Had supper last night with Ticia and Pryce, who along with Maggie Simpson, were instrumental in making the gig at Coal Creek work out so well.. At their place prior to the show they reminded me of their plan of buying the lot next to their house and building of straw bale construction “The High Plains Grange Hall” - a beautiful vision.

My head is crammed full of everything that's happened the past five days. From McCook, NE to Nederland, and Ft. Collins, CO, then on to Laramie, it's hard to imagine doing it all justice in words. Suffice it to say, my cup overfloweth. I've been reading Walt Sehnert's entertaining book about Ray Search and the history of McCook - feels like I've taken that little high plains town away with me. The next night Debbie and Greg Ching's Aspen Meadow's House Concert was one of the finest house concert situations I've ever been a part of. At over 8,000'; in Nederland, they treat songwriters like royalty and offer a feather bed to sleep on to boot! And the fact that I was able to hang around one more day and sing a version of "Spencer The Rover" with Vance Gilbert during his concert that neither of us could remember, keep a straight face during, or even sing in tune made it even more memorable!

So today, into Wyo-braska I go for to rest a couple days. I drive with an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach that says I’m going where I haven’t before. I depart I-80 at Kimball and head north stopping briefly to take photos of the grain elevators. I roll on toward Scottsbluff into serious sand hills country where the topography looks like scrubby brown waves rolling and endless, with two lanes of asphalt dividing the waters. In Nevada on the endless roads my insides feel spacious. But by comparison, here I feel lonely. I don’t often feel this way, yet the motion of the van has a calming effect. I put on some Woody Guthrie, the Moses Asch Folkways Recordings. That bare guitar and plain voice puts the landscape into perspective, and makes me feel better. “This Land is your Land” and “Ramblin’ Around” became very real and apropos. I check into a motel while there’s still daylight in Bridgeport. It’s a stark town that fits my mood perfectly. In Bridgeport I find no bridge, unless you count the road over the train tracks, and no port to speak of either.

Oft times the blur of touring is difficult to see through. Events and situations roll by at such a pace that it’s hard to put a finger on any one and say, “there, hold that for a moment”. I usually count on a long tour to bring about some kind of change in myself. This where I look for songs to write and become some evidence of growth confirming that I’ve moved on the inside as well as the outside. There is usually a camel’s straw; a vulnerable time when I’m tired that makes this happen. This time, as in times before, the stage was simply a bar and motel in the middle of nowhere.

There was nothing special about the Wild Man Bar in Bridgeport. I figure it’s too big for the number of patrons that usually inhabit it. It’s dark and not particularly clean, but it does have a couple of prized snooker tables no doubt acquired during more prosperous times. There was nothing particularly unique about the clientele: an overweight amiable drunk, a skinny longhair in a goofy mood shooting pool, and a regular looking guy in a dirty ball cap that I struck up a conversation with. I spoke briefly about being a musician, and encouraged him to speak at length about his work repairing rail cars. He filled my head with stuff I can’t even recall about how the cars are built, mostly aluminum now, that are filled with Wyoming coal going to make Dallas/Ft. Worth electricity. The night went on 'till I played and lost a game of pool to the longhair and drank too many Budweisers. Walking back to the Motel I started writing this song. Finished it up in Ogallala the next night.

This Town

This here town don’t have no stoplights
This town’s got just one bar
Through this town the Burlington Northern
Tears through the night coal in the cars

This town built a three block main street
All the essentials all in a row
Grain feed, land titles, and groceries
And a theater for the picture show

Tonight I sleep in an old motel room
Circa 1950‘s, got an ugly smell
The bed I lie on is tilted sideways
Threadbare bedspread worn to hell

This town’s full of vacant houses
Missing shingles broken dreams
Rain blows through the empty windows
Like a vagrant whistle screams

Pigeons roost on elevators
Sentinels of a grain fed land
Rain became the revelator
And grew the food into our hands

This here town don’t have no Wal-Mart
But I seen stars & stripes come nigh
Bearing down with every trucker
Rolling over sand hills high

This town is either drunk or sober
This town’s neither sweet nor young
This town’s made of love and trouble
And of drifters on the run

Christmas Day 2001
Back in Asheville now, polishing up these notes. This is a good day to get perspective on 2001.  Looking back I’m pleased to say it’s been the strongest year of playing music and touring since I began full time in ‘95.  That’s thanks to you all!  I really do appreciate your support, your comments in my guestbook, your purchasing recordings, reading these notes, and coming out to the concerts. By this time next year I am counting on having a new CD out.  The working title is “Avenue Of The Saints”.  Some tracks are done, and others I’ll spend the spring and summer working on.  More news later.

Meanwhile, lots of love, peace and health and  - HAPPY NEW YEAR!!