Sometimes there’s not much to do on a warm Texas evening. I watched a lot of sunsets from our front porch steps. I would sit and watch the sky transform through many colors and shades, and finally the sun disappears, leaving nothing but a red glow.
Sometimes I enjoyed the silence. Other nights I needed my audio companion, that is to say the tape deck I had and a few tapes of Tom T Hall. The 1960’s, 1970s and 80s were his peak years. He was known as The Storyteller. Most of his songs were stories that he lived or heard about. They were not all pleasant. Some of his songs broke my heart and put a lump in my throat whenever I would hear them. He eventually made it to the Country Music Hall of Fame.
I was listening to him so much that sometimes on that front porch he was like and imaginary friend sitting next to me. Jackie and I had the honor of meeting him a couple of occasions. He was really nice about it. We walked up to his bus and he came out and took some pictures with us. He signed autographs and took pictures with people in a real nice way. Somewhere in my garage I have his guitar pick. If you ever get a chance, look up some of his songs on YouTube. The sign on his tour bus said, “Who Cares.”
I wrote this poem while watching the stars it the warm Texas night. Thank you very much.
Tom T Hall on the Radio
Crystal City is a town without a map.
in Southwest Texas near the border,
near the cowboys, near the fields of spinach,
near the river,
near the hunting,
away from everything else.
“Welcome to Texas.” I heard a lot of people say.
“Welcome to God’s country.”
“Great to have you here.”
I noticed a lot of boots and Stetsons,
and a lot of gun racks,
slow setting suns,
blood red in the dancing dust,
and lots of silence,
especially after I said I was from California.
