The Man in Black

In a response to a posting on another's page, I mentioned I had a tale about Johnny Cash. Let me try and retell that tale.

My dad came from Tennessee. This meant he was about as country western as you could get in his musical tastes. Charlie Pride, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard just to name a few. His favorite seemed to be Johnny Cash, judging by the 8-track tapes of him he had laying everywhere.

When I was growing up in the early '70's, my parents had not yet divorced. So a lot of those memories from that time where of the lot of us taking cars trips. To me, it meant we were going for something to eat. McDonalds was a favorite, and so was Bozo's hot dogs. White Castle was the occasional mythical treat that we rarely went to, with an A&W and their chilidogs and tap root beer was the pinnacle of food runs.

Other times, the car trips where longer. To Chicago, almost an hour away, to see the sights. My dad liked Buckingham Fountain for a reason I never got the chance to ask. The waterfront also was a favorite, as was the Museum of Science and Industry. And when the custom auto show was at McCormick Place, he was all over that like crushed metal-flake on a low rider.

Or even longer trips. It was an all day and a half affair travelling back to Tennessee to see the relatives. I remember a few things about these trips. The Great Smokey Mountains. Driving through Memphis at night. The still - yes, THAT type of still - out in the back of the southern mansion his relatives lived in at that time. Being stung by that frakking wasp...

...and Johnny damned Cash.

Constantly. It felt like every other song was sung by Johnny Cash. Even American Pie started to sound like Johnny Cash. I couldn't shut him off. I even started to make funny noises whenever I heard him on the radio. Noises made under the hearing range of my dad, of course. I started to recognize the voice I grew to hate, and I started to hate the voice quite a lot.

My musical liberation came soon. I got my first little cracker box transistor radio. WLS FM quickly became my best friend. I took that little shy blue radio everywhere. Now, Mr. Cash wasn't so tough. Took it everywhere with me. It was the beginning of my freedom.

My weekends were spent with playing with my Hot Wheels, or my Six Million Dollar Man with the workout gym, or with G.I. Joe with the Kung-Fu grip. Steve Austin always won; He had an engine block he could throw around, after all...

...or it was spent cleaning up my battleground, previously known as my bedroom. My radio, and the next one after that, and the next one after that one, was my calming salvation. This is where my love for classic rock came from. When it wasn't classic, but brand new. The names of the day were Led Zepplin, Kiss, Creedance Clearwater Revival and Black Oak Arkansas. The Edgar Winter Group put out a piece called 'Frankenstein' and that was all it took to push me over the edge and into the ocean called Rock & Roll. I still love that song, even to this day. Can't play it worth a damn on Guitar Hero, however.

Elvis and the Beatles were still a little off in the distance for me yet. This band with the funny name of Pink Floyd had just released a little record called Dark Side of the Moon. They were all there, of course, present in current time and not quite yet retro. Other bands were there as well, and they all helped me clean up my room. And best of all, no damned Johnny Cash. As far as I was concerned, he stayed in Maryville along with the still and that damned wasp.

Time passes. My parents got divorced in the mid seventies and my dad became that man that I met on the weekends and got asked by how my schoolwork was. I saw him less and less, and by the time it was all over, I had realized it had not been nearly long enough. Johnny Cash quickly became forgotten as the years grew longer and my dad moved farther away. During the last conversation I ever had with him, he said he was going to California.

In my infinite wisdom, I said 'Ok, see you soon dad.' Not 'I love you dad.' Stupid on my part, had I known. I was still young. I ruled my universe. The world revolved around me. Oh, and did I mention I had found religion? My god's name at that time was Atari...

Years more pass. I must have done something right because my mother decided to take pity upon me and buy me the new hotness, otherwise known as Sega Genesis. I was enthralled by the little blue demon hedgehog known as Sonic. I could not and probably knew would not ever get enough of him - for the next couple of weeks of course until something else came along. Round and round we went, much to my family's amusement, I'm sure.

It was the first year after the Sega's release in the USA. Thanksgiving Day in fact of that year. I was hungry, sure, but Sonic couldn't wait. Forgoing the trek to my aunt's house for dinner, I managed to extract a promise of a returning plate of all the goodies. The corn casserole especially rocked back then. My mother nodded and said sure, see you later, don't stay up too late playing.

Like I was gonna listen to that, right?

Hours upon hours later, bathroom duties taken care of and me sitting in the middle of the bed with the game controller in hand, Sonic and I were still doing battle. I knew where I had to get the little blue b*****d; he just wasn't listening to me. Pausing for a moment before I threw the controller, I heard the front door open, then close. I thought to myself, 'Good, delivery' and started thinking about turkey and dressing. I did the only thing I could. Unpause Sonic and wait for my food to be brought to me. Get up and get it myself? Are you kidding?

My mother walked into the doorway of the room and stood there, waiting. It took me a moment to realize that I was not being fed grapes or anything else for that matter, and so I paused the game and looked up with an ungrateful look of 'What?' on my face. She stood there holding the plate of plastic wrapped food that by all rights was mine by right of conquest. She didn't say anything for a moment, and for a moment before she actually spoke, I knew something was up. I actually gave her my full attention then. Sonic the Hedgehog could wait just a little longer.

"Your father is dead."

My brilliant response was, "What?"

I stood up and took the plate from her hands before she dropped it. She wasn't shaking because she still loved him like she may have once did. They originally divorced because of his drinking problem and the fact then when he did, he liked to get a little too physical.We sat down then and talked about what she just told me. She had no great feelings for him and didn't talk about him much ever after unless I brought him up. But this time, her emotion came from her having to tell me that my dad had died some small but unknown time before. Among all of us he still had kept talking to, I may have been the closest with the possible exception of my hard assed and younger brother.

When she was at my aunt's house that night, they'd gotten a phone call from a family friend that knew just about everything from everyone. It was they that had gotten a message from a friend in California, relayed it to this person then they relayed it back to us. We would have never had known otherwise if the friend in question wasn't also friends with the new woman in my dad's life. She and his original family did not get along and she apparently had no plans to let us know directly.

We got through that night, and the next, and the next. Time goes on and things are forgotten. Even the fact that I had not spoken with him in years now didn't bother me much. Did I miss my dad? Sure. but it's different now. One day, about 10 or so years ago, I heard a Johnny Cash song on the radio.

I sat, and I listened. I remember clearly what I thought. "Damn, he's good." 'Folsum Prison Blues' was the song in question. Simple. Powerful. Original and not stolen - sorry, not SAMPLED - like so many other songs on the radio were. This man had a voice that would not and could not stop. Then it hit me as I sat there, tapping my foot.

This was Johnny Cash. The man that I thought I would punch dead in his face had I ever gotten the chance - and had I been older than 10 or 11 or so at the original time of that thought. This was amazing stuff that I could get into. And I did. I almost immediately went out and bought the first Johnny Cash CD I could find. I still have that CD to this day, but I don't use it any more. I long ago ripped the important stuff and have it in MP3 format, keeping the original memories safe and secure in their storage box.

And...of course, as I sit here, listening to music playing, a Johnny Cash song comes up in rotation. Not one sung only by him, but still...

Him and Waylon and Willie and Charlie and Merle and...I can go on, of course, but I won't. The short of that thought is this. All of a sudden, these men that I couldn't stand to hear when I was young became to me just as important as Pink Floyd, Duran Duran, Jimmy Buffett and the Beatles were. And Elvis, but of course.

I actually had paused when all that occurred to me and asked to no one in particular, "How the f**k did that happen?" I liked country western music. I dig some Garth, Dolly rocks and Shania is just...well...hot. 'Nuff said. I liked the stuff that I used to hate and I dared anyone to snicker about it.

I know, now, or at least I'd like to think I know, where this change came from. It wasn't from me getting older and having my musical tastes change as easy as I change my underwear. It came from my dad. Even though he'd been long since gone, I knew it came directly from him. Every once i a great while, I wonder what it would have been like had I been allowed to know him in my adult life. It was he that had taken me to see 'Star Wars' for the first time. He was the one that had left the copies of 'Playboy' laying around, knowing I'd see them eventually and go, 'Hmm. That's kinda nice...

My dad didn't leave me much. He was not a great man nor in general, was he a kind one. But, he was my dad. My biological father. Something that could never change in spite of all the changes we all have to endure. Every so often, I have a dream about him and after I wake up, it's rough shaking the feeling that he's watching from whatever plain of existence he's on. I can only hope that I've given him enough reason to smile and shake his head proudly, saying to whoever else my be listening, 'That's my boy there."

I thanked him one night, after sitting there contemplating things. Obviously, I heard no auditory response. I didn't need to.

In the silent room, surrounded by all my new toys staring back at me through the shadows, I didn't have to hear a response from beyond. I more felt it than anything. I don't smile a whole lot, and I don't recall doing it then.


I did, strangely enough, have one hell of a peaceful sleep that night however.


That was my Johnny Cash tale. I thank you for being patient and taking the time to read it with me

Reviews

[Brad]

no one does it like johnny...and no one ever will

[The Analog Kid]

My grandfather died when I was young. I remember some of his stuff I was given which included some Johnny Cash albums. At the time I liked them; later I dismissed his music, and now I like him even more. A very tormented soul that made amazing music.

[Coyote Poetry]

Life is a funny journey. Take many years to understand people we had in our life and didn't understand. My father had many problems. Took me some hard times to know what my father felt and knew. I like your story. Every life have their up and downs. I like how you appreciate the music of your father. Johnny Cash music was about real life and emotion. That is why real people appreciate his words. A excellent story. Thank you.
Coyote

[Sam Severn]

I love the music you describe! N' I loved this tale of the Man In Black!! Thank you for telling it!!!

[Ruth]

Strange how we all remember music we have heard and been bought up with! I remember that a lot from my own father love, powerful memories! Love you xx