I hate graveyards and old pawn shops
For they always bring me tears
I can't forgive the way they robbed me
of my childhood Souvenirs
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| The Man |
It started by delaying a trial that I'd been preparing for. An inconvenience. Then, it slowly began impeding our freedoms. Did it make sense to cancel school? Was it a hoax? What about the flu? Then, more confinement. I began to worry about clients, my business, and my employees. This escalated to spending nights contemplating my parents' health and the safety of my baby girl out in Washington. Ultimately, I began to wonder about our American way of life. Nothing makes you appreciate something like its absence. We shake hands, we hug, we lean against each other and dance at music venues, and high five at football games. We are an affectionate and friendly culture. It is a great place to live. Six feet my ass. It is a lot to ask. It is a lot to get used to.
Gay Street is quiet. Store fronts are dark. "Closed" signs are in the windows. I worry about things like Jocelyn and Ryan's business. They own Tern Club, a bar across the street from me in the 100 block of Gay Street. They are from Portland and traveled the country looking for the place to open their dream business. I met them at a "Block Party" just before they opened. I don't even know their last name, but when you live downtown you come to know everyone. When they unlocked the doors and welcomed people this past December, their bar was an instant hit. On the nights before the advance of the pandemic, the windows fogged from the warmth of bodies and jovial spirit inside, while people lined the sidewalk outside, waiting in the cold, just to get a taste of the famous Mai Tai. The windows were dark this past Saturday evening, as they were for most of our beloved town and Market Square. The decorated roofs of Scruffy City Hall and Preservation Pub were alight, but not a soul looked down onto the Square and the silence of the spring night was deafening. The Square, a living breathing thing, patiently slumbers, awaiting the declining side of scientific graphs and charts. There's no Farmer's Market, no hula hoops or dogs. The music that daily spills out onto the streets has been silenced. No violins or Caribbean Steel Drums. The old man who plays a 1940 Martin, the girl who plays a keyboard in business doorways, and the fellow who plays a saw - yes, a saw - have taken up "Safer at Home." This is a place where Tyler Childers once busked for the money to spend at "Pres Pub." Scott Miller and Drew Holcomb began their careers in its late-night shine and excitement. Then, just a block away, the doors are locked at Kilwins. It is the secret to my very own existence. I must go on without their ice cream and my beloved lemon drops until this thing is over. I cannot believe the Governor failed to include it as "essential business." Damn the Covid.
Then there is the real problem - the human tragedy. It has set upon the frail and the firm alike. Patrick Dalton, a healthy 24-year-old, is on a ventilator while his new wife and sweet and loving parents are prevented from visiting. Tony, his father, is a fellow member of the Knoxville Bar Association, a fine lawyer and a friend. Once upon a time, we sat in bleachers and worked concessions together while our boys played sports and grew up. His two boys and my four kids attended the same small high school. It hits home when you know someone who has Covid 19, but it becomes almost paralyzing when you are able to identify, to actually visualize yourself and your family in its grips. I am Tony. Patrick is Andy. The Pryors are the Daltons. I think about them throughout the day, praying for Patrick's deliverance from illness.
Then, last night, it stole John Prine. I first met John when Jake Reeves and I were sharing a bottle of Early Times at Lake Terrace Apartments on the campus of the University of Tennessee. It was 1990. I was approaching graduation and marriage. Jake sang along to the words coming from the speakers. The room was full of our buddies, but Mr. Prine's finger picking style and lyrics covered me up like a blanket, and I knew immediately that I must own everything he recorded. John didn't know it when he took his last breath, but he has been my friend since I was 21 years of age. Though we never met, I've listened to him when the sun was setting out on the Gulf and while sitting on my back porch with Nancy. His music has been there - on the golf course, in the car, by the pool and in the office. The rhythm of his acoustic guitar and the stories in his lyrics have accompanied and comforted me in some of the darkest and brightest days of my life. He's never failed me. To this day, this very moment really, his words bleed into the room when I write and work. And, his music seems to speak to me more as I age. Living can do that, help you to see the wisdom in the words of poets. I can imagine John had a lot of unknown friends like me. Why? Because he was genuine. He was humble, never truly understanding his talent or the secret to his success, and seemingly uninterested in its origin. He was almost apologetic for his greatness. He just always seemed like a friend talking to you, delivering his craft with a unique playing style that I've spent a number of years worshiping and trying to emulate.
Everyone has their favorite John Prine song. If you have children that have grown and moved out, just try to listen to Hello In There and not cry. If you ever fell out of love with someone, Far From Me captures it all in 3 minutes. Couples get a kick out of In Spite of Ourselves ("I caught him once sniffing my undies"). I can make a case for about 15 others, but my personal favorite is Souvenirs. I learned to play it on my Martin acoustic. Nancy has heard its intro so many times that it is burned into her soul. When I first executed it, I felt as though Superman stopped by to let me borrow his cape. It's my "go to" riff whenever I pick up a guitar and want to know how the instrument sounds.
Today is my youngest child's twenty-first birthday. Just the immediate family will gather to celebrate. There will be no bars open to have a beer. I wish I could take him across the street to the Tern Club. Instead, we'll sit on the porch. We'll talk of the Daltons and our concern for the family. His mother and I will stress the importance of washing hands. Then, although he has heard plenty of John Prine while growing up in my house, I'll take the time to offer unsolicited advice. It is one of my stronger qualities. I'll tell him to pay a little more attention to John Prine. It is important to know who your friends are.
Rest in Peace Mr. Prine. Thank you for the Souvenirs.
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