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Foo Fighters: Surprise!!! Here’s a sneak peek from The Storyteller by Dave Grohl.

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“Tracey, they’re here!”

In the extravagant foyer of my aunt Sherry’s turn-of-the-century Evanston, Illinois, estate, I stood at the bottom of the long, winding staircase waiting to greet my ultra-cool cousin Tracey with a much-anticipated hug. Though we weren’t technically related, I considered Tracey family as much as I did any blood relative. Our mothers had met as teenagers in high school and became lifelong friends, even forming an a cappella singing group called the Three Belles that performed at their local Boardman, Ohio, Kiwanis clubs, Women’s City Clubs, and school functions in the early fifties (not to mention a morning TV cooking show where my mother drank milk for a commercial endorsement and almost threw up all over the set). Joined by their dear friend Jeralyn Meyer, the trio sang “Tea for Two,” “Bewitched,” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in perfect harmony, all smiles and matching outfits. With no real professional aspirations, theirs was more of a heartfelt passion, a way to pass the time and share their love of music with friends. After graduation, my mother and Sherry went their separate ways in life but vowed to reconnect every summer from then on, which we did, no matter the distance between our families.

Our seven-hundred-mile drive from Springfield, Virginia, to Evanston was no small feat. My mother, my sister, and I would cram our luggage, pillows, blankets, and cooler full of snacks into our baby-blue 1981 Ford Fiesta for the eleven-hour drive, usually stopping halfway in Youngstown, Ohio, for a few days to visit with my grandparents, not far from where I was born in the little town of Warren. It was the highlight of the year, driving up the Pennsylvania Turnpike into one of America’s most beautiful corners, winding over rolling hills and through long mountain tunnels. I always enjoyed the trip, singing along to the radio with my mother from the front seat, pulling over at rest stops for souvenirs, and eating sandwiches that we had brought or the ride. It was my first real taste of travel, and even then I could appreciate the gradual change in landscape as we barreled across the country toward the Midwest in our tiny little car, squeezed in like cosmonauts for hours on end. I can only think that the pleasure I found watching the long road ahead inspired me to follow those same highways later on in life.

After traveling from our sleepy suburban Virginia neighborhood, into the Pennsylvania hills, and past the long, flat cornfields of rural Ohio, the sight of Chicago’s sprawling metropolis before our windshield was nothing less than triumphant. Like the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz, the glorious vision of the Sears Tower standing in the distance always filled me with a sense of amazement and wild anticipation, wondering what this summer’s trip would have in store. I absolutely loved Chicago. Its multicultural maze of subway cars and brick buildings seemed like a playground of opportunity, much more exciting than the quiet suburban environment of my home in Virginia. Along with my cousin Tracey, the most adventurous of my “cousins,” there were her three older brothers, Trip, Todd, and Troy, who would always take me under their wing and show me a world outside of my own that I otherwise never would have experienced, from exploring the city to playing for hours on the warm beaches of Lake Michigan. This was my Fantasy Island, my Club Med, my Copacabana. This also became my life’s first real taste of independence, as I eventually began taking the L downtown without my mother’s supervision to explore the city’s many corners, quickly finding my own sense of identity that stretched far beyond who I had been led to believe I could be. I was living a classic 1980s John Hughes coming-of-age film without realizing it, aesthetically and emotionally.

As I stood waiting for Tracey to bounce down in her usual shorts and polo shirt, I noticed an ominous sound from upstairs. The sound of chains clanging and leather creaking, boots hitting the floor with a thud in every step, like a Viking slowly approaching an intended victim. A home intruder? A Hells Angel? The Ghost of Christmas Past? My heart raced as the footsteps grew closer, now at the top of the staircase. Boom. Clink. Boom. Clink. Boom. Clink. And then she appeared . . .

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The tales of life and music arrive Oct. 5th.

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