On our way back from lunch, my co-worker said to my other co-worker, “Do you see that silver car over there? You can tell that person has a dog by all the nose prints on the back windows.”
I guess I should be embarrassed that my car’s nose prints are visible from across the parking lot, but I am not.
There were times when we first lived in Nashville that were pretty dire, when we ate rice for dinner for weeks because it was cheap. When I was so sick and we didn’t know why. And I would find myself, often curled over the counter, making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, just singing without realizing it, “Everything’s going to be all right.” I was raised on lullabies, what can I tell you?
I believe in the power of music to soothe when nothing else will.
It’s funny, because I just sang it, over and over again. I never wondered where it came from. And then years later, when the Butcher was going through a substantial Peter Tosh period, I realized, it was, of course, a snippet of Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds,” which I must have picked up in college and carried with me until I needed it.
This morning, as I was walking the dog, I realized I was singing out-loud, “I’m for love. I’m all for happiness. I’m for–if you don’t like it, can’t you just let it pass?” and I laughed to myself and I thought, “Who the fuck sang that reasonable song and why the fuck can’t he have a talk with Hank Jr.”?
I know you already know where this is going. It was Hank Jr.
Tiny Cat Pants 