I'd originally wanted to be smarmy and put an instrumental here... but in the interest of keeping this list decent, I have put here a song I’ve known the words to for most of my life – and was only recently reminded of this through the good will of my friend (and now co-landlord!), Will.
A story about this song’s place in my history, a story close friends have heard many times:
When I was 15, I went down to Kentucky to help rebuild houses with my church’s youth group (oh to be religious and altruistic again!). We'd set there to work a week and the owner of the house I was working on, Lee, was an elderly Southern gentleman with a fondness for sweet tea and country music.
One day, he called me over to sit with him. We sat on a swinging bench. He gave me a glass of pink lemonade. He wore overalls and a t-shirt and a look of weak interest. All the other kids in the group had talked to him already. I'd look over and see them wildly gesticulating, most likely about some bible story that inspired them or something they thought'd impress Lee. He would smile, not say much and they would saunter off with confused looks. Hadn't they entertained him with their youth and declarations of devotion to God? I would see all this and pretend to look busier and busier in the hopes he wouldn't call me over. Not only did I already know I wouldn't impress Lee, at that time, I was a much shier Renee and the thought of having to talk to some strange Southern man named Lee scared me a little. Anyhow. He called me over.
We sat and looked at his yard for awhile. I'd already ran out of things to say. I thanked him for the lemonade and prayed he'd talk soon. And he did. He got to talkin' about women.
His, particularly. He pointed toward the back of the house where the weeds grew tall and told me his wife was buried there. He told me he had cancer and had dug the open grave next to his wife's some time ago. He lit a rolled cigarette from his pocket and told me about other women.
His cousin's, particularly. I don't remember his name, but Lee said he was a "wild 'un". He had a red Chevy convertible and would drive it all over town, with a pretty new girl in the passenger seat every weekend. One of those weekends, Patsy Cline was in the passenger seat. She was one of his weekend women.
My first thought: Thank Christ! Something I can finally talk about! I LOVED PATSY CLINE. Second thought: woah!!! Patsy Cline!! What a story.
We spent the better part of that afternoon, finishing a pitcher of pink lemonade and talking about country music. Old country, the only good country. He laughed at my enthusiasm for it.
Apparently, I entertained him with my youth.
So here it is: a song I know all the words to and always will. "Sweet Dreams" by Ms. Weekend Woman herself: Patsy Cline.
One day, he called me over to sit with him. We sat on a swinging bench. He gave me a glass of pink lemonade. He wore overalls and a t-shirt and a look of weak interest. All the other kids in the group had talked to him already. I'd look over and see them wildly gesticulating, most likely about some bible story that inspired them or something they thought'd impress Lee. He would smile, not say much and they would saunter off with confused looks. Hadn't they entertained him with their youth and declarations of devotion to God? I would see all this and pretend to look busier and busier in the hopes he wouldn't call me over. Not only did I already know I wouldn't impress Lee, at that time, I was a much shier Renee and the thought of having to talk to some strange Southern man named Lee scared me a little. Anyhow. He called me over.
We sat and looked at his yard for awhile. I'd already ran out of things to say. I thanked him for the lemonade and prayed he'd talk soon. And he did. He got to talkin' about women.
His, particularly. He pointed toward the back of the house where the weeds grew tall and told me his wife was buried there. He told me he had cancer and had dug the open grave next to his wife's some time ago. He lit a rolled cigarette from his pocket and told me about other women.
His cousin's, particularly. I don't remember his name, but Lee said he was a "wild 'un". He had a red Chevy convertible and would drive it all over town, with a pretty new girl in the passenger seat every weekend. One of those weekends, Patsy Cline was in the passenger seat. She was one of his weekend women.
My first thought: Thank Christ! Something I can finally talk about! I LOVED PATSY CLINE. Second thought: woah!!! Patsy Cline!! What a story.
We spent the better part of that afternoon, finishing a pitcher of pink lemonade and talking about country music. Old country, the only good country. He laughed at my enthusiasm for it.
Apparently, I entertained him with my youth.
So here it is: a song I know all the words to and always will. "Sweet Dreams" by Ms. Weekend Woman herself: Patsy Cline.
