I once had a guitar picking boyfriend who loved to sing to me even though it turned my face red. One of the songs I didn’t mind hearing was I’ve Been Everywhere. At the time, I didn’t recognize it as one of Johnny’s. But as I reflect it’s obvious now how insidiously his music crept into my life.
At nineteen, clearing and resetting tables at a restaurant inside the Ramada Inn was my job. One morning all the waitresses were a-twitter about something. They were standing in the foyer with their faces steaming up the glass, looking out onto the hotel lobby. The red head, whose husband was a racecar driver, pointed first.
“There he is!” she whispered excitedly. I scanned the lobby seeing nothing. As my eyes drifted left, a man dressed entirely in black was just entering the lobby from the elevators. Lumbering toward the front desk, suitcases in hand, he was oblivious to the women tapping on glass and waving. Towering over six-feet tall with his hat on was Johnny Cash, in the flesh.
It didn’t look like he was coming in for breakfast. Probably they’d had room service. Nice and private. The redhead could stand it no more and went running out to get an autograph, while the rest of them watched bug-eyed commenting on her bravery. She returned beaming, waving her trophy for all to see. It was the talk of the day.
At the time, I didn’t comprehend the magnitude of the legendary man. Many years later while living down south,
I developed an interest in New Country music. Johnny Cash rarely got airtime on these stations. He was someone fleetingly admired from afar. Over the years, my respect grew for him when I heard he’d been married to the same woman for over thirty years. That he’d become a Christian. I respected him for getting off drugs and leaving behind a reckless lifestyle. When he made appearances on TV I’d stop flipping channels to watch. If I heard his song on the radio, I always stopped to listen.
While dating Gordo, the subject of country music and Johnny Cash came up. He had lived in Tennessee, Hendersonville to be exact. He’d been by John’s house, attended the same church and crossed paths with June Carter Cash at Wal-Mart. Gordo talked about him like an old friend and it made John more real. He owned several of his CD’s and we listened to them together. While I didn’t like every cut, I was surprised to learn I’d heard almost everyone of them.
By the time I developed an understanding of Johnny’s life and music, his life was winding down. We heard Walk The Line, a movie about John’s life, was being filmed. When it came out, Gordo and I knew we’d have to see it.
John had released new music which we bought. Several new biographies were released, which Gordo read and I added to my want-to-read list. But, John died before I ever saw him again...
On a recent vacation to Hendersonville, Tennessee, we located the cemetery where he was buried, next to June who had died just a few months before. Standing by the brass plate that marks his grave, I think to myself, "This is the closest I’ve ever been to him, six feet away."
The first time he saw me, I was in my hometown. The last time I’d be near him, he’d be in his. Dave and I left the cemetery playing the soundtrack for Walk the Line. And it was a full circle moment leaving Hendersonville and listening to A Boy Named Sue.
‘Bye John. See you in the hereafter.
