My cousin’s ‘82 Ford was riding the two-lane highway. We were listening to our childhood hero on the radio. Willie Nelson was singing “You Were Always on my Mind.” We were seventeen.
We were on our way to Atlanta to visit a friend who had just graduated. Our friend’s father was throwing the mother of all parties. He was taking a bunch of his son’s friends to see a Willie Nelson concert.
You have never met a bigger Willie Nelson fan than the author of this column. I’m crazy about him.
In fourth grade, I had a homemade Willie Nelson lunchbox. My mother had painted the portrait of Willie onto one of my father’s old tool boxes.
Also, I know all the words to most of Willie’s tunes, and I still cry whenever I hear “Mamas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow up to be Cowboys,” since my mother decidedly failed in this regard.
Anyway, the sun was shining, on Highway 29. When we reached Grantville, we passed a
man who was changing his tire on the shoulder of the road.
We drove straight past him.
After a few miles of silence, we started feeling disgusted with ourselves. So we turned around.
We found the old man in a bad state. His tire was flat, and so was his spare. He was elderly. One side of his face was paralyzed, maybe from a stroke.
“I’ll never make it in time,” the old man kept saying. “I’m so late.”
“Late for what?” we asked.
The man shook his head. “Doesn’t matter now, the party starts in forty-five minutes, I’ll never make it to Columbus.”
I looked in in the backseat of his truck. It was filled with boxes of baby items. A stroller, still in a cardboard box, infant clothes on hangers, toys galore. In his truck bed, he had dozens of…
My life has changed considerably since that night. So have I. And I don’t want to be melodramatic here, but it’s because of my ice-cream eating bride.
The sun was coming up. We rode toward Charleston, doing sixty-five miles per hour in a two-seat truck.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” said my new wife.
“Me neither.”
In my wallet: two hundred dollars cash. It was all I had. I earned it by selling my guitar, one week earlier.
My late father told me once, “If you ever get married, marry a woman who don’t care about money. Happiness and money are of no relation.”
Well, she must not have cared because I had none. I was a blue-collar nothing with a nothing-future ahead of me. I had no high-school education. No achievements. No pot to you-know-what in, and no plant to pour it on. And not much confidence.
Until her.
She unfolded a roadmap on the dashboard. My truck radio played a Willie Nelson cassette. I was married.
Married. Things were looking up.
We arrived at a cheap motor-inn. She took a shower while I watched the idiot box. Andy Griffith was on.
I’d seen the episode a hundred times. Barney makes Otis jump rope to prove he’s sober. You know the
rest. Crisis. Cliffhanger. Andy saves the day. Roll credits.
I made reservations at an upscale restaurant where the waiter pulls the chairs out for you. I wore the only necktie I owned.
We ate food I could not afford. I paid a hundred bucks—plus tip. We walked the streets, arm in arm.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” she said.
Then: the sound of horse hooves. A carriage. A man stepped out and groomed his animals on the sidewalk.
My wife remarked how pretty the horses were.
I asked how much he charged for rides.
“Hundred bucks,” he said.
I handed him my remaining wad of cash. “How much will this buy?”
He thought about it. “How’s ten minutes sound?”
We covered ourselves with a blanket. He carted us through the streets. We saw hotels where…
Ask how old she was when she lost her first tooth. Ask about her dog, and where it sleeps.
Boys, I’ll make this short: treat her good.
Real good.
Treat a girl the way you’d treat the most valuable human you’ve ever touched. No. Treat her like the most rare human you’ve NEVER touched.
Try to think of the most priceless creation on earth. A Rembrandt painting, an 11th century Bible, the Cup of Christ, the Stetson of Willie Nelson.
Treat your girl like that. Times a hundred.
Treat her like she’s been removed from a bullet-proof case and hooked to your arm by Billy Graham himself.
Open every door for her, pull out every chair, hold her pocketbook when need be. Admire her like a painting—not a magazine.
When you spend time together, look straight into her eyes. After all, her eyes lead to her mind, which leads to her heart, which leads to her soul.
Above all—and I am governmentally serious about this—do not look at your god-forsaken phone. Not even once. I mean it. Don’t hold it in your lap, don’t set it on the table, don’t keep it in your pocket, don't make trips to
the bathroom to send texts.
When you’re with her, leave your smartphone in your glovebox. Then, place your car in neutral, lock the doors, set the vehicle on fire, and push it into the nearest muddy ditch.
You’re in public with a famous Rembrandt painting—on loan from the Louvre. Don't waste time.
See how the light hits the angles of her face. Watch the way she wrinkles her forehead when she laughs.
Listen with big ears. Let yourself drift upon the harmonics of her voice like you’re tubing down the Blackwater River with a cooler full of Budweiser and Doritos.
Ask questions. But don't ask common ones. Be original.
Ask how old she was when she lost her first tooth. Ask about her dog, and where it sleeps.
Would she rather hang-glide or flea-market? Winn-Dixie or The Pig?…
He hugged me one more time. His mother took his arm, they walked away. The boy walks with a pronounced limp, holding his mother for balance. And I can’t quit thinking about him.
He was tall, lean, and young. When he approached me, he hugged me. Then, his mother hugged us both. A three-person club sandwich.
He must’ve been a foot taller than I was. His voice squeaked with adolescence. His skin was freckled. He had a long neck.
He recognized me.
“I liked your books, sir,” he said, through a nervous stutter.
Sir? No way. Such titles are reserved for men who wear penny loafers when fishing.
“I read all your books when I was in the hospital,” the boy said. “I kinda got to know you, and it was kinda like we were friends.”
His mother tells me his story. It’s a long one, and it’s not mine to repeat. He has the determination of a saint, and a long road ahead of him. He suffers more than other kids his age. And he might not survive his struggle.
Before he walked away, he told me: “I list ten new things I love every day. I write’em on
paper. My dad told me to do that.”
He tapped his finger against his head. “Gotta keep on thinking ‘bout good things I love. What kinda things do you love?”
I was rendered mute. I couldn’t seem to find words. I noticed a large moon-shaped scar beneath his hair. I tried to say something, anything, but I didn’t.
He hugged me one more time. His mother took his arm, they walked away. The boy walked with a pronounced limp, holding his mother for balance. And I can’t quit thinking about him.
On the off-chance that he is reading this:
1. I love Mexican food. In fact, I have had a lifelong love affair with it. A Mexican man I used to work with with used to make a dish called “chilaquiles verdes.” Before work, he would fry corn tortillas and scrambled eggs, then crumble enough…
We talked about how sad we felt. And about things that made us happy. She liked the Four Tops. I liked Willie. She wanted to be a hip-hop dancer. I wanted write for a newspaper.
Dear Mary,
I got your letter in the mail this afternoon. I read it aloud to my dogs while sipping an iced tea on my porch.
It was a nice surprise, receiving a handwritten letter. I don’t get many.
Even though we are strangers, I was glad to hear about your life. Your new job, your newborn son, and about how much you like Willie Nelson. You’re in good company, Willie Nelson is very special to me, too.
I am sorry your father died. I don’t know exactly what you’re feeling, but I know what it’s like to lose a father. I know you will never be the same.
Not that it matters, but when I was fourteen, I found an ad in the back of a magazine, it advertised a pen pal agency. I responded to the ad, requesting a pen pal.
My assigned correspondent was from Atlanta—keep in mind, this was before the age of the internet. The most advanced form of communication in our day was homing pigeons.
My pen pal’s name was Bee Bee. She was fifteen and wrote in purple ink. She dotted her lowercase “I’s” with little hearts, and I accidentally fell in love with her.
We only wrote each other a handful of times, but we talked about our lives in our letters. She told me about her parent’s divorce. I told her about my father’s suicide.
We talked about how sad we felt. And about things that made us happy. She liked the Four Tops. I liked Willie. She wanted to be a hip-hop dancer. I wanted to write for a newspaper.
She closed each of her letters with:
“Your forever-friend, Bee Bee.”
And well, I’d had never had a forever-friend. Especially not since my father’s death. In fact, I didn’t have many friends at all.
I wished I could end…
I remember early mornings when my mother and I threw the daily newspaper. I remember my sister, sitting in the backseat. I remember the jokes we told each other to keep smiling. And how her laughter sometimes turned into crying for no reason.
She’s having another baby. I still can’t get over the idea that she ever had a first. She is my little sister. That’s how I will always see her. Little.
My wife sometimes has to remind me: “Your sister’s a grown woman now.”
But I remember her as a tiny thing. I remember how much she liked ice cream. I remember her full cheeks.
I remember long ago, when she tried to run away from home. We were in Georgia. I remember how sad she was. Somehow, I talked her into staying.
I remember the sound of her voice when she cried that day.
“Nobody loves me,” she moaned.
“I do,” I said.
“Well, I KNOW you do, but nobody else does.”
“Mama does.”
“I KNOW you and Mama do, but that’s all. Nobody else loves me.”
“The mailman does.”
“The mailman?”
“Oh, you bet. The mailman loves you a whole lot, he told me so himself.”
“The MAIL-man said that?”
“Hand to God. He said you were the only thing that keeps him going.”
“Oh, c’mon, now you’re just being
stupid. Tell me who else loves me.”
“Miss Randolph, a few houses down. She loves you to death.”
“Oh, don’t be stupid.”
“She brings tomatoes and watermelons from her own garden because she loves you so much. You’ll crush her if you run away.”
“Oh, you’re being silly. Keep going, who else loves me?”
“Who else? Hmmmmm. Let’s see. The Daniels boys, they’re crazy about you.”
“Those greasy pigs?”
“They’re in love with you. Aaron Daniels practically wants to marry you, he told me that just this morning.”
“EEWWWW! He did? He smells bad. Who else?”
And I talked her into staying.
I remember when she was a baby. A clammy little thing who sang songs even though she didn’t know the words. I remember when she lost her front…
He would rub salve on my sunburns every summer—I spent three quarters of my life sunburned. Redheads are like that, of course. Fair-skinned people like me can’t mention the sun without blistering.
There was a ghost in the car with me. It surprised me that he showed up, it’s been a long, long time. But I am glad to see him.
I ask what the occasion is.
“Oh,” he says. “I just came to say ‘hello.’”
The ghost looks just like me. Or rather, I look like him. We are close in age—he was only forty-one when he died.
I still miss him.
Anyway, he and I drive past prairies and cotton fields. The sky has never been so blue. The music on the radio has never been better. Willie Nelson’s Greatest Hits.
Salve to the ears.
My father used that word a lot. “Salve.” There was no such thing as “ointment,” “balm,” “Mentholatum,” or “Vaseline.” To him, everything was salve.
He would rub salve on my sunburns every summer—I spent three quarters of my life sunburned. Redheads are like that, of course. Fair-skinned people like me can’t mention the sun without blistering.
A lot of redheads are also allergic to poison ivy. In fact, I can’t bear to talk about this subject. I’m sorry I
even brought it up.
My father would rub salve on all my rashes. He was every bit as redheaded as I was. Every bit as fair.
I’m passing Kinston, Opp, Elba, and Brantley.
I pull over at a gas station. I buy black licorice, Coca-Cola, and hot dogs. He loved black licorice. He loved hotdogs.
Funny, I forget most of the things he hated, but I remember what he loved.
On the road again. There’s not a cloud for miles. His arm is dangling out the window. Mine is too. Willie is still singing. I’ve already finished my Coke and dog. He hasn’t touched his.
Luverne, Rutledge, Highland Home.
He’s not telling stories today. So, I’m remembering some of my own.
I remember the time I fell off the tire swing and knocked the wind out…
Well, she must not have cared because I had none. I was a blue-collar nothing with a nothing-future ahead of me. I had no high-school education. No achievements. No pot to you-know-what in, and no plant to pour it on. And not much confidence.
The sun was coming up. We rode toward Charleston, doing sixty-five miles per hour in a two-seat truck.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” said my new wife.
“Me neither.”
In my wallet: two hundred dollars cash. It was all I had. I earned it by selling my guitar, one week earlier.
My late father told me once, “If you ever get married, marry a woman who don’t care about money. Happiness and money are of no relation.”
Well, she must not have cared because I had none. I was a blue-collar nothing with a nothing-future ahead of me. I had no high-school education. No achievements. No pot to you-know-what in, and no plant to pour it on. And not much confidence.
Until her.
She unfolded a roadmap on the dashboard. My truck radio played a Willie Nelson cassette. I was married.
Married. Things were looking up.
We arrived at a cheap motor-inn. She took a shower while I watched the idiot box. Andy Griffith was on.
I’d seen the episode a hundred times. Barney makes Otis jump rope to prove he’s sober. You know the
rest. Crisis. Cliffhanger. Andy saves the day. Roll credits.
I made reservations at an upscale restaurant where the waiter pulls the chairs out for you. I wore the only necktie I owned.
We ate food I could not afford. I paid a hundred bucks—plus tip. We walked the streets, arm in arm.
“I can’t believe we’re married,” she said.
Then: the sound of horse hooves. A carriage. A man stepped out and groomed his animals on the sidewalk.
My wife remarked how pretty the horses were.
I asked how much he charged for rides.
“Hundred bucks,” he said.
I handed him my remaining wad of cash. “How much will this buy?”
He thought about it. “How’s ten minutes sound?”
We covered ourselves with a blanket. He carted us through the streets. We saw hotels where…
She refilled my glass, then leaned leaned onto her elbows. She looked like a sweet woman. She placed a poker chip on the counter beside my plate. It was red.
Mama was leaving him. She said she was going to leave my father for real this time.
We drove toward North Carolina, I sat in the passenger seat. My baby sister was in back. We were going to live with my aunt and uncle—at least that was the plan.
It was night. There were no lights on the highways. I was Mama’s navigator. I held a map in my lap and translated highway routes for her. I had no idea what I was doing.
We stopped at a truck stop diner. The kind with linoleum floors and Willie Nelson on the radio.
My mother used a payphone, bouncing my sister on her hip. I sat at a counter, eating a burger. I could hear Mama talking to my aunt in an anxious voice. I was sick to my stomach.
“He’s lost his mind,” I heard my mother say. “I’m afraid he’s gonna try something stupid...”
My father had not been himself for a long time.
Mama didn’t want me to hear her conversation,
so she faced her backside toward me.
My waitress was a woman with phony red hair, big glasses, and colorful pins on her apron. The buttons she wore were spectacular.
The waitress said to me, “Why aren’t you eating your food? You feeling okay?”
She refilled my glass, then leaned onto her elbows. She looked like a sweet woman. She placed a poker chip on the counter beside my plate. It was red.
“If you promise to eat,” she said, “you can have this poker chip.”
I stared at it.
“This is no ordinary poker chip,” she went on. “Why, this thing’s magic. Brought me a lotta luck when I needed it most.”
“It did?”
“You betcha.”
It didn’t look like anything special to me. I reached for the chip and she swatted my hand.
“Not…
On the day we got Daddy from the funeral home, he came packaged in a cardboard box. He didn’t believe in urns. He was a tight-wad, even for his own funeral.
It was nice weather. I was on a boat with a friend, hoping to catch a few bream. The fish, of course, knew this and conspired to avoid me.
My friend was sipping beer. Willie Nelson serenaded us from a battery-powered pocket radio. We saw a bass boat in the distance.
It was a nice boat. The kind that costs an arm and a liver.
Four people were onboard. Two men, one boy, and a woman. They were dressed in Sunday clothes. The woman held what looked like a vase. She emptied it overboard. Dust fell into the water.
The boy’s face was in his hands. I’ll never forget him.
My friend bowed his head. I turned off the pocket radio. We were quiet. And I was decades backward in a memory.
In this particular memory, I’m thirteen. I’m in the mountains. The air is thin. My mouth is dry. I am cold.
I’m not my normal happy boyish self. But then, I hadn’t been happy since my father
died.
Dead. He was dead, I kept telling myself. I couldn’t believe it.
On the day we got Daddy from the funeral home, he came packaged in a cardboard box. He didn’t believe in urns. He was a tight-wad, even for his own funeral.
His brown box sat on a counter. The funeral director had my mother sign a dotted line. And that was that.
A man’s entire life, stuffed into a box. Once, he was a tall, slender man who taught me how to gut fish.
Now he was UPS parcel.
We kept his ashes in the shed since nobody wanted his remains indoors. My mother said his spirit needed to escape. I sat with him a lot.
One year later, we found ourselves on the mountain I told you about. We overlooked the whole world. My uncle sliced…