I sit and I stare out the window…
The great father finally succumbed to the encroaching darkness and lord knows he fought it a few times in his life. The man who warbled behind a familiar sound about times, about heartache, about hellraising, about sprituality, about prison, and about America as it was, as it is, and as it will be took his last breath last night.
Johnny was an icon. No doubt there, but for me he was a lot more. I was raised in the Ozarks as a wee lad and for me there was nothing more pure country boy than that slow baritone of that man in black.
My grandpa loved him like a son, collected his records and even saw him early in his career at the Grand Ol Opry. Every time the man came on the radio, he would turn him up no matter what time or where. He would sit back and close his eyes and Johnny Cash would be there he said, sitting across from him with a bottle of suds and his guitar, belting out “Ring of Fire” or “Jackson”. I remember bumping down the backroads to “Cocaine Blues” in a Ford 150, shrieking with him and my granpa at the top of our lungs about being overtook down in Juarez, Mexico and laughing as we made our own run down the dusty road.
I lived life and Johnny was there.
I was 9 when he died, trying to overcome injuries from a car crash but just too old to do so. He gave it a fight but he knew it was coming. He hugged me and smiled in his bed, hooked up but only prolonging it. He asked me to turn up his record player that Daddy had brought him and he died to “Long Black Veil”.
The old man, my best friend dies and Johnny was there.
I grew up and moved away and became a young hellraiser and eventually a man, remembering what I was taught based around ballads and songs as we sat and fished or cut timber as a kid. I may have become a Generation Xer but I kept humble and was honest but like Johnny and my granpa would not take trouble lying down and knew Bullshit when I smelled it and told people so.
I knew and kept my roots and Johnny was there.
About 5 years ago, I went back to visit my father and then drove to visit my grandfather’s grave. It is in a country graveyard on a hill overlooking the valley, still the same as it was. It was simple, and sacred and a place of rememberance. He is buried in the back, near the woods and nature. I parked on the path and walked up and said hello and cried a bit, told him I missed him and will always.
He answered. My radio crackled and I heard “Don’t Take Your Guns to Town” in the low murmer. I walked over and turned it up a bit, sat on the hood and stared at the gravestone. I got goosebumps right now just talking about it.
My grandpa answered my hello and Johnny was there.
This morning I turned on the TV and dressed and heard the news. My girl got out of the shower and asked me why I cried and I told her a part of my life had died when that old man in black died. She held me close and whispered he was in a better place and that it will be ok.
And now I sit and stare out the window. I don’t play his cds I have, not right now. I watch the world turn and see life as it happens and I hope that Johnny and my grandfather have met wherever they are and maybe are sitting together having a bottle of suds and talking about what their life was like.
I hope he did not suffer too bad
I hope he knows I will miss him as much as I miss my blood that has passed on.
I hope he sees what he meant to the world and especially me.
This man weeps…and Johnny Cash is here.
