So there we were, a couple of teenaged girls with big dreams in our badly teased hair cruising the town in a 1971 Chevelle. Radio blasting, of course, at the time it was Bad Company’s Shooting Star and we were singing at the top of our lungs.

Yeah, we had big dreams. We could see ourselves in the furture, big hair and all. It was the eighties afterall. Everyone had big dreams then. And the music fed the dreams.

Next song up was Prince’s Purple Rain, another one we loved to sing. Loudly, maybe not as badly. But who could really tell then. It was the heartbeat that kept us moving. It drove us to move. We danced we sang and we dreamt. We lived.

We parked and turned up the radio so we could hear it as we watched traffic moving slowly by. We sang to passer bys and danced when the right songs played. We cried when Dream On rang out. (It was our class song afterall.)

Our crowd gathered and everyone tuned to the same station so the noise drowned all hopes of conversation. But we had fun. And the music lived.