'Teardrops' of a different type
Don't panic. It was perfect.
For much of the past 10 years, you'd have known exactly where to find me at 8 o'clock on a Sunday night. Robinella would sing. I would smile. Monday morning was still miles away.
Well, that weekly run ended, then I got sick, and, well, you know the rest.
But that's all in the rear-view now, receeding faster every day. Act III is underway, and we kicked it off in style.
Ross and Martha got me there. Yeah, I can drive the 30 minutes from here to Maryville, but, yeah, I wanted a beer. This was a celebration after all. And I'm erring on the side of caution anyway until I've got a full tank of gas.
And how 'bout this! In walks Steve Hobart, yet another old friend I met as a Robinella fan. The only two missing were Mike Finn, and he's up in Michigan, and Webster, who probably had the boys at the Bailey farm, school night and all. Otherwise, it was a dadgum favorite family reunion. The kind you don't dread.
So, she sang funk and soul, country and classics, new and old, old and new.
Her current band is tight and right. Chicken-pickin' guitar, dandy dude on the drums (who rocks mutton-chops better than Roy Clark and I once did), a booming bass, and a smoooth sax.
Robin's daddy, Jerry, got up and darn near stole the show, "When It's Springtime in Alaska (It's 40 Below)."
And, yep, "Teardrops." Ten years later it's still my song. And, yep, I got a little water in my eyes. (Cough)
But it was from being back, being better, recalled to life, back to bein' me.
And I'll take those kinda tears any day of the week.