object/npg/16014.html ), that is now part of the permanent collection at the National Portrait Gallery.

What really made Meola's comments memorable was the story of how he found his passion for photography. The son of New York physician, Meola was registered in pre-med at the University of Syracuse when a friend invited him to hear The Free-Wheeling Bob Dylan, a musical and visual experience for Meola, given the album's famous cover photo of Dylan and then girlfriend Suze Rotolo. I was struck, yet again, by the simple, almost random things that change us, that give us a glimpse into other possibilies, sometimes changing the course and trajectories of our lives.

We broke for an early lunch, during which time I was able to reconnect with Paul and begin to regale him with all the things I'd learned during those brief, but juicy morning sessions. Paul was sitting under a tree outside the Pollak Theater talking with a fellow named Seth who was originally from Cleveland. Then we met Jim and Bernie, a New Jersey couple with Cleveland roots. It was a happy coincidence, as were the many panelists' references to Cleveland locations and institutions, from the Allen Theater to WMMS 101 FM - "The Home of the Buzzard" radio station, all of which played a part in the early years of Springsteen's career.

Lunch breezed by and it was soon time to line and put our cell phones in those Yodr security cases. The last time I experienced this level of heightened security: showing a photo ID to receive a ticket and wrist band, having both the ticket and wrist band in hand for entrance into the theater, then relinquishing cell phone use for the afternoon and finally having handbags and backpacks checked again before re-entering the theater, was the time I went on a tour of the CIA with a group of high school students back in the 90s.

I said "au revoir" to Paul for the afternoon and walked back up the path to the theater, when I noticed a man about ten steps in front of my, dressed mostly in black and carrying the case for a bass guitar. I was moving pretty quickly to secure a place in line, and when I caught up with him, I asked if he was going to provide some of the afternoon's excitement. He turned and smiled, and I realized I had just started a conversation with E Street bassist Garry Tallent (who would also participate in one of the afternoon's panels).

Immediately, my RRHFM cool (or so I thought) kicked in, meaning that, when I worked at the Museum, staff were not permitted to ask artists for autographs or gush like a fan. So I did neither. Instead, I asked him about the anticipated musical event, and he told that he'd had a great rehearsal the day before and that he was looking forward to the afternoon's musical event. I told him that everyone in the theater was jazzed about what would happen and wished him good luck as we parted ways. He either appreciated my discretion, or thought I was idiot. Either way, I had a moment to remember, one that reminded me of quiet work and practice that goes into making musical events special.

If the morning buzz was energizing, the afternoon atmosphere was close to euphoric and, as we had been forewarned, the order of the panel discussion might change, but it would be worth it. As it turned out, the historians led the way with Springsteen Conference coordinator (and the Archives' Director of Curatorial Affairs), Melissa Ziobro facilitating a conversation that included music critic and author (notably, Rocking My Life Away: Writing About Music and Other Matter) Anthony De Curtis, whose multi-faceted career includes stints as a senior editor for Rolling Stone magazine and who also holds rank as a Professor of English at the University of Pennsylvania.

Hearing academics give substance and weight to a subject like rock and roll that is often derided by more traditional historians, I felt transported to an earlier time, when I'd received my first post-doctoral grant to write about the portrayal of Catholic schools in movies. When I presented a draft of my research at the 1995 American Catholic Historical Association Conference held at Marquette University, Christopher Kauffman, then editor at US Catholic Historian (USCH), approached me and said he wanted to publish my work.

Over the next four years, Chris published three of my monographs in various thematic issues of USCH, always encouraging me to think about different aspects of the Catholicism Imagination and the many ways it is infused into our culture. My mind kept going back and forth making connections, seeing relationships between some of my early ideas, knowing that the paper I would present the next day was really part of larger, career-long exploration of my own faith and academic background, and how they intersected with my research as a historian. In the brief breaks between panels, I exchanged ideas with Fr. Damian, who introduced me to additional resources I might want to consider to further my work.

Shortly before 2:00 pm, the title of the next session appeared on the large theater screen: "Writing 'Born to Run,' The Song" and, of course, there could only be one person who could provide the essence of that experience: Bruce Springsteen. And for the next half-hour or so, dressed in signature blue jeans, rolled-up shirt sleeves and vest, he talked at length about writing the album's title song, a process that took six months as he crafted the music and lyrics line-by-line.

As he has in the past, Springsteen credited Roy Orbison's unconventional song-writing style as one of the models for his musical compositions. In this case, "Born to Run" does not have a chorus as most pop songs do, but it does contain nods to other works: the introduction is based on Gerry Goffin and Carole King's 1962 pop hit recorded by Little Eva, "The Loco-Motion," and the guitar riff is based on the twangy sound created by Duane Eddy.

When Santelli asked about themes of rebellion and freedom that run through the song, Springsteen was more reflective about his own upbringing, the need to find independence from the kind of blue collar family he was raised in, and from an emotionally distant father. The song's many references to New Jersey, from Highway 9 to the amusement parks underscore his restlessness and the need to escape the 828 sq. ft. shack at 7 1/2 West Court Street in Long Branch, New Jersey, where much of the song (and later, the album) was written.

And who was "Wendy," the song's female protagonist? Well, Springsteen had a poster of "Peter Pan" above his bed, so Wendy seemed like a fitting name, "Or, it said something about my adult life at that time," he laughed. These bits and pieces, nuggets, if you will, helped shape a more personal an intimate vision for his work, giving clarity to Springsteen's creative process, but also showing how his own life experiences - and his examination of them - became, not only the force behind his musical popularity, but one of the reasons why his words and music resonate so deeply with so many people.

I kept thinking that this interview could not have taken place fifty years ago, or even twenty-five. It is possible now because, at his core, Springsteen is both introspective and articulate. Still searching. With an impressive body of work behind him, he is now taking those accomplishments to a new level in terms of understanding their meaning, the connections his early music has to current recordings, and how the arc of his personal life is integrated into his music.

Spingsteen stayed for the next two panel discussion, "Writing Born to Run, The Album," with Carlin and Landau, and another roundtable, which included current members of the E Street Band: the aforementioned bassist GarryTallent, plus guitarist Steven van Zandt, keyboardist Roy "The Professor" Bittan, and drummer Max Weinberg. In addition, Appel and Landau returned, along with engineer Jimmy Iovine, whose self-depricating sense of humor gave balance and levity to an experience he described as "brutal" in terms of Springsteen's determination to get just the precise sound he wanted and also because of the repeated takes to capture the best version of each song.

A particular challenge was how to finish "Jungleland," the nine-minute final track on the album and, arguably, one that represents the culmination of its themes and message. When Springsteen finally captured the sound and mood he want to punctuate the song's conclusion, it was late and everyone was exhausted. But as soon as the take was complete, everyone knew it was the right one. Iovine's recollection: "I just wanted to make fucking sure I'd pressed 'record.'"

From the stories shared, a comprehensive portrait of the construction and execution of a rock and roll album became clearer, sharper, with sometimes conflicting perspectives and memories shaping the imperfect way in which precision and even perfection are achieved. Springsteen and Iovine reportedly drove around New Jersey recently, listening to Born to Run. After 50 years, he said he wouldn't change anything on the final cut.

The creative process, a delicate mix of vision, determination, experimentation, and serendipity, isn't always easy to define or understand. Listening to the exchanges between panelists - musicians, engineers, managers, and producers - was like being a fly on the wall during a recording session. I closed my eyes and imagined being in the room where it happened all those years ago.

One of the things that struck me was how often Springsteen referenced his Catholic upbringing, at one pointi saying that he couldn't escape it: Catholicism seared right through him and wrapped itself around him, becoming an integral part of who he was and how he saw the world. I could not have imagined a more ideal validation of the research I'd prepared. The moment he expressed the importance of "faith" in his music is one that was deeply moving to me, not so much because he or I are devout Catholics (I'm not, and I don't believe that adjective describes Springsteen, either), but because I felt for the first time in a very long time that my research had value and that I'd been true to my sources and developed a coherent interpretation of his music.

In what seemed like no time at all, the Symposium sessions had ended and the only item left on the schedule was a "live performance." The audience was told there would be a brief delay, and not to go to the restroom, as the wait would be worth it. A few minutes before 5 pm, Bob Santelli returned with the words he'd always wanted to say: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band!" and with that, 700 audience members were on there feet as the soulful harmonica that begins "Thunder Road" echoed throughout the theater.

Reuniting original E Street members Sancious and Carter with the current band, Bruce led the audience through two of Born to Run's signature songs. In addition to "Thunder Road," he sang (what else?) "Born to Run." It was a historic moment: two E Street bands playing together for the first time in an intimate setting in a way that somehow captured the enormity of the moment and the significance of Springsteen's music, fusing the academic with the artistic in a kind of visceral symbiosis I've not experienced before.

I walked out of the theater as a gentle rain began to fall, the kind of weather that makes you want find a cozy spot to ponder the universe, the kind of moment I could feel in "Rain on the River." I spent the evening with Paul, waxing rhapsodic about the day, the symposium panels, and the general awesomeness of this amazing academic experience.

And now Sunday. Conference paper ready. I was excited in a good way. The thunderstorm from Saturday night was giving way to a lazy overcast day, one where sleeping might might be preferable to getting jacked up for a panel presentation. Since my paper was part of the "Springsteen and Religion" panel and scheduled during the last concurrent session later in the afternoon, I had time to explore other topics and sessions.

The vast assortment of panel topics, from Lyricism and Political Consciousness to Fandom and Literature. I attended an interview with Greg Calbi, mastering engineer on Born to Run that was led by Heidi Cron, who contributed to the liner notes on 1987's Tunnel of Love album. This was a detailed conversation technically, but it reveled yet another layer of intricacy to the art of recording.

After that, I was tagged to moderate a panel on Lyricism, one that included papers about marketing Springsteen (using theories of self-identity), turning Born to Run into a musical, and finding narratives about the "tramp/hobo" lifestyle similar to those found in works by American authors like Mark Twain and John Steinbeck. Speakers on this panel came from as close as New York and as far as Switzerland and Japan. It was an invigorating Q&A that followed, as themes of community and self-identity surfaced as points of discussion.

I would say one thing about current conference presentation practices. Though I don't object to using "props" - I've used movie and music clips myself in the past - the ubiquitous power point presentation seems to have overridden any other possible strategy to convey key information about one's research. Unfortunately, when you are relying on technology to have sound along with the visuals you are using, best to make sure everything is on point, or the presentation suffers. Part of me felt bad for panelists who were clearly shaken or distracted when their power points didn't work, but others simply used the power point in place of a paper. And, when you put text-heavy slides on the screen, it's difficult for the audience to read and listen at the same time.

At the end of the panel discussion, I asked each presenter to summarize in one sentence what they wanted people to take away from their research and, sadly, I did not get one concise response. Maybe it's a generational thing, but I can remember both my Masters and Doctoral advisors telling me that, if you can't sum up the point of your research presentation in a sentence or two, then perhaps, you ought to rethink what you're doing and why. There was good stuff here, and some of it got lost in the technology.

And so it goes.

By 3:00 pm, I was chomping at the bit and getting that feeling that I just wanted my presentation to be over. I was third on panel of four in a session that only lasted 75 minutes, so time was of the essence and speakers were told not to exceed 15 minutes. I had practiced mine in advanced and clocked it in at 12 minutes, 35 seconds. Though I was paying attention, the two speakers ahead of me were sort of a blur, and when I got up to begin, I realized I was the only presenter not using a power point. Hmm.

Long story short, the attendees listened. I found myself into what Paul calls "The Zone" about thirty seconds in, and I felt comfortable and connected to the audience and to my research. There were good questions and a lively discussion when I finished, and even more comments and conversations when the session concluded. I will never forget the kind words moderator Cron shared with me about my writing and the way in which I presented the material, and I'll remember the faces and comments other attendees made about my work: wanting to read the paper, hoping to continue the conversation. I even received an invitation to join host Jesse Jackson on his "Set Lusting Bruce" Podcast, something I am truly looking forward to.

As we made our way to the closing session and then to dinner, my mind kept moving back and forth to memories of conferences past and the "words can't describe it" experience I'd just had. My dissertation advisor used to tell me that, as a historian, the best you can do is contribute to the dialogue, and I definitely felt that during and after my presentation.

Choosing the intersection of Catholicism with pop culture (namely, music and movies) has not always been an easy path, as more traditional historians tend to look down on those of us who are interested in something other than labor law, military strategies, or economic catastrophes. And writing about artists you admire is more difficult than you might think, as you still need to balance objectivity with interpretation, evidence with preference.

But I have persisted. In some ways, I understand more fully what my dad meant when he told me that, if I had an education, I could walk with "captains and kings, hoboes and gypsies" with equal comfort and assurance. My dad never finished school, but he encouraged me, at every opportunity to go as far with university life as I wanted. When some of his relatives told him his money was better flushed town the toilet than used to pay for my college tuition, he ignored their advice, and he, too, persisted in nudging me toward a life less conventional and more explorational.

Bruce Springsteen was 25 when he recorded the single "Born to Run" and 26 when the album was released. Those years in the mid-twenties are often critical in shaping who we are and what we'll do (and maybe even, what we won't). Unlike Bruce's father, my dad was not emotionally distant. I got a hug every night when we came home from work, and a smile that lit up his whole face.

Though he seemed happy overall, my dad had his demons and his failure to finish school and, later, to see more of the world, troubled him. I'm sure his endorsement of my education, along with his gentle prodding that I didn't make Lorain, OH (my hometown) the center of the universe, spoke as much to his unrequited wanderlust as it did to my future.

When I was twenty-six, I got a teaching job that required me to move out of my parents home and to my own apartment. My dad, who was battling cancer, died about a week before I was scheduled to move. One of our neighbors told my mom that knowing I was leaving caused his rapid deline, but I've come to think of that time differently. If anything, I believe that knowing I was moving on to a life outside my immediate community meant that my dad's work was done, that he had given me a path to move forward.

I kept going back to these kinds of moments, remembering my first post-doctoral conference presentation at Denison University where I shared a panel with noted historian Clayton Koppes and we talked about Hollywood Film (he politically and me from a Catholic perspective). Or the time I gave a paper on Bing Crosby's image as an Irish-Catholic priest at Hofstra University's conference honoring his work. Each one of those experiences introduced me to new people (some of whom became friends and colleagues), new ideas, and new ways of thinking about the work I was doing and the research still to come.

Listening to Springsteen & Company reminded me that, in many ways, the creative work of artists is not unlike the work of historians: it requires a vision, resources, attention to detail, collegial support, flexibility to change midstream, and opportunities to share the final product with others. Meticulous, joyful, sometimes frustratingly brutal, but always hopeful work. The 50th Anniversary of Born to Run Symposium and Academic Conference renewed my sense belonging within an academic community. Not all the participants were university-based scholars, but we all shared a common interest to better appreciate and celebrate the transformational album Springsteen produced a half-century ago.

Hoboes and gypsies all, we convened to commemorate an historic masterpiece and left with a greater sense of understanding about the people and events who made Born to Run a reality.

This was no regular academic conference. Bob Santelli's vision and purpose in bringing together artists, music critics, scholars and recording industry insiders is a refreshing and invigorating way to learn and understand history. It is validation that primary sources don't have to be old, dusty documents stuck on a shelf, and that oral history provides a heightened sense of the living, breathing discipline history is and can be. My husband commented that, had Shakespeare (his subject area) been around to give an interview the way Springsteen did, he would have been there in a heartbeat and mused about what such a conversation might do for further study in that area.

We went to Asbury Park (my idea) for dinner on Sunday, to a restaurant I'd picked based on TripAdvisor reviews. It was called the Iron Whale (the food was fabulous!) and, while we waited for our entrees and looked out on the Atlantic, our server asked us what brought us there. When I mentioned the Springsteen conference, she said, "Oh, Max Weinberg was here on Friday, and he (re: Bruce) comes in all the time."

A short stroll along the Boardwalk brought back happy memories for Paul, and we stopped briefly at The Stone Pony before heading back to the hotel. When in Mecca...

Our return trip included another stop in Cleveland and a glorious Guardians game that saw pitcher Slade Cecconi throw a no-hitter through seven innings and finish with a one-hit eight inning shutout effort. The Guards won 10-2. In the car, we listened to two 2008 Springsteen concerts, one mostly accoustic in Belfast, a second from Perth, Australia.

As the Chicago skyline came into view on Tuesday, I kept thinking about a Facebook feed that popped up during dinner on Sunday. It was one of my "Wisdom of Pooh" messages, and it seemed appropriate for the events of the past weekend, inspired by A.A. Milne:

Christopher Robin smiled. "I wish we could hold on to [good] days a little longer."

"Then we shall," said Pooh simply. "We’ll hold them right here," and he placed a small paw over his heart. "Because when you keep a day inside you, it doesn’t go anywhere at all. It just stays, waiting to make you smile again when you need it most."

And Christopher Robin, looking out at the golden light between the trees, realized that Pooh was right. Some days don’t end at all—they live on in the quiet places of your heart, forever.”

Yup. Forever memories and inspiration to continue doing the work that has been a part of my life for over thirty years. I don't know when or where the next conference paper will be, or how the paper I gave at this conference will look in its final form. Sometimes that little bit of mystery, even though at times unnerving, gives me the edge and the interest in pressing forward.

After all, we academic gypies, hoboes and tramps like us...

Baby, we were.... well, you know the rest.

*******

The Bruce Springsteen Archives and Center for American Music is scheduled to open

Summer 2026. Maybe I can convince Paul to fly there this time.