The Way We Limp Home
We are sure that the people who believe the most in us are the people who are most worried about us. I think it’s the way in which we always seem to limp home.
Home, of course, is relative. But lately, as we swing from one side of the country to the other, more than the break in the seasons from 112 degree Wichita to 27 degree Cheyenne, it’s that stroll past the Nashville Bat Tower that determines the end of one tour and the beginning of the new. Even if the end of a tour means having a two day break just like any other week before we move on to the next state for the next show.
But in the three or four times we have tread back to these quickly growing, used-to-be-familiar Nashville town grounds, our pals who bade us farewell first on our new adventure have watched us stumble back with a broken axle, a broken hitch, and– after Butter’s javelina attack last week in Mesa– a broken dog. Often we are a little thinner, and this time with Scott sniffling and me making him his favorite soup (wild rice) in our best pal, Ryan Camp’s, kitchen. Which is why, when we are greeted by Ryan and our other friends here, after the celebratory “We made it!”, there is a serious pause before the inevitable, “But please tell me, are you guys doing okay?”
Our answer, always, is yes. Because it’s true. We have paid each bill nearly on time, have eaten enough good and healthy food– often from the kindness of new friends and old strangers– to keep us moving and in top shape, and now even have the opportunity to say things like, “…and then our dog got gored by a wild javelina and survived!” Some people have called us lucky. Some have called us brave. Some have called us idiots. We’ve felt like all of those things. And, likely, we are. But we are still alive and doing what we love, even if with a few stitches, and most wonderful of all, we have a few friends we can limp home to who still believe in us, too. Probably because we haven’t fallen down yet. Or maybe because sometimes we do.
We have just a couple of shows left in this year before we move our few things from our camper into the basement bedroom with no windows that my sister and brother-in-law are kindly offering us. (The no windows bears mentioning so you realize how focused on our work we will be as we take a few weeks to stop, look, and listen. Also, it is to give you a quaint visual of a teeny tiny folk band and their dog huddling around a single candle in utter darkness writing songs like olden times). We will exercise our right to miss playing shows and keep you posted on the staying still.
We have a record or two in mind for 2016 (there, we said it, for those of you who have been prying), and are excited to use the time to finish writing it. And, also, to lose our most recent little limp so we can get a new one when we head out again in the spring.