Strange Days Indeed

I think that I will split up the week with a little one hitter, if you will. It is about the days of last week. I will try a little brevity and give just the details. I will not try to go into some cosmic connections and signs that I must heed. No, just the facts.

The reason for me to record the following is that I am quickly approaching an advanced age and everything that I've read from the AARP (I do so enjoy the pamphlets they keep sending me) states that I can expect a decrease in mental capacity in the upcoming years. I need to start documenting everything.

Leslie Leeman Loop, my father, was born September 20^th, 1948. He died September 30^th, 1980. He was a lover of music and, as an adult, did not like to have his picture taken. My brother and I have very few pictures of my father (2 to be exact). Other material possessions are also limited: an acoustic guitar, a lined wooden box and a cassette tape. I am not much into being very sentimental about material things. My brother is quite the opposite.

Here we go...

Last Monday, my ex-wife calls me up. She is not looking for money (shock!) and is wondering if I am going to be around later in the morning. She has some pictures that she wants to drop off. They are my pictures, she says, and would like me to have them. I figure that is an excellent idea since she has pictures of me that I would never like see the light of day (way too many pictures of me on the can and just a few too many of me in a dress). She stops by and hands me a manila envelope. Nice, thank you and have a good day. I take the envelope inside, open it up to discover that they are not pictures of me but instead, pictures of my dad when he was growing up and as a young husband and father. Super sweet. It wasn't until later that evening that I came to realize that it was his birthday. Why did she decide on that day to bring them too me? It's been almost two years since I moved out. Weird.

Fast forward to Wednesday. Now, the telling of this next part is going to be a bit tricky and some liberties will be taken as to save my job and not have the Feds crawling up my backside (a bit dramatic but you just never know). I had a customer come in saying that he was picking up a package that was purchased on-line and delivered to our store.

“I'm here to pick up a package for John Prine.”

“John Prine? Are you related to John Prine, the singer songwriter?”

“Uh, I'm him.”

“No, really. Really?”

He pulls out his wallet and flashes his driver's license. John Prine, Nashville, Tennessee.

I tell him the following little story:

The cassette tape that my brother and I have contains my father and his acoustic guitar singing three John Prine songs and various other little snippets of him goofing around. This tape was made shortly before his accident. For a man that didn't leave a lot behind, this little bit of recorded memory is more powerful than anything I have experienced. It is because of this tape that I have a warm connection to the works of John Prine (not as much as my overly sentimental brother), knowing that my father appreciated his skill as a songwriter and performer.

He must get that a lot. Yet, he sticks out his hand, grabs mine, gives it a firm, warm handshake and thanks me for telling him that story. He invites me to be his special guest at his next gig (I have to work, but I wouldn't do it anyway. I like to let things be.) I grab his delivery and he leaves.

All this, sandwiched between the beginning (anniversary) and the end. I feel like he is smiling. That feels nice. That is a fact.