I built this site a while back because I was writing some shorter stories and wanted a place to put them. I always mean to update more often but life gets in the way. Maybe being homebound will make me start.
If that’s a good thing personally to come out of Covid-19, there are a lot of bad things we’ll all share. One is losing John Prine, a man who could capture more of American life in a few words than most journalists or authors in a career.
Short stories? He captured more than most in three verses and a chorus. Sometimes more, but never much more. The notes were simple but perfect. That’s what happens when you breath music. Alway wished I had that.
He’s been in a renaissance of late, and perhaps that makes it easier. When he was a young man he wrote the perfect song about what can happen when you’re old. But when he got old — he died at 73 — he wasn’t waiting for anyone to say hello in there. He was on stage for a lot of that last year.
I got to see him once, in a club in Long Beach, Ca. I hope you did, too.
It leaves me sad, but not morose. I think he’d prefer a fiesty remembrance. He didn’t want to be buried in that cold, cold ground:
Give my feet to the footloose
Careless, fancy free
Give my knees to the needy
Don’t pull that stuff on me
Hand me down my walking cane
It’s a sin to tell a lie
Send my mouth way down south
And kiss my ass goodbye.