Willow Weep for Me. Part 1.

[KB.]

It has been a little while since I wrote a “story”; I find myself lacking distractions, and I don’t write real well with out them. This one has been marinating in my head for a few weeks. Recently one of the young ladies I work with mentioned something about her Van Morrison CD being gone, and that she missed it. I decided I would burn her a few songs; no one should be without their music. When I told her I was doing so I mentioned the fact that I didn’t really care for Mr. Morrison, but that was a flat out lie. He has one of my all time favorite songs; it had just been a long time since I listened to it; the length of that absence being for a reason. Pay attention that was what we call foreshadowing.

It was either ’96 or ’97 forgive me if I don’t remember. The years that belonged to my twenties tend to run together lately. I do remember it was deep in the summer and not the best time to make my second trip to New Orleans. Muggy is a verb in New Orleans during the summer; adjectives die from heat exhaustion too easily. I stopped in Covington to get a hotel room for a few days and see a few things I had set out to explore. One of them being the Abita Beer brewery and the other being a monastery; the same one I would spend some time in a few years down the road, and where I may end up seeking permanent residence if some things don’t change. That night I drove south across Lake Pontchartrain on into New Orleans the city was crowded and after I parked my car I decided to take the ferry to Algiers instead. I found a nice looking little bar called The Old Point; I could hear music from outside; good music. It was around ten at night and the air was still thick and steamy; tangible. I ordered a beer, Abita Amber, and found a cozy corner spot to claim as my own.

I prefer my road trips to be comprised of just one person, me; the reason is that if someone is with me they tend to get bored and I feel obligated to entertain. I don’t but I still feel obligated.

It was apparently some type of open mic night and the local talent was out in full force. There was everything from Zydeco music to old delta Blues. I was in heaven. There were even a few old Irish drinking songs being done as a group effort during between times. Here it comes, a woman is about to come into view from some where off to the left, I bet you were wondering when that was going to happen.

I forgot a couple of details. When I say open mic night I do not mean karaoke; I mean that there were about a dozen folks playing various instruments, everything from the guitar, banjo, accordion, piano, harmonica, and saxophone. They ranged from what looked to be a 15 year old kid playing the accordion to what had to be a 217 year old guy playing the piano. There were no words on a screen to sing along with, no teased together CDs of popular music. There was just folks singing and people playing what ever happened to be the instrument of request to go along with that music.

For this particular performance the ancient piano man and a gentleman of about thirty playing the sax were making their way onto stage. Here it comes. From the left, yes the left, this woman came swaying into the bar. She moved like the molasses that your grandmother kept in the jar way back in the cupboard. Slow, sticky, and with out one hint of urgency. She was about 5’9” tall, slender to the point of hard edges, but soft all the same; I’ll get to that later on.

Her hair was a light brown and curly to the point of kinky; shoulder length. Her eyes were green. I won’t even try and describe the color of that green. People pay good money for contacts that look like her eyes. Her skin looked like hot chocolate poured into a favorite mug; with a red tint. Like cinnamon. She had freckles and her name was Sophie. Sophia. The sax started into a slow beckoning call to the piano and the piano answered in kind. Then this woman opened her mouth and I thought I was surely dreaming. Billie Holiday? Who in their right mind tried to sing Billie Holiday? She, Sophie, was making Billie smile as she looked down from the cloud in heaven where blues and jazz singers serenaded the angels.



“Willow weep for me

Willow weep for me

Bend your branches down along the ground

and cover me

Listen to my plea

Hear me willow and weep for me”

I asked who ever was listening to let me sleep forever if it was a dream. I love music, I love women, and I adore women who can sing. Billie Holiday, Ella Fitzgerald, Nina Simone? Nope, Sophie.

I and at my best count twenty six other men and women bought her a drink after she finished that song, Willow Weep for Me, I think she drank them all because when she sat down, she sat down next to me. I think I almost died. I was a baby, twenty years old, and as much as I thought I had lived, I can look back now and realize I hadn’t been half way to anywhere yet. The faces of two dozen other men, and a few women turned from hope to disappointment as she slowly slid into that chair across from me, but the man who had to have been in his twenties when the piano was invented looked across at me from where he sat in front of his own piano and winked at me with eyes that sparkled with an eon of similar memories.

Van Morrison, yeah I’m getting there. Have patience, be virtuous.

[Carl44]

another fantastic story KB:-6





any chance of porning them up a bit or some pictures for those of us that are morons and take about 30 mins to read a post like that







just kidding mate another great work by the master

[Imladris]

Muggy is a verb in New Orleans during the summer; adjectives die from heat exhaustion too easily





I just love that ^^^

[Peg]

:yh_worshp Another great story. :yh_worshp

[KB.]

Lots left yet; I've got about eight years to cover with this one.

[JacksDad]

K.B.

I save your stories as the last thread I read for the night.

They're like a glass of straight up Chivas before bed.

I lie down with a wistful smile upon my face and fall peacefully asleep.

[KB.]

JacksDad;684498 wrote: K.B.

I save your stories as the last thread I read for the night.

They're like a glass of straight up Chivas before bed.

I lie down with a wistful smile upon my face and fall peacefully asleep.


Thank you for the best smile I have had grace my face in a long, long, time.

Part 2 is up.

[Kathy Ellen]

JacksDad;684498 wrote: K.B.

I save your stories as the last thread I read for the night.

They're like a glass of straight up Chivas before bed.

I lie down with a wistful smile upon my face and fall peacefully asleep.


WOW honey,

That is really soulful, and I appreciate your thoughts....your peaceful smile is delightful.

I mean that Luv... lots of peace with your baby Jack.