We have all had days that just seem to start off right. You feel light-hearted and the smiles come easy. Other days are the opposite. You wake up late and problems meet you where you stand. Sometimes we are hanging on to events that have altered the course of our path in life, and the feelings from those events weigh us down. Contrary to what we see on TV or in the seemingly perfect lives of people on social media, not every day is going to start or end as a perfect “10”. Did you know it’s okay to have a “7” day, or even a “5”?

Josey’s story invites us to walk with him through a day that began with feelings of loss and sadness. As he is touched by the sights and sounds of the world around him, his day is changed. HLA

“It’s 6:45 and I’m standing at the gate with dog in hand.  My bride pulls up to the open gate with the boys and they are running late.  A quick kiss to all three and my bride says as she drives away, “A peanut butter jar broke in the kitchen, I’m sorry.”  I said, “I ain’t worried about a peanut butter jar and broken glass”, but I do not think she heard me.  I stand there with dog in hand and look across the field. The sun is making its way to us.  The temperature was cold enough last night that the field is covered in frost.  Not something we see very often down here in the south.  Though it’s too cold for my fingers and toes, I yearn to be there in my tree waiting for that sun to embrace my body and my soul.  The puppy pulls me back to the concrete I’m standing on. Now I’m back in the man’s world not God’s.

I stand there and reflect on the day after deer season.  It was like all the ones before, sad.  Years ago, when I was ten or so, I was driving my mom crazy, so she told to run laps around the house.  When dad came home from work, I was still running laps.  I’m not sure what happened that day but like Forrest Gump I’ve been running ever since.  Running became my way to keep a smile on my face and not drive my mom crazy.  The day after deer season, right at sunset, I put on my cold weather running gear and take off into the woods with my headlamp on.  I run the roads we use on the farm to get to our hunting spots.  There is no pavement or streetlights, just trees and uneven ground.  A few minutes into the run my headlamp dies, but I continue on.  I know the little stumps that stick up and the tree limbs that hang over the road.  I know them from the falls I have taken and the limbs that have brushed my face.  I pass by the pond and cabin and a calmness enters my soul.  There never seems to be a sad day at the cabin.  I run past the young, planted pines that are now not so young looking, and remember when this was a field.  I’m not sure if it’s the cool fresh night air racing through my lungs or the blood pumping to my heart but I feel grounded to the earth as my feet strike it. 

I walk back into the house with the concrete under my feet and it’s not the same as having the earth under my feet.  I clean up the broken peanut butter jar and stand at the kitchen sink cleaning up the dishes from the breakfast I made for the boys.  I look out the window and now the sun is up.  I see the pines in the distance and like a lighthouse they always seem to guide me to them.

In the background music is playing, and then as if a gift from God (or as I call it, he gives me a bone) an old familiar song comes on.  The song is by Johnny Paycheck. It’s called, “I’m the only hell my momma ever raised”.  I almost laugh out loud and, in the window, I can see myself.  An older self but a smile on my face and most definitely a twinkle in my eye.  As a child I wanted to be a singer and play the guitar.  Somehow my parents scraped up the money for a guitar and case.  I took lessons from a man I can barely remember now.  I do remember taking the guitar out of the case and making the guitar case into a case to hold a rifle.  My lessons stopped after that and so did my plans of being a singer and musician.

A few years later a new Principal came to our little catholic school.  She was a nun from the city and I’m pretty sure we did not great her with open arms.  Like most new bosses they have their own way of doing things, and my class decided we would tell her what we thought.  We all agreed when she walked into class, we would salute her but in the way those folks did to that guy named Hitler.  Well, the class ended up being only three of us, and the three of us were suspended from school for 3 days.  My dad confined me to my bedroom 24/7.  I could only come out to eat or use the bathroom.  I could not run around our farm, so I sat down at my little desk and wrote a story about the robins in the back yard.  That was the first thing I ever wrote and pretty much have been writing ever since.  I learned a lesson that 6^th grade year.  I never shared that lesson with dad, but it does hold true.  I regret what I did that day, but I learned a lesson. Some people say they will stand by your side, when in reality, they will not. Even when it’s not a really bad idea.  It was then I learned the importance of being loyal.  At the age of 16 I rode a Harley down the long driveway to my parent’s home.  I can say without any hesitation the pinecones fell from the pine trees around our home that day.  My dad was not happy, but somehow the Harley and I stayed.  A few years and many different Harleys later, I found myself in the new principal’s office my senior year.  The new principal, another nun from the city, wanted to make an impression on the school.  She asked if I would ride her into the gym on my Harley.  I sat there with the world surrounding me and thought about that day I stood up in the 6^th grade.  I thought about the mistakes I’ve made, the hell I’ve raised, and how it was a dream of mine to ride my Harley in the gym.  I sat and sat and even looked out the window at the tall statue of Saint Mary in front of the school.  I hated to admit it, but I liked this new nun. I admired her willingness to make an impression, to move the earth, and connect with the young impressionable minds in our school.  I told her I would do it, but I had something else I wanted to do.    She hesitated on what I wanted to do but finally agreed.

On one afternoon I slipped out of the school and faded into the streets.  A nun dressed up like a biker chick wearing my leather jacket hopped up on the back seat of my Harley and with teachers holding doors open, my Harley followed the rubber mats into the gym.  I’m pretty sure that my loud exhaust was rattling those gym windows.  I’m also pretty sure wherever dad was that day pinecones were falling on his head.  A few weeks later a group of us seniors sat a table right there in front of that statue of Saint Mary and had our breakfast as the students were unloading for school.  I looked up at the window to the principal’s office and she stood there looking down at me.  I raised my glass of orange juice to that biker chick nun and she just smiled. 

The magic of music and words that paint a picture and drive an emotion into a void that needs to be filled, are why I wanted to be a musician.  I recall my dad’s garage and his old radio with a long wire attached to the antenna for better reception.  Dad always had it on, and I really don’t recall the songs that were played. I do recall the calmness and grounding effect it had on me.  The only place I do not listen to music is when I’m in the woods or on a tractor.  There is plenty in Gods world to calm and ground me; and when I’m on tractor the sound of a diesel reminds me of how strong we can be when we want to. 

Johnny Paycheck just finished his song and my trip down memory lane was a good one.  I envy the musicians like him and many others who seem to move the earth in their lyrics.  They can make us cry, laugh, think, heal a broken heart, or just take us down memory lane.  They can make a “5” day into an “8” day or sometimes straight to a “10” day.  I do not have a copy of what I wrote in the 6^th grade.  I often wonder what it actually said.  I often wonder, if not for that bad idea in the 6^th grade, would I be writing this now.  Some folks would say they are glad I stood up that day and found writing as a way to reach the calmness we all need.  Its clear after 52 years not all ideas are bad, but at that time they seemed really bad.  It’s clear not all days can be a “10” and sometimes its ok to have a “5” day.  I would hope to some I’m a musician.  I would hope my words move the earth and paint a picture of hope and understanding in a world that seems to spin really fast.  In the final year of my father’s time here, I rode my Harley back to my childhood home to help him find his way to a place without pain.  I never gave that much thought until I started to write this to you.  I’m sure those old pine trees remember the day many years ago that my dad had a few words to say about me riding home on a Harley.  Behind those pines that surround my childhood home is modest statue of an eagle with my father’s remains underneath.  The pinecones still fall from the trees and land on the ground.  When I return there, I help mom by picking them up.  If you were to ask my her, she would tell you she can raise some hell, but not like her youngest son.  My day started off with a broken peanut butter jar and missing deer season. In my opinion it was a “5” day for sure.  Then I hear a song by Johnny Paycheck.  Johnny moved the concrete from under my feet and planted them 800 miles from here under a group of pine trees.  Johnny reminded me of two nuns who also moved my earth and I swear I can taste that orange juice in my mouth right now.  As I type these words to you, I’m now at a “9” day and pretty sure once I get out of the house it will be a “10”.  If you know what lifts your spirits, then do it.  If’ it’s a run in the dark or typing to complete strangers then do it.  I’ve written a lot about the need to have a system for self care.  It does not have to be anything fancy or highly suggested.  Just find what calms you and do it.  Not every day will be a “10”. If they were, you would grow to not appreciate them.  I often say, “I’m only banging out 75 percent today” and I’m good with that.

I still have a Harley and plenty of stories that paint a picture of the odd, touchy-feely, hellraising, failed musician who writes to complete strangers.  My hope on this soon to be “10” day, is you will find your Johnny and maybe I can move your earth like he did mine. ” -WLV-