RU Sirius?

Summer of ‘63 Feeble headlights from a ‘56 Ford struggle through the Stygian dark of a murky night, revealing little ahead but moonscape and the still-startled brown eyes of an ill-fated young buck in the road. This could have been a ghost planet, but what is out there is warm, dank, Indiana blackness. You know because call letters WBOW radio in Terre Haute tell you so before filling the vehicle with “Wipe Out,” and it’s only this knowledge that puts you in place and time, keeps you awake and guides you home. Summer of ‘22 How different from back then when these small stations in these small towns helped us plot our positions, directing its sons back home, as Luckenbach, Texas beckoned to Willie and Waylon and the boys, while today’s international radio giant, Sirius, does everything for the listener but provide Elton John’s Tiny Dancer, flesh and blood, on our dashboards, right next to the GPS, but the night-bound driver has no clue whether they are closer to Maine or Ukraine, and no more idea how far from home they might be as the blackness closes around them.