I'm Growing Older But Not Up...

I had a birthday about a week and a half ago. Ten years prior I morosely began my last year as a thirty-something, dreading my forties as I realized that I was indeed mortal, and that the natural order of things had not in fact skipped me for some reason. Now as I look onward (but not forward) to my fifties, I'll admit that my forties weren't that bad after all.

As a matter of fact, there are only a few notable differences between the current me and the me of ten years ago. I'm grayer, and the hair is a little thinner. I also needed reading glasses when I hit my forty-sixth year. Other than that, I look the same. I even feel the same, which is remarkable to me because ten years ago I felt the same way I did in my thirties, even my twenties. I know I'll eventually slow down, and have less energy to expend on a daily basis, but for now that hasn't happened.

Of course, just because I don't feel any different doesn't mean I'm not treated differently. Younger men have to earn respect, now it's given to me as if it were an inalienable right, like the right to vote. People "sir" the hell out of me now. I remember the first time it bothered me. Still in my thirties, I was inside a mall when I spotted a young thug menacingly shouldering his way through the crowd. I've never liked bullies, and whenever I encountered one I'd stare them down, until they averted their gaze and behaved themselves. This worked because I'm a pretty big guy. The bully would look away and I'd think to myself, That's right, buddy. Not on this day, however. This time the bully looked at me and said, "How you doin', sir?" before merrily continuing on his way. Sir?!!, I thought. I'll kick your ass!!!

The other notable difference in getting older is that the older you get, the younger the people in charge seem to be. For the first time in my life the President of the United States of America is younger than me. He's only a year younger, but still. Those in power were always older. When did people my age start running things?

Oh, right. I remember now. Back during my thirties when I was singing in nightclubs every night, sleeping until noon and enjoying my extended adolescence. Waking when my body said, "Hey Will, we got our eight hours in, time to get up." No harsh alarm clocks for me, unless I was traveling for a gig and had a plane to catch. Meanwhile, more industrious members of my generation were swilling Pepto-Bismal and swallowing Imodium AD tablets by the fistful so that they would have the intestinal fortitude to claw their way to the top of their chosen heap.

They can have the power. I've lived enough to know that what makes me happy isn't power, but the ability to lead a life well lived. Setting has a lot to do with that.
When I was recently in Vienna I could think of nothing but my own mortality. A few days later I was in Paris, and felt immortal. Attitude is another factor in living well. I'm more of a realist than most of my friends and family suspect. When posed the "Is the glass half full or half empty" question, most assume that I'm a glass half full kind of guy, when in fact I'm more apt to respond, "That depends. Are we drinking or pouring?" I seem like an optimist because I believe that most of us lucky enough to be in the U.S. or other, stable, Western Hemisphere countries (I'm looking at you, France) have the ability to change our lives to our liking. We may not be the captains of our own ships, but we do indeed have our hands on the tiller from time to time. Don't like where you live? Move. Don't like your job? Find another.

Are you afraid? The poet Rainer Maria Rilke said that "Fear is the dragon that guards our secret treasure." This eye-opening quote came to me by way of Ray Wylie Hubbard, during his performance at a dismally attended gig at the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville, Tennessee back in 1994. It was my first day in town, Steve Earle had just been arrested a few hours before for heroin possession, and Ray was playing to a crowd of six, which included the girl behind the bar and the sound man. Ray went on to explain that he was always more comfortable as the cut-up, but after reading a book with that quote in it he decided that although he enjoyed being a funny guy, he would also like to be known as someone who could write a song a little more serious than "Up Against The Wall, Redneck Mother." Ray believed in the truth of that quote, and now when he has a gig it is more often than not sold out.

This post is perhaps a long explanation as to why I'm writing a novel, knowing that the odds are against my finishing it, much less getting it published. I'm writing the novel, statistics be damned. I'll be happy enough to have written a manuscript. Who knows, it may ultimately lead to me being able to add "Published Author" to my life list of things that I'm happy to have experienced. What do you really want to do?

It Took Me Years, To Get Those Souvenirs...

I've never considered myself a collector of material things. Sure, I've got a few souvenirs from my travels, and a handful of posters that I love for the art, but for the most part I've preferred to travel light and gather life experiences instead of trinkets.

When I was in the Navy my roommate J.T. and his girlfriend Monica wanted to do something special for my birthday. They discussed it for a few days, and decided that the best gift they could give me would be a memory. They were exactly right. We were temporarily stationed at the Marine base in Yuma, Arizona for the summer. On the night of my birthday they put me in the backseat of the car and blindfolded me. I rode in silence, grinning, listening for clues and trying to discover a hidden meaning behind every bump in the road.

After about twenty minutes the car stopped, and they helped me out of the backseat. Monica took my arm and led me for about fifty yards. I could hear the trunk of the car open, and then a few moments later, slam shut with an authoritative finality. I heard J.T. hurry by us a few moments later. My feet left the pavement after the first few steps, and I could feel soft grass beneath the soles of my shoes. "We're almost there," she said, the excitement in her voice making it hard not to rip the blindfold off, but that would have spoiled the surprise. We stopped walking, and Monica helped me sit.

She removed the blindfold, and there before me was the eighteenth hole of a local golf course, the target flag waving gently on top of the pole. Spread before us on the green was a blanket, three champagne glasses and a bottle of Asti Spumante, the long green neck leaning out of the top of a bucket of ice. That was twenty-three years ago and I still remember the brand. We talked and toasted each other until the bottle was gone, then continued our conversation under the brilliant, starlit summer sky until the sprinkler system kicked on, and the three of us ran, laughing, back to J.T.'s car.

I still haven't forgiven myself for losing touch with J.T. and Monica. People lose touch, it's a sad fact of life, but I can't help feeling that I should have tried harder. They split up just before I left the Navy. The last I heard J.T. had gone back to St. Louis. I know Monica is a fellow Texan, but I'm sure she has a different last name now. She was a beautiful girl and ready to settle down.

Maybe someday, through some miracle of this hyper connected world we now live in, J.T., Monica, and many others that had a hand in creating these wonderful memories I keep in my head will stumble across this blog and drop me a line.

Merry Ellen

Way back in 1992 I returned home to Texas after living in California for several years. I started playing music in the clubs around Houston and met most of the people that I still hang out with today. Merry Ellen is one of those people, and yesterday was her birthday.

She’s old enough to be our mother, and treats us all like her favorite child. Merry Ellen is a serious fan of live music, particularly original music. A few months after we met I thought I should write a song for her, as a thank you to all the times she came out to hear me perform, usually with two or three Merry Ellen groupies in tow. Many times she was the reason I wasn't putting on a private show for the bartender.I wrote the song for purely unselfish reasons, and as it often happens with unselfish acts, I was rewarded many, many times over for having written the song. She's followed me to Nashville for gigs at the Bluebird Cafe, and once, in a serendipitous convergence of life and luck, she planned a trip to Europe with her son shortly before I got a gig playing in Montreux, Switzerland.

"Oh, David", she said, "Let's swing down to Montreux and see Willie on our way to Paris."

I wasn't really on their way to Paris, but he's a dutiful son, so David drove eight hundred miles out of his way to make his mom happy.

The Merry Ellen Song
© 1992

Well she sits there in the front row, where there’s room to tap her toes,
She’s the number one music fan, everybody knows,
She’s helped so many people, she’s the rock we all lean on,
She’s also soft and fuzzy, her name is Featherstone,
Chorus
Merry Ellen will you come to hear me play tonight,
I’ve been working on a new song, I believe I’ve got it right,
I’ll sing all your favorites too, anything you say,
Merry Ellen will you come to hear me play.

She follows Shake and Jack, Michael Brim and Bill Ward too,
She’s even come to hear me and Dave Holder a time or two,
Bow Brannon, Terry Ridgeway, Gary Morris and Rusty Weir,
We all love it when somebody says, “Merry Ellen’s here,”
Repeat Chorus
You can see her with the top down, hair blowin’ in the breeze,
On her way to who knows where, to hear some melodies,
If you’ve never had her spiced pecans you’re missing quite a treat,
Homemade by Merry Ellen, and almost as sweet,
Repeat Chorus
Merry Ellen will you come to hear me play,
Merry Ellen will you come to hear me play.

Happy 79th birthday Merry Ellen!