Marty Robbins is still singin' (in my head)

Exactly how many years have passed since I first heard that song
I can't say.
I recall a Chevrolet.
An Impala.
Tan, long, well made, chromed, smelling of adventure and children.
In the middle seat of that wagon, that nuevo conestoga I rode in anticipation, dreaming.
Protected beneath my dangling feet a reel to reel tape player, three inch reels whirrin' spinnin', spinning out magic.
Music.
Marty Robbins music.
Marty Robbins voice.
My father, Mr. William August Kemper drove that steel Impala.
Dad drove that Chevy like a man on fire heading out, headin’ West.
With the throttle on that 283 as near to wide open as old Highway 6 would allow. H eading West, he sang.
As he controlled that antelope Dad sang.
Dad sang like he never sang at home.

“Saddle tramp, saddle tramp, I'm as free as the breeze and I ride where I please, saddle tramp..."

My older brother, Steven James, fidgeting, sang as well.
My Mother Jean Adele Kemper (nee, Replogle, formerly of Red Oak, Iowa) traveled, read in the “way back” seat or sat napping, map in lap, next to my Father.
In memories dark hollow mom’s voice remains.
A woman's voice, long now silent, soft smells remembered.

I, voices singing in my head, fingers drumming, waited. Intimidated.

Across the plains from Omaha, we crossed the seas of Nebraska to Colorado, Wyoming, Montana. WEST!
For me, the Horses!
Wearing his coal black Stetson, black boots, (Acme’s, red, gold, white with turquoise insets) hand tooled leather belt and hope Dad drove, a man running from a life sentence .
Mr. Kemper, back in the Real Estate office, wore a suit and tie like the gentleman he was.
Dad worked for, waited for, any chance to get out West. He died waiting.
My Father was an Artist, trapped in a business man’s suit.

The mountains, the streams, the peace, screamed, demanded, hollered for the attention of my Dad’s Saint Louis bred, W.W.II Navy veteran, father of two’s, soul. (Dad served in the South Pacific, he walked upon Japanese shores, after the bombs)
As I sit writing these words, tears stream down my face.
Remembering, I listen to “ Counting Crows”, I hear Marty Robbins.
I reach for the remote to change the music but the music remains.
I give thanks.

As I write these words I wear boots, black.
I fumble through my discs, beneath Patti Smith next to Three Dog Night, Primus, near by Live and all the rest, right below Miles, Willie and Herbie I find him: Marty.

Open this program,

On the album cover, red background (you've seen it, or you will) Marty Robbins clad in black. Marty wears a flat hat, black. Posed, frozen, captured since 1956 in a gunfighter stance, poised, about to pull a. 44. Handsome Mr. Robbins stands. Lawman and outlaw.
No Stetson upon my head but a hat,, wide brimmed, functional, by the west formed.
Conchos on my belt remind of of what I have lost.
Dad told me not to lie to myself.
He did, I try not to but in that endeavor I more often fail then find success.
In a well made holster nearby my .357 sits.
Dad taught me, by his missed dreams and forgotten plans. Do what you love, do what you need to do to be, at least a little bit, at least sometimes, happy.
Like the Cowboy in some movie said “One thing” pursue it.
“Utah Carol” magic,
“The Strawberry Roan”
Let’s all go waltzing now....
Dad taught me to love, by omission.

I write, I draw, I work.
I don’t think my father ever found Jesus but then Dad didn’t know he was missing.
Listen to “el Paso” ......
Soon I go.
Soon I ride East into the sun astride (my father’s dream?) a piebald paint.
(The "Great American Desert" someone once remarked. I never knew why.)
I have a horse. His name is Louie (the lip) and I love him.
That black and white paint that stands in the pasture looks like Little Joe's horse, from Bonanza.
Remember?

Me 'n' Louie

Welcome To My World

time' s runnin' short, winter soon nippin' at our heels. Time to go.