The Cloyce Serenade

I'm not against music. Honest, I'm not. But my tastes are limited (give me Johnny Cash over Lady Yada or Masta Rappa Thugface any day) and I think there's a time and a place for it. After maybe having the radio on, our old Shop is not ever the time or place. Especially for live music.

One day as I was working alone in the old barn an old family friend, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, appeared. He helped himself to a cup of coffee and we chatted as I fixed cables.

A little while later a plumber came in. I'll call her Anne, which is not her real name, because she may not care for this memory. Anne was one of the few women plumbers at the time, which was around 35 years ago. Anyway, I stopped what I was doing to do a quick repair on the drain machine she had brought in. She and I and Cloyce chit chatted.

Cloyce asked if Anne liked music. She warily answered yes. "Well, I play a little bit," Cloyce responded. He went outside and brought back his guitar. And he began, there's no other way to say it, serenading Anne.

Anne was clearly embarrassed by the attention. I was embarrassed for her. She looked at me with an awkward, pleading smile, the kind which asks, 'What's all this then?' quite emphatically. I sheepishly half smiled in return and kind of shrugged my shoulders. Making it a point by then to hurry up the repair, I soon had Anne's machine done. Cloyce strummed his guitar, staring longingly at Anne the whole while.

I don't think she was more glad to leave the old barn. I know I was never, no offense to you of course Anne, more glad to see her leave. And I doubt to this day Cloyce even realizes how weird the whole thing was.

We thankfully did not lose Anne as a customer, though I would not have held it against her. Although, perhaps, I might have wrote a ballad about it.

Countrified Music

Country songs seem to merit parody, don't they? This coming from a guy who likes country music, and I mean the old twangy stuff like Hank Williams all the way up to, oh, the late 1990s. I don't know much about any music since then, except for Weird Al. He's timeless.

But country begs for jokes almost more than any other style of music. Maybe it's the lyrics. This morning I happened to hear, I'm so lonesome I could cry. Not terrible, but I immediately found myself thinking...

I'm so hungry I could eat.

I'm so tired I could sleep.

I'm so thirsty I could drink.

I'm in so much actual physical pain I could take 8 Tylenols or even go into urgent care and maybe have surgery and spent a few days in the hospital recovering.

All right, that last one was kind of forced. But you get the point.

A Question

Was Toby Keith a solo artist?

Let's see if anyone can figure it out... 

Hank

You know, it don't serve no purpose to forgive anyone's sins simply because you like him. But there may just be a lesson in understanding his background and seeing things in context.

One of my Christmas gifts was a biography of Hank Williams, Sr. He's the patriarch of a branch of country music royalty, followed his son Hank Jr., grandson Hank Williams III (a ringer for his grandfather in voice and appearance) and Coleman Williams, a great grandson whose stage name is IV, noting his place in the hierarchy. 

Hank's songs are often poetry and also often angst ridden (though not always), and I love them. Yet at the risk of severe understatement, his life was difficult. I won't bore you here with the details, but he went through a lot of tough stuff. Some was of his own making, perhaps. But when you become familiar with his background, maybe he can be cut slack. Indeed, I would argue he ought to be.

One lesson which is so simple that it shouldn't have taken me more than 60 years to learn is that being considerate of people is the essence of charity. Their indiscretions in and of themselves may well be indefensible. But what led to the errors of their ways, well, it's a factor.

Hate the sin, love the sinner. Hank weren't perfect. But he understood the world despite that. His songs show it. I think we're better off for them, and that gift mitigates a good many things.

How would I know?

Charlie Rich was a 1970s country singer of some note. I rather liked him, myself. His two biggest hits as I recall were Behind Closed Doors and The Most Beautiful Girl.

Now, I understand artistic license. Sometimes you have to write or sing things a certain way simply because the words fit, or you are going with the flow of the tune. But one line of Most Beautiful Girl which always jumped out at me was, Did you happen to see the most beautiful girl, that walked out on me?

Well, I don't know, Charlie. How many girls have walked out on you? I mean, most beautiful is comparative, right? What are we comparing this particular girl's looks to: women in general or the women who've walked out on you? I just can't answer the question without knowing that.

Have a great day everyone.

Driveway pay

Years ago me Pops helped a friend of his put in a driveway. This buddy, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, was an all right, stand up guy. He was actually a little put out when the old man absolutely refused to take any money for his help.

On a Sunday afternoon a few weeks later Cloyce and his wife (I'll call her Mrs. Cloyce just to give her a name) arrived at Dad's front door. "We're going to a country music show on the east side. Wanna go?" Cloyce asked Pops.

Me Pops loved country music. "Sure," he answered. He went to step through the door: Cloyce stepped to block his way. Pops stepped the other way; so did Cloyce. "What are you doing? Let's go," Dad asked, confused.

Cloyce answered definitively, "We ain't going nowhere til you leave your wallet behind, cause you ain't payin' for nuthin' today."

Dad smiled and left his billfold. He knew Cloyce was trying to pay him for his help, and why offend a guy's gratuity?

Living the dream, if just for a moment

There's this picture I know which will mean nothing to many folks. Most pictures don't I'd imagine. They're someone else doing something else, and that's that. Most pictures are innocuous that way I suppose.

Some are captures of moments which mean little but for the excitement of that moment for those involved. Some are public and capture the peculiar importance of what it is the photographer was shooting. The VJ Day sailor and nurse, his great embrace and her great acceptance, reflect that sentiment. A birthday party or wedding are more the embalmed history of those being partied to or being married show that as well. They are important to all involved or at least, to those photographed.

And then some pictures tell a story which we would all embrace should the tale behind the picture be known by all. I know one of those.

My father loved country music, especially the twangy bluegrass genre which found its way into northern cities such as Detroit as the great northern flight fed them during the hungry days of industry after the Second World War. He met his wife that way, as he had become friends with her brother, my uncle, who himself had fled an impoverished North Carolina in the days after the war seeking a better life for his family. His extended family had, being among them my mother, came north as well. So my parents met. So is my personal history at its' start written.

Years pass, and time yields towards itself. Dad never lost his love of country music, and never lost his love of its history both personal and in its music. He became a salesman for a company, a national company of which he was merely its local rep. And that took him beyond his proscribed territory. It took him to cities which were beforehand out of his range.

He once found himself in Nashville, Tennessee, for a trade show, where he had a few moments to himself. So he took some of those moments and he went to downtown Nashville, to see the Ryman Auditorium where many of his country music heroes had performed. He took a tour and stumbled into an opportunity to envisage himself among country music's elite. He could have his own picture made at center stage as though he were performing among the country music elite.

They gave him a cowboy hat and a guitar. They told him to take a certain spot on the stage, strum the guitar, look one way, and smile, and they would take a picture. He did it all. And he came out looking, as if in an analogy he had used often himself about others, as a kid in a candy store. He looked like a country music singer in his own right.

He was smiling as though it was meant for him to be there. As though he should be there. And as though he was comfortable, right where he should be.

He was a kid smiling like a kid living his wildest dreams. No doubt he was. I see it in that picture I know.

Dad's day at the Ryman

There's this picture I know which will mean nothing to many folks. Most pictures don't I'd imagine. They're someone else doing something else, and that's that. Most pictures are innocuous that way I suppose.

Some are captures of moments which mean little but for the excitement of that moment for those involved. Some are public and capture the peculiar importance of what it is the photographer was shooting. The VJ Day sailor and nurse, his great embrace and her great acceptance, reflect that sentiment. A birthday party or wedding are more the embalmed history of those being partied to or being married show that as well. They are important to all involved or at least, to those photographed.

And then some pictures tell a story which we would all embrace should the tale behind the picture be known by all. I know one of those.

My father loved country music, especially the twangy bluegrass genre which found its way into northern cities such as Detroit as the great northern flight fed them during the hungry days of industry after the Second World War. He met his wife that way, as he had become friends with her brother, my uncle, who himself had fled an impoverished North Carolina in the days after the war seeking a better life for his family. His extended family had, being among them my mother, came north as well. So my parents met. So is my personal history at its' start written.

Years pass, and time yields towards itself. Dad never lost his love of country music, and never lost his love of its history both personal and in its music. He became a salesman for a company, a national company of which he was merely its local rep. And that took him beyond his proscribed territory. It took him to cities which were beforehand out of his range.

He once found himself in Nashville, Tennessee, for a trade show, where he had a few moments to himself. So he took some of those moments and he went to downtown Nashville, to see the Ryman Auditorium where many of his country music heroes had performed. He took a tour and stumbled into an opportunity to envisage himself among country music's elite. He could have his own picture made at center stage as though he were performing among the country music elite.

They gave him a cowboy hat and a guitar. They told him to take a certain spot on the stage, strum the guitar, look one way, and smile, and they would take a picture. He did it all. And he came out looking, as if in an analogy he had used often himself about others, as a kid in a candy store. He looked like a country music singer in his own right.

He was smiling as though it was meant for him to be there. As though he should be there. And as though he was comfortable, right where he should be.

He was a kid smiling like a kid living his wildest dreams. No doubt he was. I see it in that picture I know.

Personal History

There's this picture I know which will mean nothing to many folks. Most pictures don't I'd imagine. They're someone else doing something else, and that's that. Most pictures are innocuous that way I suppose.

Some are captures of moments which mean little but for the excitement of that moment for those involved. Some are public and capture the peculiar importance of what it is the photographer was shooting. The VJ Day sailor and nurse, his great embrace and her great acceptance, reflect that sentiment. A birthday party or wedding are more the embalmed history of those being partied to or being married show that as well. They are important to all involved or at least, to those photographed.

And then some pictures tell a story which we would all embrace should the tale behind the picture be known by all. I know one of those.

My father loved country music, especially the twangy bluegrass genre which found its way into northern cities such as Detroit as the great northern flight fed them during the hungry days of industry after the Second World War. He met his wife that way, as he had become friends with her brother, my uncle, who himself had fled an impoverished North Carolina in the days after the war seeking a better life for his family. His extended family had, being among them my mother, came north as well. So my parents met. So is my personal history at its' start written.

Years pass, and time yields towards itself. Dad never lost his love of country music, and never lost his love of its history both personal and in its music. He became a salesman for a company, a national company of which he was merely its local rep. And that took him beyond his proscribed territory. It took him to cities which were beforehand out of his range.

He once found himself in Nashville, Tennessee, for a trade show, where he had a few moments to himself. So he took some of those moments and he went to downtown Nashville, to see the Ryman Auditorium where many of his country music heroes had performed. He took a tour and stumbled into an opportunity to envisage himself among country music's elite. He could have his own picture made at center stage as though he were performing among the country music elite.

They gave him a cowboy hat and a guitar. They told him to take a certain spot on the stage, strum the guitar, look one way, and smile, and they would take a picture. He did it all. And he came out looking, as if in an analogy he had used often himself about others, as a kid in a candy store. He looked like a country music singer in his own right.

He was smiling as though it was meant for him to be there. As though he should be there. And as though he was comfortable, right where he should be.

He was a kid smiling like a kid living his wildest dreams. No doubt he was. I see it in that picture I know.