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As a kid, Harrison Edwards knew there were two ways to get home. He would come back to those roads years later, while trying to write his way through grief.

The roads were Freeway 78 which left him nauseated from the switchbacks, and the other, Highway 79, offered a beautiful trip through the southern California mountains.

For Edwards, home was a small, historic mountain town outside San Diego named Julian. He grew up with horses, chickens, cows, goats and six siblings.  

“Our kind of golden era as a family was spent out there,” he said.  

He still carries memories of this time with him. 

One of his favorites is his mom driving him and his siblings to and from soccer practice throughout the year. For some, it might seem like a mundane childhood experience, but for him, it was the catalyst of a tradition of driving with the windows down and heat blasting, just like his mom would.  

“It was this really, really euphoric sensation as a kid,” he said. “And I think it still is.” 

Now, as an adult living in Minneapolis and making music with the group Firemill, things have changed. He no longer rides in his family’s Suburban or, later, their ‘96 Toyota Land Cruiser.

His mom died 11 years ago, and he still grapples with the grief, mourning and remembrance that followed. But the memory of those simple rides, windows down and heat blasting beside his mom, never faded.

A few years ago when writing new music on tour, he found himself unable to finish a song. He couldn’t give up, and he couldn’t go to bed. His thoughts kept returning to those childhood car rides.

"I was writing like, really late into the night, four or five in the morning, well until the sun was up, Stockholm time,” he said. “Somewhere there the shade was pulled back and I felt like my mom kind of gifted me the entire song." 

What started as rich, full verses for his bandmate to share his vibrato became a dedication to his mother and her profound maternal love.  

As the night poured on, he found he landed on three solid verses, but still the chorus didn’t fit.  

“I just knew that I had this story of death, of passing, mourning and remembrance," he said. 

He brought the song to Firemill’s lead singer Adrian Modiggård. Together, they tried switching keys. 

"The chorus is about that feeling of rolling the windows down, turning the heat up,” he said. “And spending maybe one last moment with a loved one.” 

He knew he bottled the childish laughter and sensational joy of his car rides in a song. He named the song as a final homage to those childhood times he remembers so viscerally: “Julian 79.”  

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A Minneapolis musician reflects on how childhood car rides with his mother shaped a song he later wrote while grieving her death.

A Minneapolis musician finds a song in childhood memories

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