Late morning. Bobby and I packed the car for the Great American Road Trip. I tossed my fiddle into the backseat. Bobby placed his banjo in the trunk. I ate my third Larabar.
“Ready to shove off?” said Bobby.
“Aye, aye,” said I, with a mouthful.
Bobby took the first shift behind the wheel, exiting Birmingham, doing a cool 65 mph, aiming our headlights toward the Mid-Atlantic. Our backseat, full of banjos, guitars, mandolins, multiple fiddles, and three quarters of the nation’s supply of Larabars.
My wife forces me to bring Larabars when I travel. I have thousands. Otherwise, I tend to receive the majority of my nutrition from the Frito-Lay food group. Larabars, you will note, are high in fiber. And my wife is obsessed with lower-intestinal health.
“Did you ‘go’ today?” my wife will often whisper, with concern. Sometimes asking this question in public places such as, for example, funerals.
“Why are you so interested in my bathroom habits?” I will aggravatedly reply.
My wife will then turn to any eavesdroppers and say, “It’s okay, he’s just constipated.”
For the next nine days, Bobby Horton and I will be playing a week’s worth of shows spanning from New Jersey to the Keystone State. We will finish our trip at the historic Majestic Theater in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania.
You might recognize the name Bobby Horton. He composes music for all the Ken Burns documentaries. He’s a boyhood hero of mine.
I’ll never forget when I first heard Bobby’s music. It was only a few years before my father died. Dad was watching the PBS Civil War documentary; I was lying on the floor in front of the TV, flat on my stomach, reading the latest installment in the “Archie” saga.
When I heard the documentary’s music coming from our Zenith console, I was so mesmerized I forgot all about Veronica, Betty, and Jughead. The music captivated me.
Namely, because music has always been important to me. I’ve been playing piano since age 9. And after all those years, I can safely say my playing has not improved.
Still, music has been the centralmost factor of my life. Before I became a writer, I played music for a living. I’ve been playing music as a full-time job since I was 18. Which, believe me, sounds more glamorous than it actually was. Mostly, I earned my living playing prestigious establishments with names like the “Tequila Mockingbird Lounge.”
Also, I played for churches, rotarian gatherings, nursing homes, used-car dealership grand openings, and on two separate occassions—count’em, two—I have played prison.
When I met Bobby, my life sort of changed. I had just moved to Birmingham, and I was an orphan. I had no friends or family in town. Mostly, I just sat at home being force-fed unbelievable amounts of dietary fiber.
Bobby and his wife, Lynda, unofficially adopted an overgrown fatherless child, even though they already have a massive family. Bobby started referring to me as his godson whenever he introduced me. Which is probably something he does with everyone. But it meant something to me. It’s been a long time since anyone called me son.
Throughout these past years, we have been playing music together in various configurations, traveling the US, laughing in the front seat, while I try to keep the Frito-Lay corporation in the black.
So anyway, we’re going to be performing a lot of music this week.
It will be fun, too. We will be picking and fiddling antique Civil-War-era instruments, singing archaic songs. We will dress in period clothing. I am even going to be wearing period-correct underpants—I now understand why our ancestors never smiled in historic photographs.
And as our car speeds toward the Mid-Atlantic, I can’t help but think how beautifully synchronous life is.
It seems like only weeks ago I was reading Archie on the living room rug. It seems like only yesterday that I was a fatherless 18-year-old, playing music in bars, waiting for someone to love me.
And yet here I am. Riding in a car with a friend and personal hero. Seeing this beautiful nation at eye-level. Wondering how many more surprises God has in store for a highly misguided, deeply inept, but well-meaning fool like me.
Anyone want a Larabar? I have plenty.