Terri Hendrix

NEWSLETTERS

Hendrix August 05 GoatNotes

80 percent of luck is showing up." — Woody Allen
"Depend on the rabbit's foot if you will, but remember it didn't work for the rabbit." — R.E. Shay

In late June, at 4:00 in the morning, I sleepily shuffled about my bedroom packing for my upcoming tour to Colorado and New Mexico. Keeping me company at that ungodly hour were my two beloved mutts, Jesse and Caroline, who joyfully pranced around my feet, thrilled that I was up and no doubt hoping to go out and play. But the moment I picked up my guitar case, they stopped in mid-jump — knowing all too well that the guitar case meant that wherever I was going, they wouldn't be coming along. As I backed out of my driveway and into the dark, I caught one last glimpse of their sad faces peering at me through the chain link fence; I knew that the moment I'd locked the front door and set the alarm, they'd boogie out the doggie door into the back yard to shoot me one more hopeful glance. I've seen them do that hundreds of times, and it never gets any easier. But the flip side is, when I come home, I'm always amazed to see their two heads right where I saw them last — almost like a portrait — waiting for me.

The flight to Albuquerque was smooth, but by the time Lloyd and I fetched our rental car and made the drive towards Silverton, CO, I was in agony. You see, on the plane, I'd drunk a gallon of water. Because the last time I'd played in Silverton, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, cotton balls formed on both sides of my lips, and my eyeballs dried out and rolled inward, all due to the high altitude. "Drink lots of water," the natives there told me. So this trip, I'd heeded their advice. The only problem was, not only was there no restroom in sight, it's one spooky, hilly, bumpy drive on the way to Silverton, with creepy zillion-foot drop-offs and no guardrails. The moment our tires touched the curb of the Historic Grand Hotel, I leapt out of the car, checked in, snatched my room key, and sprinted up four flights of stairs, barely making it to my room with bladder (and breath) in tact. After my cramps ceased from my latest exercise in extreme bladder control, I flipped the television on in my room to watch the final game between the San Antonio Spurs and the Detroit Pistons for the 2005 NBA championship. Being a San Antonio native, the Spurs are as much a part of my life as enchiladas, queso, and pico de gallo. But as luck (bad luck) would have it, I could get every channel but 20, which was the one the game was on. Dagnabit! Lloyd's room didn't have a TV at all, but after some serious pleading on my part, he helped me rig my television with duct tape and two strategically placed volume peddles. Luckily, by the third quarter, though the screen was more snow than picture, we were able to watch the Spurs capture the title.

As soon as the sun hit the San Juan Mountains overlooking Silverton, we were off to play our set at the Jubilee Festival and later that night, a workshop on songwriting. Over the course of the festival, we enjoyed performances by Hot Strings, Fruit, and Donny Morales. It was sunny but chilly outside, but luckily, I'd brought my well-worn WKZE sweatshirt (my equivalent to Linus's blanket) to keep me warm. On Sunday, we headed to Taos, NM, by way of Interstate 64. On the other side of the thunderstorms (and the semi doing 30 mph), we were lucky to witness a full spectrum rainbow stretched between our road and the Sangre de Cristo mountains surrounding us. After a diet of truck stop junk food consisting solely of "Grandma's Oatmeal Raisin Cookies" we arrived at our friend Mike Yacino's restaurant, the Old Blinking Light,where we enjoyed hamburgers, the fresh smell of rain on the Sage bushes, and a night's stay at his infamous slaughterhouse (with ceiling hooks in tact) which had been converted to a guest house. (I know what you're thinking — "Ei! Ei! Ei!" But seriously, it's like Martha Stewart and Pottery Barn teamed up and turned that slaughterhouse into the cutest, cleanest, and most charming guest house you ever did see. And I thought I pulled off a miracle fixing up my house!)

The next day, I unexpectedly (talk about luck) met one of my musical heroes, Emily Sailers of the Indigo Girls, before our set at KTAO's Solar Fest (both the festival and the station are powered by pure solar energy). We were playing right before the Indigo Girls, which in itself was a huge deal to me. As I gulped yet another pint of water, Emily asked, "You wanna join us on 'Closer to Fine'?" Have you ever seen a deer in headlights? That was me. I squeaked, "No thanks ... I don't know it well enough." Emily just laughed, shook my hand, and walked away. I watched her go and then slowly turned and looked at Lloyd, blushed and whispered, "D'oh! I meant to say YES!"

Our next stop after Taos was a concert in Nederland, followed by one in Florissant for our good friends Russ and LaVanna at the Thunderbird, a quirky juke-joint with great food. A brilliant foot-stompin' dancin' musician named Bruce Hayes did sound and a blazing set during our intermission. After that evening's performance, we made our way to Colorado Springs where, unbeknownst to me, the very next day I was going to violate my long-standing "one dog for each arm" rule. For as I was walking into Circuit City to get a computer cable, the PETsMART right next door was having dog adoptions. I immediately put my hands over my eyes so as not to succumb to the temptation to look, fearing that if I did, I'd end up adopting one. But as I heard all the cooing over all those puppies, I did the unthinkable. I peeped. The first thing I saw was a lone black dog stretched out in a cage in the distance. Since everyone else was crowded around the puppies, I felt sorry for it. So I walked over, just to pet it. He looked up at me with brown hopeless eyes through the wires of his cage, and, well ... I broke my rule. I adopted him.

The new addition to my family was a year-old black lab mix. His name? Lucky Holyfield. Lloyd, being a dog owner himself, promptly came up with the "Lucky" part; I came up with Holyfield (after Evander), due to "Lucky" missing half an ear and having numerous other battle scars from his year spent in the pen (shelter). It was love at first sight. But how in the heck was I gonna get Lucky Holyfield back home to Texas? That question was weighing heavily on my mind when got to our next gig, at Orly's — we arrived just in time to see my friend Mana Salazar, from Kyle, Texas, hop out of her white pick-up truck. Mana and her friend Verlon had taken a spur-of-the-moment vacation to Colorado to catch the last half our tour. And as luck would have it, Mana readily offered to give Lucky a lift back to Texas for me. I was one happy puppy after that, free to enjoy the music of our opening act, Redraw the Farm.

Having driven to Gold Hill the night prior, the following afternoon, luck was still with us when we hit the musical jack-pot by stumbling across The Stairwell Sisters, a buck-dancing, all-gal old-time string band from San Francisco (with a dobro and two clawhammer frailing banjo players), jamming on a streetside in downtown Boulder. And just when we thought we couldn't get any luckier, that night our stomachs nearly popped from the gourmet meal we were treated to by the proprietors of the Gold Hill Inn, who'd made a name for themselves through their famed historic Bluebird Lodge (which, to the best of my knowledge, was never a slaughterhouse).

After our afternoon performance at Gold Hill Inn's annual Fourth of July festival, Mana and Verlon helped us make a speedy getaway so Lloyd and I could catch our flight out of Denver that evening. Although I misread our Yahoo Map, thus getting us lost on the way the airport, we still made our flight back to Texas. Thankful for our safe return, and road-worn from my travels (and the 14th consecutive day in the same WKZE sweatshirt), I drove home and thought of Lucky, wondering how he would adapt to his new family in Texas. I also thought about a Persian proverb I've heard which states, "Go and wake up your luck." I found it somehow fitting for the entire tour from which I'd just returned. I didn't have to go out looking for luck, because luck (like Lucky) finds me, just when I need it most. Sure enough, as I pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine, I looked up and was greeted and humbled by the two heads right where I saw them last, like a portrait, looking expectantly out the chain link fence, waiting for me.

Thanks for your support and for reading my musings!

Happy Trails,
Terri Hendrix

P.S. Dear powers that be at WKZE in Sharon, Connecticut:
I have worn the large blue hooded sweatshirt with your red WKZE logo on the front you so graciously gave me (it's my Linus) to shreds.
Can I have another?

* Feel free to share my GoatNotes. Spread the joy.
* Subscribe to once a month GoatNotes
* Additions and deletions - terri@terrihendrix.com