John Prine died. I cried. I had never cried at the death of a celebrity before, but he was one of my Mom's favorites, and losing him so soon after her felt somehow significant. I grew up with his music on constant rotation. I can see myself standing in the living room of our farmhouse. The radio sat on a table made out of an old barn door that still had a working knob in the middle of it. Dear Abbys playing and I try to sing along, but I'm 5 and I have no idea what he's saying. My moms laughing from the kitchen at my rendition. Later that same year she took me to see him and Arlo Guthrie. It was my first concert. I remember being so excited to see the guy who wrote Dear Abby, thinking maybe I would find out who this Abby was and why she was so dear to him. Either way, I would get to see the real life guy who’s songs I danced to in my living room with my mama. He was a storyteller and as a child I was drawn to that. On the way to the show we were in a small...
It was 4am in the Eastern Sierras and the moon was new. The night before, when it became all dark and all stars, I crawled into bed and let the two strong IPAs do their silent duty. Now camping alone as a woman comes with its share of apprehensions and vulnerable moments. Especially when said woman has an affinity for true crime podcasts to break up music on long road trips. So when I woke at 4am to ensure I didn’t miss the sunrise (eastern Sierra sunrises are my favorite thing in life and if you’ve never witnessed the peace and beauty of this moment while sipping coffee on a cool summer morning then put it on your bucket list like right this very second) I was alarmed to see a car parked 20ft from mine, that hadn’t been there when I retreated to my bed at dark. Questions raced through my sleep fogged mind. This is BLM land. You can camp anywhere. Why would someone pull so close to (pretty much in) another persons camp site in the middle of the night? Nex...
Last words. How do you write last words about a person? As if you can summarize the complexity of someone’s entire life into a couple of paragraphs. Maybe it would be easier if their lives were simple. But with someone like my mom it would take a novel as long as War and Peace and be would titled as appropriately. If I had to pick a single word to describe my mom it would be dynamic. She was funny, loud and excitable, full of constant change, forceful energy and plenty of ideas. Her thoughts lived outside of her; surrounding her like an aura. Sometimes I could see her grab one right out of the air and play with it for a while. Turning it over and over in her hands, fully absorbing it’s meaning before she let it loose again, saving it for later so she could move on to the next thing. She was restless, as people that are blessed and cursed by deep thinking and a curiosity for the meaning of it all tend to be. Her restlessness was her captor and I believe it was this that tru...
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