I truly think that's what art is about, whether we make it obvious or not. It's all biography for me. Hopefully, it inspires others to share more of themselves. Thank you for reading, Harvey!
I was in no way prepared for the intense emotional reaction I had while reading this. The Cary Brothers version of Take Me Home, Country Roads video completely wrecked me. 😭 I felt like I was watching our family’s home videos from the 60s. I was with my mother when she died. Although it was peaceful, even beautiful, I felt lost, my father having died 5 years before. I have always loved John Denver, through marriage, divorce, re-marriage, kids, life, death, and everything in between. He was the soundtrack of my family’s trips out to Colorado every other year (with 4 kids in the car, my husband and I needed something to keep sane). I remember where I was when I got the news of his death and I cried. 💔 Thank you for this beautiful piece of your life. Peace.
I'm so glad to hear this piece resonated so powerfully with you, Sally. It's the most I can hope for as a writer. Thank you so much for reading and this lovely note.
This is achingly beautiful and obviously deeply personal, so let’s make this about me. I know you want this to be a vibrant community and I want so much to contribute meaningfully to the conversation, but then I read a piece like this and think, “What can I possibly add?”
I came to my writing career through stand up comedy, and my first instinct is always “Yes and…”. If you don’t have anything funny to say, if you’re not trying to top the last joke, why say anything at all?
It’s been a long time since my stand up days, and I now realise that adding a topper to somebody’s joke isn’t the same thing as adding to the conversation, but especially online I still struggle with the notion that I should be actively contributing — if I haven’t got a “Yes and,” then I should sit back until I have something positive to add. I try to fight that, because sometimes it’s enough to just say “Yes.”
Which is a very, very long way of saying: “Yes.” And… “thank you.”
Thank you for such a lovely note, truly. Sometimes it really is just enough to say you appreciated something. I think social media has conditioned us to believe art requires more than that, or anything else we deem appropriate enough to share. But in the flesh-and-blood world, you rarely stand before a painting and say more than, "Well, that's impressive. I like it." Don't get me wrong, more thoughtful answers are appreciated, too. We all like to know when anything we create impacts another person. But sometimes a "That'll do, pig" is enough to make a writer smile! Well, unless they have body image issues. Heh.
As we both have shared, the more personal, the better the reception. Maybe not at first, but over time. Sometimes people aren't ready for what you have to say. But you still have to say it because it's, well hells bells, what you have to say. That's as good a reason as any in my book. Cheers Mike
I just loved this so much. I think our emotional connection to music and the added impact of our memories and relationships is an incredible thing. You express this very well. I had also never come across that cover of Take Me Home Country Roads before. I like it a lot, and the video. Thank you.
As always, thank you for reading and taking the time to comment. This is one of the most personal things I've ever written. Music has made such a difference in my life.
Beautiful piece of writing! So many touch points to my own life and losses and wonders and connections lost & found. Made me smile & cry. Sunshine On My Shoulders was a favourite of my late mother. Thank you for sharing
I don't understand how any culture produced an adult so clearly incapable of ordering her own Happy Meal at McDonald's, but then also elevated her to a great position of power without any sense of irony.
i can imagine the moment when you saw the photo of your mamma with those records. ive got my mother's vinyl which include at least one of those John Denver albums, but im blessed to still have my mamma with me.
This is heartbreakingly beautiful. I’m sorry you lost your mom and dad. Knowing you can still find a part of them in songs brings me a bit of comfort. Your elegant inquiry into the nature of time, the ghosts of our pasts, presents and future, and the lifelong grieving process, brings tears to my eyes because of the accuracy and vulnerability of your storytelling.
The line “But I do believe humanity is more interconnected than we take the time to recognize. Past, present, and future play like songs on a seemingly random mix tape we often cannot appreciate until it’s too late. Then, the tape snaps inside the cassette, with the abruptness of death, and friends and loved ones and even a great album can glue the loose, twisted pieces of broken tape back together”—yes! This essay says everything. although I’m not religious, I feel this same thing when it comes to grief, loss, and seeking the sublime by taping the broken pieces of life back together again. As human beings we are all interconnected; through interconnection we are able to compose a mixed cassette of random radio signals that tune into the loved ones we’ve lost, while being the guided by memories, music, and the gentle hands of our friends. Thank you for sharing these painful memories and opening up about death, a topic we tend to avoid at all costs until sometimes it’s too late. I love this openness, how you look into the darkness of grief and yet still find a way home.
Thank you for this lovely note, Jessica. This remains one of my favorite things I've ever written. I'm really glad to hear anything about it resonated with you.
Thank you, this was so beautiful to read. So many memories of my childhood are tied up with the mix tapes my Dad played in the car - the soundtrack of my childhood on a handful of cassette tapes that have long been lost. I remember a lot of the songs, but I wish I still had the original tapes, an insight into my Dad's mind and soul. And also this thought: Iove the access to so uch fantastic music we have nowadays, but sometimes I really miss the tactile nature of music appreciation, the heavy press and clack of a cassette player buttons, the care needed with the arm and the needle on a vinyl player.
I miss the tactile nature of music appreciation, too, as you put it. I started collecting vinyl more than a decade ago for this reason. It brings me endless joy. Thank you for reading and for the lovely note.
I could barely finish reading this… not because it was too difficult emotionally, but because I couldn’t see the words through my tears about three fourths of the way through. I am so glad you reposted this. I probably would not have otherwise read it. Needless to say, I connected with what you wrote and many aspects of your story. But even if that were not the case, this is so beautifully and creatively written. I have always loved films that take you on a journey that is not chronological, traveling backwards and forwards through the story. I love that you did that here. And I love the beautiful way it all comes together at the end. I have to assume you will write a memoir someday. With stories like this and a writing style like yours, you should!
Yes, as you saw me refer to it, this is a non-linear narrative. I use them because I don't believe we experience reality in a linear way. The past is always present, the future always on our minds. And if that wasn't enough, we're also interacting with so many other events, many we're not even part of it, that I don't know how to write non-fiction that pretends that away. I'm glad to hear my approach resonated with you so much. And of course, it's always a bizarre honor to hear you made someone cry with your work. Thank you so much for the lovely comments here and elsewhere today.
The original Country Roads was a homecoming celebration. Cole plays it as a dirge, and it absolutely is compelling—all memory and loss.
Memories and memoirs at at war. Memory is associative, it doesn't live in us as a narrative. We sit and say to ourselves "let's write the story about the time ... " and the first memory that comes to mind is a suggestion of a scent. Your nostrils fla
re and from the molecules floating there is a fragrance note that fits and the flash of recognition recalls her face. In the story to be constructed, she has a minor part. And so it goes, flitting and fitting.
I like Country Roads precisely because it's not a story, but a moment of reflection. Your essay reflects the same.
My mom died in 2011. She was a jazz musician (vocals, drums). She and a trumpeter had a night together after a gig in Reno and here I am. She stopped pursuing music after I was born. Rock killed the jazz scene anyway. She'd go on to have three more children, and that consumed most of her life. But she sang all the time in the house. She too ended life in a prison of her own making.
Loved your writer origin story too. Trickster turned pro.
This is a great origin story, Cabot. I'm sorry your mother's life ended up remotely like my own mother's and that she left us in 2011. I hope you've found some peace with that. As for my origin story, I've been slowly working up a proper piece on that because it's a bit more elaborate and helped me break into the film/TV business; I figure it might be helpful to some people. More soon.
Wow. Another fantastic, poignant time-travelling piece. Thank you for sharing so much of yourself on here.
I truly think that's what art is about, whether we make it obvious or not. It's all biography for me. Hopefully, it inspires others to share more of themselves. Thank you for reading, Harvey!
Yes the best art certainly comes from something true inside. Your writing's inspiring me!
Mission accomplished, then!
I was in no way prepared for the intense emotional reaction I had while reading this. The Cary Brothers version of Take Me Home, Country Roads video completely wrecked me. 😭 I felt like I was watching our family’s home videos from the 60s. I was with my mother when she died. Although it was peaceful, even beautiful, I felt lost, my father having died 5 years before. I have always loved John Denver, through marriage, divorce, re-marriage, kids, life, death, and everything in between. He was the soundtrack of my family’s trips out to Colorado every other year (with 4 kids in the car, my husband and I needed something to keep sane). I remember where I was when I got the news of his death and I cried. 💔 Thank you for this beautiful piece of your life. Peace.
I'm so glad to hear this piece resonated so powerfully with you, Sally. It's the most I can hope for as a writer. Thank you so much for reading and this lovely note.
This is achingly beautiful and obviously deeply personal, so let’s make this about me. I know you want this to be a vibrant community and I want so much to contribute meaningfully to the conversation, but then I read a piece like this and think, “What can I possibly add?”
I came to my writing career through stand up comedy, and my first instinct is always “Yes and…”. If you don’t have anything funny to say, if you’re not trying to top the last joke, why say anything at all?
It’s been a long time since my stand up days, and I now realise that adding a topper to somebody’s joke isn’t the same thing as adding to the conversation, but especially online I still struggle with the notion that I should be actively contributing — if I haven’t got a “Yes and,” then I should sit back until I have something positive to add. I try to fight that, because sometimes it’s enough to just say “Yes.”
Which is a very, very long way of saying: “Yes.” And… “thank you.”
Thank you for such a lovely note, truly. Sometimes it really is just enough to say you appreciated something. I think social media has conditioned us to believe art requires more than that, or anything else we deem appropriate enough to share. But in the flesh-and-blood world, you rarely stand before a painting and say more than, "Well, that's impressive. I like it." Don't get me wrong, more thoughtful answers are appreciated, too. We all like to know when anything we create impacts another person. But sometimes a "That'll do, pig" is enough to make a writer smile! Well, unless they have body image issues. Heh.
Thank for this, Cole.
I'm glad to hear it resonated with you at all. Jim. Thanks for reading.
AMAZING story, Cole. Wow. I'm floored.
Thanks, Michael, I really appreciate that. This is definitely one of the most personal essays I've written.
As we both have shared, the more personal, the better the reception. Maybe not at first, but over time. Sometimes people aren't ready for what you have to say. But you still have to say it because it's, well hells bells, what you have to say. That's as good a reason as any in my book. Cheers Mike
I just loved this so much. I think our emotional connection to music and the added impact of our memories and relationships is an incredible thing. You express this very well. I had also never come across that cover of Take Me Home Country Roads before. I like it a lot, and the video. Thank you.
As always, thank you for reading and taking the time to comment. This is one of the most personal things I've ever written. Music has made such a difference in my life.
Beautiful piece of writing! So many touch points to my own life and losses and wonders and connections lost & found. Made me smile & cry. Sunshine On My Shoulders was a favourite of my late mother. Thank you for sharing
Thank you for the lovely note, Paul, and thank you for reading. I'm glad to hear it spoke to you in any way.
How did the culture of Colorado produce both John Denver and Lauren Boebert??? The two couldn’t be more orthogonal.
I don't understand how any culture produced an adult so clearly incapable of ordering her own Happy Meal at McDonald's, but then also elevated her to a great position of power without any sense of irony.
loved this. bizarely i still know all the words to grandmas feather bed. not the most poetic but certainly joyful
I'm glad to hear anything about it resonated with you, Nick. Thank you for reading.
i can imagine the moment when you saw the photo of your mamma with those records. ive got my mother's vinyl which include at least one of those John Denver albums, but im blessed to still have my mamma with me.
This is heartbreakingly beautiful. I’m sorry you lost your mom and dad. Knowing you can still find a part of them in songs brings me a bit of comfort. Your elegant inquiry into the nature of time, the ghosts of our pasts, presents and future, and the lifelong grieving process, brings tears to my eyes because of the accuracy and vulnerability of your storytelling.
The line “But I do believe humanity is more interconnected than we take the time to recognize. Past, present, and future play like songs on a seemingly random mix tape we often cannot appreciate until it’s too late. Then, the tape snaps inside the cassette, with the abruptness of death, and friends and loved ones and even a great album can glue the loose, twisted pieces of broken tape back together”—yes! This essay says everything. although I’m not religious, I feel this same thing when it comes to grief, loss, and seeking the sublime by taping the broken pieces of life back together again. As human beings we are all interconnected; through interconnection we are able to compose a mixed cassette of random radio signals that tune into the loved ones we’ve lost, while being the guided by memories, music, and the gentle hands of our friends. Thank you for sharing these painful memories and opening up about death, a topic we tend to avoid at all costs until sometimes it’s too late. I love this openness, how you look into the darkness of grief and yet still find a way home.
Thank you for this lovely note, Jessica. This remains one of my favorite things I've ever written. I'm really glad to hear anything about it resonated with you.
Thank you, this was so beautiful to read. So many memories of my childhood are tied up with the mix tapes my Dad played in the car - the soundtrack of my childhood on a handful of cassette tapes that have long been lost. I remember a lot of the songs, but I wish I still had the original tapes, an insight into my Dad's mind and soul. And also this thought: Iove the access to so uch fantastic music we have nowadays, but sometimes I really miss the tactile nature of music appreciation, the heavy press and clack of a cassette player buttons, the care needed with the arm and the needle on a vinyl player.
I miss the tactile nature of music appreciation, too, as you put it. I started collecting vinyl more than a decade ago for this reason. It brings me endless joy. Thank you for reading and for the lovely note.
Beautiful.
Thank you, Christiana.
I could barely finish reading this… not because it was too difficult emotionally, but because I couldn’t see the words through my tears about three fourths of the way through. I am so glad you reposted this. I probably would not have otherwise read it. Needless to say, I connected with what you wrote and many aspects of your story. But even if that were not the case, this is so beautifully and creatively written. I have always loved films that take you on a journey that is not chronological, traveling backwards and forwards through the story. I love that you did that here. And I love the beautiful way it all comes together at the end. I have to assume you will write a memoir someday. With stories like this and a writing style like yours, you should!
Yes, as you saw me refer to it, this is a non-linear narrative. I use them because I don't believe we experience reality in a linear way. The past is always present, the future always on our minds. And if that wasn't enough, we're also interacting with so many other events, many we're not even part of it, that I don't know how to write non-fiction that pretends that away. I'm glad to hear my approach resonated with you so much. And of course, it's always a bizarre honor to hear you made someone cry with your work. Thank you so much for the lovely comments here and elsewhere today.
The original Country Roads was a homecoming celebration. Cole plays it as a dirge, and it absolutely is compelling—all memory and loss.
Memories and memoirs at at war. Memory is associative, it doesn't live in us as a narrative. We sit and say to ourselves "let's write the story about the time ... " and the first memory that comes to mind is a suggestion of a scent. Your nostrils fla
re and from the molecules floating there is a fragrance note that fits and the flash of recognition recalls her face. In the story to be constructed, she has a minor part. And so it goes, flitting and fitting.
I like Country Roads precisely because it's not a story, but a moment of reflection. Your essay reflects the same.
As mentioned elsewhere, Richard, I really appreciate these thoughts on the essay. They've forced me to look at the essay again myself. Thank you.
Thank you for this.
You're welcome, Niel. I'm glad to hear it resonated with you.
This rang parallel bells.
My mom died in 2011. She was a jazz musician (vocals, drums). She and a trumpeter had a night together after a gig in Reno and here I am. She stopped pursuing music after I was born. Rock killed the jazz scene anyway. She'd go on to have three more children, and that consumed most of her life. But she sang all the time in the house. She too ended life in a prison of her own making.
Loved your writer origin story too. Trickster turned pro.
This is a great origin story, Cabot. I'm sorry your mother's life ended up remotely like my own mother's and that she left us in 2011. I hope you've found some peace with that. As for my origin story, I've been slowly working up a proper piece on that because it's a bit more elaborate and helped me break into the film/TV business; I figure it might be helpful to some people. More soon.