Category: story
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When we got home I found out that a song I had co-written with Jeni Hankins, “Mr. Wilson, the Stonecutter,” had been chosen to be included in a radio show titled, The Place I Can’t Forget, for Jon Stein’s Hootenanny Cafe.
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I’m going to Kansas City in September for a very special concert event, Saturday Night at Tom Benton’s, on September 23.
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Sue thought of an idea while we were on the road touring in 2019. She thought wouldn’t it be fun to rescue an older dog and do a tour called The Old Dog Tour, giving an older dog a chance to kick out the jams one more time.
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The last five miles or so was a one lane windy road, slow going. We stopped at a parking area just before we arrived and changed into our wedding clothes. Then it was back in the car and onward to our destination. “There it is.” Nestled in amongst the pines and parking lots, we found…
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That night, with the power out, we sat in the basement near the woodstove to stay warm. I decided to crack some of the black walnuts I had gathered last October that were used to make ink. I had about one hundred nuts to crack. They are a bit harder to crack than English walnuts.…
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It was an extraordinary evening. A southern night at its finest with good food, good drink and good conversation; a story I have told numerous times. A night to be grateful for. A kairos day. Forever changed.
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Greetings from Liberty. I hope this post finds everyone in good health and doing your part to help yourself and your community get through this pandemic interval. I say interval because one definition says, a definite length of time marked off by two instants. That means a beginning and an end to me. Let’s hope that…
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Greetings from Liberty, Tennessee. Yesterday, we were scheduled to drive into Nashville with some friends to see the film, Once Were Brothers, Robbie Robertson’s story about The Band, at the Belcourt. The city was struck by a tornado in the early hours of the day with horrific devastation. The images were unimaginable; many from the…
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They gripped the highway and held on like an ice cream cone, never touching a shoulder.
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My pop gun was broken, and Grand Pop Cage could see that I wasn’t happy about it. We each got a ten ounce bottle of Coca Cola out of the frig and sat at the bottom of the stairs out back on Symington Avenue. The bottles of pop were delivered every Saturday from Uncle Lou’s…
Billy Kemp 