NEWSLETTERS

October2002
©2002 Terri Hendrix

Los Dias de los Muertos, the Days of the Dead, is a traditional Mexico holiday honoring those that have passed away. It’s not a sad time, but instead a time of remembering and rejoicing. This celebration, with added input from the Aztec people of Mexico, evolved with the influences of the Celts, the Romans, and the Christian holy days of All Saints Day and All Souls Day. Harvest festivals were held in hopes of warding off evil spirits. They also marked the end of the “season of the sun” and the beginning of “the season of darkness and cold.” Over the years, the customs from all these end-of-the-season holidays mixed. October 31st became known as All Hallow Even, eventually All Hallow’s Eve, Hallowe’en, and then … Halloween.
For many seasons, I’ve kept something of a tattered journal. In celebration of Halloween,
I pulled a few excerpts out of the dusty, spider web-covered book for your ghastly pleasure.

Scary:
On Saturday evenings in the early ‘90s, I played a regular gig in the back of The Crazy Horse Saloon on St. Mary’s Street in San Antonio, Texas. One evening, for a reason unbeknownst to me, this gal who’d been glaring at me my entire first set approached me during intermission, grabbed hold of me, looped her fingers through the waist of my underpants and hoisted me above her head towards a rotating ceiling fan. Somehow, I managed to escape, finding refuge far from the scary warrior princess underneath a pool table. A few minutes later, a fight broke out between rival gangs in which one person was clocked in the head with a pool cue. The police showed up. The blood was wiped up. And although frightened, I still finished my “show.”

Ghosts:
Many a Halloween was spent driving to and from gigs in my old rusty green Toyota pick up. One year, it was pouring down rain. My truck was fully loaded with my instruments and my gear. Between the interstate and me was a low-water crossing. The flood gauge was down (or submerged), and I couldn’t tell how deep the rushing water was. I decided to pretend my truck was a barge and cross. I revvvvvved the engine, peeled out, landed in the middle, sank, and was quickly swept into a chain link fence (put up as a partition to collect the insane low-water-crossers who’d failed attempting this before). When the water filled up the floorboards of my truck and reached my shins, I decided to bail. Just then I heard a loud HONK! Again, HONK! I scrambled out the window and onto the hood of my truck and saw a huge semi that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The driver (or apparition) floated out of the vehicle and threw me a tow chain. I hooked it onto my front bumper. Then the driver drifted back up and into the semi, slammed the rig into reverse, and towed my truck, gear, instruments, and me to safety. Before my feet touched solid ground, both semi and driver had disappeared into the dark.

Good Spirits:
One foggy night a few years back, I decided to house some stray pups that kept crossing the busy street to visit their new neighbor (me). When the owner of the pups returned home, I explained the four-legged situation, and asked her to help me move the troublemakers from my home back to hers. After a few trips, we finally got the pups safely fenced back in her yard along with the worried mama dog. Seeing me holding one of her precious litter, the mama dog’s little tail (on a HUGE body) started waggin’. That's the last thing I remember (don't pet the dog) other than her large yellow fangs rushing at my jugular. She missed and dangled from my lip instead. I shrieked in terror, shook her off and sprinted home, bleeding profusely the whole way. Because he lived only twenty minutes away, I gave Lloyd a call. I got his daughter on the phone. "Lo. Augh av ugh og ite." "What?" she asks. "Augh av ugh og ite awn i ip nnnn isss nnn errency!” "Terri?" she asks? "Essss!!!"
I gasp. Finally figuring out my distress, she hollers to Lloyd, "Terri needs you, and it's an EMERGENCY!” I hear in the background "Tell her I'll call her back AFTER ‘The Simpsons.’” Luckily, being the good spirit he is, he finally rose out of his recliner. Soon after, Lloyd and his wife picked my lip and me up and dashed us off to the local emergency room. Stitches fastened my lip back onto my face. Perfect alignment!
I can’t help but thank my lucky stars that my surgeon had 20/20 vision!

Freaky:
After much thought on this subject, it’s my belief that towns located near large bodies of water harbor some of life’s more eclectic characters. Recently, my thoughts on this subject were challenged in Portland, Oregon. While walking with Lloyd en-route to the venue where we were to perform, I said, “This town’s the exception. The sea is a few blocks away and everyone we’ve run across seems pretty grounded.” Just then, we rounded the street corner and literally bumped into … a person with balloon-like breasts shoved precariously into a latex cat suit with a feathered lion’s tail dangling from its garbage bag-padded buttocks, clutching a stuffed Garfield the Cat in one arm and a sticker-covered, multi-colored Telecaster in the other, standing statue-like in pink bunny feet and large, pointed rabbit ears. My eyes widened as the freaky character sprang to life and chased Lloyd and me across the street, shaking Garfield at us and screaming through a shoulder-length, spittle-covered beard, “All this guy will play is the blues and it MAKES people wannnnnNNAAA CRY!!!”

Screams:
I fondly recall one outdoor extravaganza I played with my band as “Bug Fest 2001.” The large arena lights attracted every insect within a two-hour radius, and they were not affected in the least by repellant. It was like a cocktail for them. Green, purple, fuzzy fuchsia (many were lipstick colors), sage (many were Martha Stewart interior paint colors), orange, and black beetles along with gnats and mosquitoes buzzed around my head while groupie grasshoppers jumped joyously into the air and dove off the stage as I attempted to perform my show. Now and then an insect would land on my slightly scarred (don’t pet the dog) upper lip and take a nibble. Having finally had enough of it, I darted my tongue out and ate an unlucky gnat just before it bit me. I then felt the crunch of a grasshopper beneath my shoe. Having put Darwin’s theory into effect, I chuckled, happy that the crowd perched in the bleachers (about two hundred yards across the dung-filled cowboy arena) could not see me stompin’ and eatin’ bugs as well as vacuuming up those I missed with my harmonica reeds. Heck, they were straining just to see the show through their binoculars. After the experience, I signed a few autographs while screaming and swatting along with mosquito-bitten members of the audience. Thoroughly bugged, as I was returning home I pulled my car over to figure out what the horrible, sickly sweet, slightly acidic smell was in my automobile. In the light of the gas station, I discovered I had bug juice all over me. In my hair. On my face. On my instruments. Up my pant legs. In, on, and covering the soles of my shoes. And in places that only the spirits will ever know!

Happy Autumn! Now, I must leaf you!
Oh, and Happy Los Dias de los Muertos!
Warm regards,
Terri Hendrix
© THM Music October 2002

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