In Spite of Ourselves
What seems like a long time ago, I remember the cover of a Jerry Jeff Walker long-playing album.
What seems like a long time ago, I remember one of those songs in particular and I crack into a smile and laugh at the lyrics that made me wonder why in the world a person would ever piss in the wind, or bet on a losing friend.
What is not a long time ago, I remember times without the foresight of divots and cleavage worn through from moonbeams and dark moons on once smooth and luscious skin.
Why is it, I ask myself so many nights, the wintertime repeats an almost only-tragic fairy tale. The monsters come with thin-lipped faces, perfumed laces, promised suitcases.
Why is it, I ask myself so many nights, that I cannot be among my family with brown faces? Have I lost my sensibility for common ground, bento lunches and the crooked line.
Why is it, I ask myself so many nights, the dreams of places, and yesterdays, are too tight around proud dramas, mis-spoken statements, covered graces.
John Prine, a most beloved former mailman and musician died of complications from the Coronavirus, on April 7, 2020. He was 73 years old. His music, and the lyrics that make me laugh, cry and wonder about so many moments of "in spite of ourselves" give me something to call upon the gracefulness of an imperfect, but amazing life.
It don't seem like so very long ago I listened to John Prine and Jerry Jeff Walker sing those lyrics for the first time. Lyrics like these ... that I might be lucky enough to sit and grin and tell my grandson.
"Pissin' in the wind, bettin' on a losing friend
Makin' the same mistakes, we swore we'd never make again
And we're pissin' in the wind, but it's blowing on all our friends
We're gonna sit and grin and tell our grandchildren" - Pissing in the Wind by Jerry Jeff Walker
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