You Don't Have to Call Me Darling, Darling

I've been listening lately to an Oldies country music station. I don't think much of the new stuff, but anything by Merle Haggard, George Jones, Johnny Cash or Glen Campbell gets my attention.

In her book A Walk in the Spring Rain, Rachel Maddux said there are only two country songs, the fast one and the sad one. It's kind of true. David Allan Coe parodied he'd written the perfect country song when he sang these lines from "You never Even Called Me By My Name":

"I was drunk when my mom got out of prison, and I went to pick her up in the rain, but before I could get to the station in my pickup truck, she got runned over by a d---ed old train . . ."

He was joking, of course (I think) but sorrow and regret are key in a country song. And these always stop me dead in my tracks: The Loser's Cathedral, and My Elusive Dreams, by David Houston; My Old Yellow Car, by Dan Seals; Run For the Roses, by Dan Fogelburg; Things I Wish I'd Said, by Rodney Crowell; Farewell Party, by Gene Watson. Before I know it, I'm draped over the radio like a sixteen-year old, inhaling the sadness. The pumpkin pies can wait.

The leaky roof returned with a vengeance yesterday, as the temporary patch sprung a leak after two days of rain, and before I noticed it, the phone/fax machine was sizzled. Hubby noticed the funky smell it gave off as he came in the door. I've dried it out, but I think it's done for. It was ten years old, so I guess it's time to dig a hole in the back yard and then look for a newer, spiffier one.  But maybe I'll write a song about it first.

Before we stop teaching cursive writing in schools, consider this news item from Wheeling, WV:
"Bad penmanship dooms robber. Police are searching for a would-be bank robber whose attempt failed because a teller couldn't read his handwriting. They say the teller couldn't make sense of his note and asked him if it was a joke. The man became frustrated and left." Somewhere out there, there's a future bank robber who needs help with his penmanship. Are we going to deny him that?

One Sunday Morning, by Amy Ephron, is ". . .a captivating tale of wealth, society, and scandal set in 1920's New York and Paris".  Ms. Ephron brings to life the era of Prohibition, the Jazz Age, and New York high society, when women were testing their new freedom, and yet the slightest indiscretion could ruin a life. A small book, but a good read.

Happy Thanksgiving! See you next week. We'll compare diets.