But I know I've got one thing I've got to do--ramble on.

In my hometown, there were two kinds of families: those who listen to Country music and those who listen to Classic Rock. My family was all working-class factory people, so we never strayed from the local rock station. Everything from the quintessential Southern "coded" music like Lynyrd Skynyrd, to guitar gods Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton, to the music I still love like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin all comprise my childhood memories.

Growing up, I don't remember spending a lot of time with my father, as his primary and singular responsibility was to "deposit a check" at the end of every work week. The few encounters we had with one another were often played against a classic soundtrack that would make one think I hit my heyday in the 70s, rather than the
90s. We used to ride around in his old Toyota truck, the type with the huge fog lights mounted on top of a silver bar and riding atop monster truck-sized tires. He would quiz me, "Alright, now this is the man that plays his guitar left-handed and upside down. Name that artist." Soon after "Mama" and "Dada," I'm pretty sure I learned "Jimi."

As I got older, my father would invite me to listen to records with him on the old stereo in their bedroom. He would pull out Heart albums and express his undying desire for pre-80s Nancy and Ann Wilson. His passion for Fleetwood Mac extended to encompass his worship of Stevie Nicks. The first time I saw that ubiquitous Springsteen's-ass-amidst-patriotic-backdrop album cover was when I was still wearing a Muppet Babies nightgown. That memory is as fresh for me as my fifth birthday party. When we moved to the country and left behind our child-friendly neighborhood in town, my 8-year-old self created my own "radio station," complete with all of the classic hits I'd dubbed from my dad's records onto tape. I mimicked the "SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY" booming voices of the local deejays and used my alarm clock to create wacky radio-esque sound bytes. I entered middle school as an awkward girl who worshipped The Moody Blues and could sing Petty/Nicks's duet "Stop Dragging My Heart Around" word for word.

These songs are all the more powerful to me in the summertime when I tend to ride windows-down across my hot little town. I returned from a trip to the local dollar store yesterday with Zeppelin's "Ramble On" playing on that same classic rock station from my childhood:

"It's time I was on my way.
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged
For such a pleasant stay."

I tried to tell my mother over birthday dinner yesterday that the job hunt would be starting this Fall, likely taking us up and out of here, but she just made some funny noise and kept talking about my sister's grades. I suppose I could blame our wanderlust on Zeppelin--after all, Mom and Dad gave me this legacy--but it just isn't an easy conversation either way. While the Bunny and I sit up late at night under the moon lingering over our backyard, the air quiet for once in the middle of our noisy hood, and discuss mountain homes and endless prairie sunsets, Mom has hope that we'll keep our feet planted right in this space. She is likely in her own backyard, Power 92 playing the same twenty rock songs on loop, and imagining her life after grandchildren, which are all the more distant now in the wake of our steel-pact to take our chance for a fresh start. Really, a start at all, as the Bunny and I feel we've just been biding our time here all these years.

In a way, our recent break-in was a blessing, as it has given me the necessary catalyst to make a change. I've broken up with the love affair that is my home here. When we do move, I'll lament the end of our time together, housey and me, but I'll swing with fanfare into the passenger seat of the moving van my Bunny will navigate across roads far away--beyond, even, the reach of West Tennessee's most powerful classic rock station--determined to take my leave.