I miss the brudders every day. They’re all where they need to be – and want to be – at this point in their lives, and that’s how it should be. But there are more than a few sighs around here as Gary and I reminisce.

One of my happiest ongoing memories is of driving each one of our three sons to school in the morning. They were born so far apart in years (in 1984, 1991, and 1999), that the commute provided treasured one-on-one time.

Yes, the big yellow school bus drove right by our house each morning, but we were at the start of the route. Heck, the boys weren’t even awake that early – much less functional. (On the plus side, the afternoon route was the same, so they were dropped off toward the beginning of the course.)

The 15 minutes or so that it took us to drive to middle school and the adjacent high school were golden. Although neither Tom, John, nor James was an early bird like their mum, we managed to exchange a few thoughts along the way.

And they shared their music with me. With Tom, it was classic rock. (“That’s not your rock, that’s my rock!” I’d remind him nearly daily. Truth be told, though, I was more of a folk/pop fan back in the day.) Eventually, we created an excruciating game called Name That Rock Band. This was pre-SiriusXM, so there were no hints about the artist as each new song played (Tom found a local station that didn’t intro the songs).

It was torture. I loved every second.

Basically, I had the length of the song to come up with the artist. Tom very generously allowed as many guesses as necessary, but the only way for me to truly “win” was to know the answer from the first few bars.

Eventually, I came to semi-recognize Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd (oh, how I loved the Pink Freud shirt Tom occasionally wore), so they were my default guesses when all else was lost. I always managed to get Jethro Tull right – Ian Anderson’s incredible flute solos were impossible to miss. (Although I must say, the Aqualung lyric that references nasal mucus continues to disgust me. My oldest brother, Harry, played the album a lot back in the ’70s and loved to sing that line extra loud, just for my prissy benefit.)

Enjoy:

With John in the car, we sometimes tuned in to the Dave Ramsey radio show. We enjoyed the callers, with those who were freshly out of debt destroying their paid-off credit cards on the air using all sorts of creative – and noisy – methods.

In fact, John and I enjoyed ol’ Dave enough that we attended one of his personal appearances – and splurged on the VIP package. It was a great “we get to do this because we’re good savers” lesson. During the Q&A session following the VIP group meal with Dave, John stood up at the microphone to pose the final question:

John: I've got to ask you Dave, how are you doing? 
The assembled super-fans murmured an approving "ahhhhh..."
Dave, grinning: Better 'n I deserve.

Musically speaking, John continued the brudders’ love of Green Day which Tom launched in the ’90s. James later kept the punk music cranked up during our morning drives.

Our youngest surprised me one day with a new (to me) music genre: Ska Punk. More specifically, the group Streetlight Manifesto.

We played his CD in the car each morning for weeks. The addition of reggae and a horn section to punk was nothing short of captivating. Just as his brothers had done in earlier years, James pointed out to me the portions of each song that impressed him most. Sometimes it was a particular instrument, other times it was lyrics. Unusual time signatures and dissonance always did the trick with him, too.

For me, it was an education.

We promised each other that someday we’d go to a Streetlight Manifesto concert together.

And we did! In fact, it was two years ago today.

The closest performance venue on their tour was in Detroit. We knew we’d always regret not going, so we made travel plans.

James and I made it to Detroit safely and got room-service pizza before heading to the concert.

For years, while listening to punk, I’d bugged James with commentary about how I liked that they had pirates singing backup.

“Mom! There are no pirates!”

Sure there are, son! I pointed out the pirates singing in Green Day’s “Misery” and “Peacemaker.” And then this gem from Streetlight (the pirates come in around 4:24 – tell me you don’t hear a chorus of robust yo-ho-yo-hoes):

During the concert, James found an acoustically pleasing meeting place for us so that he could periodically wiggle his way up front to do some high-energy jumping by the stage and then come back and easily find me.

He’d returned to where I was perched in time for us to enjoy “The Hands That Thieve” together. And we weren’t the only ones happy to hear it. Right near us, a group of bearded, somewhat-chunky guys started singing along. They even jigged together in a circle toward the end.

“JAMES! It’s the pirates!” I shouted victoriously. “They’re here!”

That was an incredible moment.

My favorite Streetlight Manifesto song is titled “Toe to Toe” (although I always refer to it as “the David and Goliath song”).

It’s a slower-paced number, with lyrics that I still can’t sing along to without choking up. I told James the words in this bridge provide the perfect advice for him:

And I don't care what you do with the little time anyone gets
As long as you do the math, chose a path that will never hurt anyone else
Although they'll hurt you, make damn sure they've heard you
They will not forget ... 

Here's the full song. The bridge is around 2:30. (Yes, I'm wiping my eyes.)

Dodging the morning school bus enriched my life more than I could have imagined. The memories that soundtrack of classic rock, punk, and ska punk created, along with our teenage sons’ good-natured reaction to my cheeky teasing, will forever be held dear in my heart.

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