“Hooked on a Feeling”

That song was playing on the radio last week when I was sitting in my doctor’s waiting room. 

It describes my life.

Hooked on a feeling. The feeling of Greg’s love for me and all the good it brought into my life for forty-two years. I will always be hooked on that feeling. Hooked on all we had together.

Simple things. Riding down back roads at all hours of the night. Watching Christmas cartoons on a snowy Saturday afternoon. Sharing a bag of M&M’s and a Pepsi.

Wonderful things. Greg’s warmth and strength. His goodness. His arms around me when a day was rough. Listening to him sing throughout a day. Snuggling against him in the night. His laugh.

Hooked on a feeling.

And wanting . . . and wanting . . . and wanting . . . all I can never have again. Wanting what is impossible to replace.

The memories are always with me, bringing smiles and tears, often at the same time. Memories aren’t the same as having Greg by my side, but I am thankful God blessed me by letting me have this wonderful man in my life for forty-two years.

I am hooked on a blessing.

"I'm So Lonesome I Could Cry"

My theme song for this date – 29 October 2022.

Lonesome all the way to the bone.

I knew yesterday morning it was going to be a long weekend. I didn’t expect loneliness to hit me this hard, hard enough that nothing suits. Nothing.

So I’ve been driving. Traffic was moving so I’ve run with it, as fast as 75 to 80 in a 45 m.p.h. construction zone. Driving isn’t helping, even with Travis on the stereo.

Nor have I been able to consider reaching out to someone to talk to or travel with. The thoughts of having to be cordial disrupts my equilibrium more than it already is.

So I’m in a truck stop in Mt. Vernon, having breakfast for lunch, debating where to go from here. I will drive over to Renfro Valley and pick up a leaf, one that is cupped, and I’ll put it on Greg’s grave to use as a bowl for the M&M’s I leave there; a raccoon comes to eat them and sometimes walks over and pats my leg.

Greg. I’ve missed him all week. Missed all we did in our forty-two years together. Long hours at work. Driving back roads half the night. Meals in restaurants of all kinds. Concerts at Freedom Hall and nights in Executive Inn – Greg’s home away from home. And music – Greg loved music, and I loved to hear him sing and play one of his guitars.

Tears have come while I’m writing this, but they have been from sadness instead of the hard grief I experienced so many times last year. Most of the tears I’ve shed the past few weeks have been from sadness. I have had some bouts with grief, but the pain wasn’t all the way to the bone, and the attacks abated as quickly as they came.

Sadness lingers, and is overridden with loneliness today. I know neither of these is likely to completely disappear from my life. I can only hope that days like today become fewer and further between.

I will survive.

Just A Few Notes

A few notes in “Between An Old Memory and Me.” A few clear notes that catch  my ear and draw me further into the song. Notes that resonate with my spirit for reasons that are unknown to me. Notes that often bring tears to accompany the memories that are always there.

The squeak of guitar strings in other songs. A riff that sounds as if there are multiple guitars at work, but I know this is a solo acoustic recording, with only one instrument, one extremely talented musician bringing the music to life. Simple melodies woven through a song, easy to remember and sing. 

Notes in the music I listen to daily. Notes weaving rhythms delicate and complex. Notes of a guitar wound among notes of a violin and steel guitar, interspersed with a drumbeat setting the pace.

Notes connecting everything Greg was and everything we were together to my life today.

A life without Greg and his music. His singing. His guitar playing. His love of concerts. His talk of music. Music interwoven in Greg’s heart so deeply that memories of Greg nearly always contain music.

He sang throughout a day. While running the press. While driving. While playing his guitar. While listening to Travis or Merle or Bocephus or Waylon or Clint.

Perhaps the only times Greg didn’t sing were when he was deer hunting. He noticed God’s music though; he would tell me of a bird singing nearby while he was waiting for that trophy buck.

He played, he sang, he wrote songs. He entertained me. 

He occasionally recorded himself, and a friend transferred the songs from cassette tapes to a CD so I can listen to Greg sing at any time. Yes, I often cry, but I can hear Greg doing what he loved. Something that I loved to hear him do.

Greg and his notes have been missing from my life since 14 August 2019. Sunday I will listen to his CD and visit places we frequented. I will laugh. I will cry. Sometimes I will do both.

And the notes will dwell in my heart . . .

The Stories Are Gone

Greg was a storyteller. He told stories about golfing, fishing, hunting, gun trading, truck trading, concerts, pool games – and pool room brawls, playing poker, family history, work, old girlfriends, drinking, church, motorcycles, bars and nightclubs, travels . . . the list could continue for several pages.

I can’t relate the stories Greg told me. Some of them had so many people involved that I did not know that I had a hard time keeping straight who was who.  Other stories, like the ones about specific gun trades, contained information that I didn’t always understand. And then there were the ones he would tell that would have me laughing so hard all I could remember was the ending.

I miss those stories. Stories told by a man who enjoyed life, who wasn’t afraid to be himself, nor to be in a new situation. Greg might not want to be in a particular situation, but he feared nothing but God.

I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth, the humor, the sadness he unconsciously let mingle with his telling of a tale.

I drove his truck to a friend’s house today (5 December 2021). Thinking of the miles I had ridden with Greg in that truck brought tears and a sadness that has lingered.

I can tell stories of our life together, of two-thirds of my life with a wonderful man whom I will always love and miss, but I am not a storyteller like Greg was. He could entertain anyone with a story, have them listening intently, and smiling when he finished.

Greg’s stories are gone. No more will I hear him recount a day on the Cumberland nor laugh while he is telling of some antic he and a buddy lived through. Greg and his stories cannot be replaced, but my memories of him stay with me, bringing laughter and tears, sometimes together.

Our story had its ups and downs, but through it all our love was always there, creating a unit that sometimes defied reason.

No matter. The stories are gone. Most of the people Greg told stories about are gone. But the memories are there . . . memories I will cherish forever.