A very pleasant late afternoon driving home. Riding in the ford with Julie in the left hand seat, myself as co-pilot. A little controlled breeze from the sunroof swirling as it exited a slightly open right rear window. Delightful.

An exquisite meal at Watershed earlier with communion. Chianti, artisan bread with the Baruch, Ashem, Adonai toast at the end. On the deck overlooking the Osceola Creek. The rapids burbling and rushing below. Perfect.

We were dressed to the ‘nines’ and being themselves as they enjoyed ‘eating out’ with more class than the nearby burger joint up the hill. A few conversations overheard as a gifted raconteur regaled his table well. Stories loud enough to somewhat enjoy. He was enjoying himself anyway. Don’t we all do that at times? Grace.

Driving home, commenting on the beauty of the homes visible. Two story with carpenters lace and porches, some with widows walks and many flowering bushes and perfect accouterments. A river town built right. There was a lot of traffic but jake braking was forbidden, the noise of the vehicles would just be a small rushing inside. They envisioned living there but without the other buildings, the maple trees and gardens. It would not be the same. Next window neighbors is the price for being capable to walk downtown for nice things.

As we drove by a Friday night concert in another town on the river, I was suddenly transfixed. There were a lot of people on lawn chairs, watching a stage below them. The band was just getting started as they slowly drove by. Heading north of highway 8 to their exquisite farmstead. The opening notes where instantly recognized as Johnny Cash’s ‘Folsom prison blues’ As the first lines began to fade the transition to old memories and surrealism came on the coattails of that 8 note guitar intro to Folsum prison blues.

Stuck in a prison vs living in the lap of luxury and just enjoying an old ballad that was never and will never be part of those listeners reality. Home to toast and honey afterwards. Driving a car or truck home without fear and without the air on for a change. “what’s in the fridge honey? Or should we go out?” More swell homes overlooking the river and soon after, a half dozen trucks with boat trailers at the landing. Nice boats on the river. Fishing or just cruising on a perfect night. Are you getting the picture?

We are millionaires in the world’s eyes and are worried about our 401k accounts. When our brief lives end, there is the auction with collectibles and coins. Antiques and machinery of all sorts. Not worth as much as when it was purchased, but hey, enough to pass on to the next family collector of wealth. Usually. I am not ranting about our wealth, not at all. Our family is ‘doing well’ or as the usual greeting: “Hey, how are ya? I”m good” The usual banter when often no one can’t remember the other person’s name. We are good. Nothing wrong with a little well earned comfort and ease. I have been ‘homeless’ before that became a common adjective.

Back to the concert and the old memories. “Stuck in Folsom prison and time keeps dragging’ on..”

I was recently in a men’s Bible study with a couple of dozen men around the tables. There was talk of jail ministries and suddenly, I asked the men: “Any of you guys ever done time? Even overnight for a minor infraction or a mistake by the police?” Those guys looked at me in an interesting way. The way someone is gazed upon when they are not wearing the right clothing or none at all.

Realizing, once again, I had stepped into uncomfortable territory for the people around me. I wanted to share with someone my odd recall memory of difficult times that somehow was wafted into me. The cover by the band of a song of longing to be free. An audience listening but with no comprehension of the original inspiration for the song.

I have spent time locked up and did not hear any lonesome train whistles when I was there. I was stuck and time did drag. I know Johnny knew hard times.

Memory triggers from harmless sounds or voices can recall adventures into our past. I believe that is the group conversation I wanted to initiate. In a prison ministry I was in I used my story to engender comradeship and empathy. At the men’s group It was the wrong place and wrong time for me to share. I’m learning!

It’s pretty good. Norm Peterson / Jack Gator