Lisa folks came out earlier this month for their yearly trip back to Kalifornia to visit with old friends and family and we've had the pleasure of hosting them for 2 out of the 3 weeks they've been here.
This was the first time I'd met them but I was sure we'd get along fine because of the skype and telephone conversations we've had. And we get along famously even though they're democrats - we both just skirt the subject of politics and talk about all the other guy shit except sex on account of me being married to his daughter and all.
Anyways, when they came out Al brought his old reel to reel and a fucking box full of his tapes for Lisa. All this stuff had been recorded back in the early 70s so for the past month I've been assaulted almost continuously with do-wop, jazz, and especially some seriously fucking classic country. I'm talking Loretta Lynn, George Jones, Jim Reeves, Tammy Wynette, Johnny Horton, Miss Patsy, Hank Williams, ol' Merle and of course Miss Kitty Wells. At the present moment I'm about yodeled out listening to Slim Whitman.
It's been absolutely wonderful.
I was in my Camouflaged Bass Pro Easy Chair earlier when Miss Kitty came on and instantly took me back 45 years to when I was just a little fucker over at my Gramp's house and he was showing me his guns from his lawman days in turn of the century Arizona. I swear I could smell the mustiness of the "guest" bedroom which was where he dried the peanuts from his garden and stored his treasure chest.
It was always a special time when Gramps would open up his chest and show us all the cool shit he had, like his guns and badge, dog collars from dogs that had been dead for over 50 years, his spurs, a whole jar full of rattlesnake rattles, a real Comanche scalp and human fingerbone Indian necklace that his daddy passed over to him and all of his old pictures and the stories that went along with them. We'd spend hours around that chest and the old man would become young again and the child became a man, fighting Indians and killing outlaws and shit alongside his hero.
I hadn't thought about those times in years, but today those songs took me back to some special memories.
Back to the music: I could do without some of the mellow shit like Neil Diamond and Englebert Humperdink and especially Bobby Goldsboro though. Fuck watching Scotty grow, I hope the little bastard would run out in front of a car. Fucking shit drives me crazy.....