Author: Compton, Cliff

Fathers Day, again

Chef Mike says, ďya gotta start pacing yourself. Cliff.Ē and I know heís right. I canít be acting the fool. Picking all night. Dancing like a broken teenager whenever the spirit moves me. And you know that tent seems like itís hotter and colder than it used to be. And we still ainít come up with something that works for a bed that will make a fat man sleep all night. And Iíve discovered that the sound of a banjo at four oíclock in the morning doesnít move me like it used to. Except my kidneys. The banjo works on them. And thereís more medication now. More things that hurt. A little more dependency on three/four time, and less desire to play like a machine gun in a firefight. And frankly, getting hauled off to the hospital and leaving my friends to fold up my tent has lost itís appeal to me. Those little tin houses on wheels that I used to laugh at are starting to look more like little cabins in the corner of glory land. And now Iím thinking maybe I shouldnít have eating all those polish hotdogs and chocolate dipped ice cream bars at all those festivals past. And maybe I should have discovered the definition of moderation back in the day, then perhaps Iíd be reaping the benefits of it now. And maybe I should have skipped the sixties and seventies and wore a gray suit and carried a briefcase and talked about golf scores and actuary tables. And Iím wishing I was 35 years old and my blood was pumping and my eyes were blazing and my heart was bigger than my body. And Iíve cut back to nine days this year at grass valley and Iím wondering If thatís too much. And who would have believed it, Iím hitting sixty this year.
Now this ainít no well preserved sixty mind you, This here is sixty rode hard and put away wet. And there is a price to pay.
But I donít knowÖ.

Iím hearing the sirens song. Bought a couple of new cots. Gonna visit the Fifth string guitar shop. Spend more money than Iíve got. Gonna drag out that Swiss army tent. Pretend I donít see any clouds in the sky. Pack up the Kia. Restring the martin. Pack up the Harmonicas in case the tendons give up before the festival is over, and Iím unable to play the guitar. And Iím gonna crank up Ricky Skaggs. Run through them old songs. Call my friends, and hit the road..
See you in Grass Valley. Whooeeee!

Posted:  6/10/2011

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