NEWSLETTERS

April 2003
©2003 Terri Hendrix

As I write this newsletter, I've got one eye -- narrowed in skepticism
-- honing in on the TV news, and the other -- wide-open in wonderment
-- monitoring our current political thermometer via the Internet. It's
enough to really make a head hurt. As temperatures boil in some parts
of the world and freeze in others, I reboot my ill-tempered computer
from yet another crash and flip the dusty switch of my radio to the on
position. After adjusting the antenna, I twirl the dial to the left.
Aaaahhhhh, I stumble upon an extreme left. Scary. So far left it meets
the right. I locate a channel (still to the left) that makes sense, and
catch mid-stream a heated debate in which two viewpoints are being
argued with such impassioned rage and intensity, I can hear the
debaters' spittle spraying through the grill of my little mono speaker.
The more they each make their point -- or rather, batter their
opponent's -- the more this listener feels ... one-hundred-percent
confused. I shake my head and hear a rattle. So I turn everything off,
take a deep, calming breath, and ... think.

My head still hurts.

For me, arriving at my own personal truth regarding our current whirled
events has proven difficult. Just when I'm getting a grip on my
feelings, something happens to usurp my momentum. For instance, last
week, en-route to Florida, I looked up and noticed two televisions,
side by side, at the airport. On the left screen was the war coverage,
with all its gory facts running in subtext underneath the picture. And
on the right screen were cheerleaders leaping gleefully into the air
after their college basketball team scored yet another point. Head
rattling, I bobbed my head in disbelief back and forth between the two
visuals, occasionally rubbing my eyes to check if I was indeed watching
soldiers in the heat of battle right next to a sporting event. The
image left me feelin' ... all muddied up again. It's hard for
information to be attained through mayhem. Hard, but not impossible.
Today, I'm thinking about a person I know who, in her own words,
"stands on the edge of the middle." You never know quite where that
edge is, and she knows this. And that's what's important. I think not
knowing is still ... knowing. Thinking. Seeking. Sorting through the
various conduits of the information age to arrive at your own
conclusions. It's my belief that only through intense scrutiny can
universal truths be gleaned. It takes guts to speak out, guts to keep
quiet, and guts to sit, feet tucked, on a strand of barbed wire with
hot coals sizzling on both sides of the fence while you make up your
mind. Or at least try to.

Last week, I got a call from a friend who has a son who's, yes,
fighting this war. He's young. Still has baby fat on his cheeks. Smells
like aftershave even though his facial hair's peach fuzz. My friend
used to think that sons and daughters who joined the service and
survived drill sergeants and basic training really didn't have to worry
so much about the defending your country part of the deal. In fact, her
boy, out of options for a career choice, signed his name on the dotted
line for the medical benefits and college tuition. But when he
enlisted, his forms clearly stated just what his deployment might
entail, so, today, he's in Iraq -- a small, brave soldier. It seems
like just yesterday though when he used to collect tips for me on
Saturday afternoons at Gruene Hall as I banged out Fleetwood Mac and
John Prine tunes. Oh, those were the hottest months of the summer, when
the air was too hot to breath and merely looking at the sidewalk tanned
our faces. Simple days, when my only concern was the sweat
beading above my hairline, trickling down my forehead, and carrying
mascara into my eyeballs and making them burn. Simple days when my
friend and her boy's worries centered around making sure that they
didn't miss a show. This kid sat by his mom, and when I'd motion to
him, he'd mingle with the audience with tip jar in tow. His pudgy
cheeks turned red with the heat and later excitement as the glass jar
filled up with dollars. He'd make a few tips himself, run across the
street to the General Store, and use his earnings on homemade peanut
butter fudge that he'd share with me after my show. Season after
season, as those afternoons dwindled into memories, I watched as my
friend's boy turned into a pimply faced high school senior, then a
backwards-hat-wearin', Robert Earl Keen-worshipin' college kid, and
later, father to a 15-month-old baby. The last time I saw him, I raked
my hands across his burred hair cut, pinched his cheeks, and declared
"you're all grown up now!" At the time, it felt like a lie because his
face still looked like that of a 12-year-old. Today, I'm thinking that
he is indeed ... all grown up now. As my conversation came to a close
with his mom, she said, "Maybe some things we don't get over ... we
just get past." I agreed.

I had wanted to write March's newsletter about clover. I had intended
to write April's newsletter about hope. And as I write this to you, I
think I've accidentally stumbled across both concepts. This is all much
to my head's delight, which has, mind you, stopped hurting. Think about
clover. For some -- and I'm not just thinking of the Irish -- clover --
and not just the four-leafed variety -- represents good luck. For
others, it's nothing but a weed. You can't kill clover. It's a
gardener's nemesis. I have a neighbor who wages an endless battle with
the clover invading her beautiful garden. And yet, during our recent
unreasonably cold (for Texas!) February, it seemed there was nothing I
could do to keep my yard from turning into a brown and yellow wasteland
-- except for one cheerfully green patch of defiant clover. Every day
I'd look out at my lucky clover patch and find a little bit of hope,
thinking that if that little clump of clover could hold out during the
heart of winter, then I could too. I grew to enjoy my clover as much as
my neighbor loathed hers. I think there's a lot to learn from a clump
of clover, and rather than worry over who's right and who's wrong in
the great clover debate, I think I'll celebrate the difference. Because
sometimes difference is the only thing two folks have in common. I
think that's what freedom's all about, and that's why I'm hopeful in
spite of these troubled times. I think that my voice, even if found
offensive to some, will never be stymied as long as this country's
called America -- just as, as an American, it's my right to disagree
with -- but not stymie -- the opinions of others that I might find
offensive myself. You'll find me right on the edge of the middle,
with a watchful eye on both sides but centered on the belief that in
the end, the human spirit, like clover, will triumph. Because I may be
too old to be naive, but every day I'm gonna make it a point to stay
too young to be hopeless.

Kind regards, Terri Hendrix

© 2003 THM Music
And ... thanks for making what I do possible. I'm grateful.
Kind regards,
Terri Hendrix

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