My mother was a huge fan of Jim Reeves. She infected me with his music when I was 16, 17. I was a very insecure boy. I had lost my father just a few years before.
At that age I was searching without knowing what I was looking for. A hopeless romantic with a temper. Contemplating suicide, not as an act but more as revenge.
One could say I was emo avant la lettre but I sure as hell wasn’t the only troubled youngster. Some of my friends or acquaintances did not make it. I still cherish their names.
The evenings talking, discussing, drinking beers, smoking an endless chain of cigarettes. And then there was that void some could not coop with.
I desperately missed my father, I felt misunderstood by my mother and all the other grown-ups around me. My grandfather was living with us but sadly had lost it. I felt I was in a constant battle with my younger sister. With myself.
I wanted love but not what it really was. I wanted the love Grace Kelly, Fred Astaire or even Humphrey experienced. Total, consuming, devouring.
When I look back at that particular time of my life I can only feel incredible respect for my mother. She must have missed my father in ways I never understood until now, with Princess and all. It was only after my mother passed away, being to oldest, had to pay her income taxes. Oh boy, she did so much, gave us an education and so much more while dancing with the limits of poverty.
So there was Jim Reeves. And to a certain extent a German dude who sang beautiful Christmas carols about loneliness, farewells and unreachable love. In general my mother hated and despised Germans. World War One and Two, you know. I forget his name but I still have a few of his 33’s in my cellar.
I adored Jim Reeves’ “He’ll have to go” without fully understanding what it was about.
Years later these words would become bitter reality when I discovered that my very first real girlfriend with whom I lived on a small apartment, fucked my friends behind my back. Until this day I don’t have any friends that are close friends. Some wounds never properly heal.
I have come a long way. The insecure boy is long dead. Also gone is the lack of self-confidence. I am very happy with who I have become. And even more happy with that unique woman I’ll be spending my remaining decades with.
I don’t really miss my mother. She left 10 years ago. I don’t really miss my sister either. I fought for her, helped her convince our mother that she could be happy with a woman. My sister married the woman of her love years ago. Now we have become strangers. We wish each other a happy birthday and there are a few likes on Facebook we give each other.
I do miss my father almost every day. He left 45 years ago.
The image I have of my father is just a polished one, I know. A memory covered with a gorgeous golden patina.
But for some reason I cannot grasp, I would have loved to present Princess to my father. I so want to let him know I have finally found what he had lived for just 13 years.
I heard it a few times on the radio. The words, the music moved me beyond reason.
The first few times I wasn’t even sure it was him. I’m not a fan but a bigger fan than Princess. She teases me with my appreciation I have for him. Singer, songwriter, 2016 literature Noble prize winner.
Oh boy, this is so fucking beautiful.
I am enjoying Bob Dylan’s new cd, Triplicate at its fullest.
It inspired me to write this post.
Yeah, let’s get corny.