As I sit in our painted-brown office/guest room/sewing room/gear room/room-that-fills-so- many-other-purposes, the window looking out on the backyard is impressionistically beaded full of water from the rains that this early spring has brought. The wooden fence is polished wet while the weeds that have begun to urge upwards along the edge of the boards are loving the fact that the rain is feeding their shallow roots, even if only for a few short weeks; you see, I’ve got it in my mind to fertilize the yard with a healthy dose of weed-n-feed. Boo to snakes and weeds.

It is Monday afternoon. I returned yesterday afternoon from a short stint of shows (and a long bit of driving) in Missouri and Kansas. Cape Girardeau, along the banks of our nation’s famous big muddy, was a return trip within the span of 5 months. The small and intimate audience of 30 or so were gracious as my attempts at playing through the available sound system was suddenly spurned for the lure of a purely acoustic concert. I hope no one minded such informality.

Lenexa, KS, out on the tail end of Kansas City, beckoned me with the possibility of seeing old friends. That possibility proved true. It was good to see each and every one of you. A pleasure to make new acquaintances. Before Friday night’s show, I forced my hosts to take me to BD’s Mongolian BBQ, one of my favorite restaurants. I know of only 2 cities with a BD’s: KC and Grand Rapids, MI. The meal, as expected, was a smashing success. The concert that followed was pleasant and low-key with a crowd of 50-ish who seemed to enjoy helping me sing the “oh oh oh’s” of The Storm. I relished the moment. Grammys to each of you.

Saturday started as a bright and clear day but by the time I pulled into the driveway of my friend’s house in Columbia, MO, clarity had been muddled by hail-dropping clouds of such heaping dark robustness that they, honestly, shivered me. TJ, my host, was an old friend from 2 summers ago where we first met in Minnesota. He said he loves this time of year when you can open your doors and windows and listen to the sky repeat its name over and over again. He says he likes it when the sky makes the earth and his house tremble. It crossed my mind that his living in midwestern America was a good place for him to be, especially this time of year. TJ had made some of Olga’s homemade salsa prior to my arrival and was watching a basketball game on TV when I knocked on his screen door. After salutations, he immediately put a cold Wheat beer in my hand, opened a bag of tortilla chips and I proceeded to gorge on some of the most incredible salsa I have ever put in my mouth. Olga apparently was his or his wife’s relative. He was generous (and sly) enough to share the recipe with me. I can’t wait to be home for a stint so I can forge my attempt. We headed over to the venue to load in and soundcheck for the show’s 8pm beginning acts, Bryan and Brady. I was the first one there so I went ahead and set up and concluded a 15 minute sound check. I was headed to the backdoor to set up the merch table when TJ approached me saying he had a bold idea that he wanted to run by me: jet back to his house, grab a kick drum, a ride cymbal, snare and a tom and sit in with me during my set filling the percussive void that he so desperately wanted to hear on my songs. Knowing TJ’s taste in music and having heard him play drums before, I wholeheartedly agreed and we did just that. No rehearsal (unless you count his barely hearing brief sound clips of Scarce in the 5-minute car ride to/fro his house), no practice. Just a wing and a prayer. It made me excited to play music this night, to throw caution and formality, like young leaves in the storms’ passing, to the wind. We hooted and we hollered and we were giddy like schoolchildren as I attempted to rehearse him in the hallway prior to our first set. It was standing-room-only at the Artisan as we took the stage. I tried my best, but largely failed, to belt out above the chatter. The faithful few stuck around throughout the night as we assailed the romping final chord of May Your Tenderness around 11:15pm. Another truly delightful evening of seeing yet another gaggle of old friends and getting to play live music. Slept like a beaten rock that night and woke up to the aroma of outdoor’s clearing, finely pressed coffee and homemade cinnamon scones. TJ and I discussed the benefits of landscaping, vinyl record players and winterberry holly. We watched chickadees, titmice, cardinals feeding on the sunflower feeder just outside his dining room window and, together, concocted ways to rid our nation of sparrows and European starlings, both non-native and highly invasive bird species. Note: for those who have been following my interactions with snakes in my own yard, don’t fret, no action was taken against the birds.

The Sunday drive home was further full of warm, humid weather, rolling black cloudbanks, a foggied Ohio River, the peeking out of nubile green tree growth and a home that was as sweet to the senses as the mercy that begat it. I fell asleep that night watching an old W.C. Fields routine on VHS that I haven’t watched since high school. Good times. Tomorrow brings a plane ride to Philadelphia for another string of 3 shows. Good things come in trinity form.
EP