New Journal Entries From John Are Coming Soon...
Can't hardly blame me - October 16th, 2006
For not writing journal entries in the recent past, not that I haven't had a gracious plenty to write about. Lord knows life has gotten pretty interesting of late, and if I had time to write it all down, it probably wouldn't have the same effect anyway. But to the point. Little Frank James Williamson was born on the 3rd of July, and from there it just gets better. He's three and a half months old now, smiling and laughing, looking around at things that are more than just a foot from his face, keeping things hopping around here and making our nights long and our sleep short.
I have to apologize to those of you who have kids, for I'm sure that when you told me the news of your upcoming additions, I most certainly wasn't terribly excited, at least not in the way that I would be if you told me the news now. It's true that there's just no understanding it until it happens to you personally. But now I know so much more about why the world is the way it is. I always wondered what the big deal was about: school funding, mean dogs in the neighbor's yard, drag-racing down city streets, smoking in public places - okay, that one I understood already, but even more now, seat belts, life insurance, 15 m.p.h. school zones and those ladies blowing their infernal whistles at me when I don't understand the difference between one blast and three. It's all coming clear now that I have someone to protect from the evils and accidents of the world. I hope I don't become more political and less free-spirited, but I swear I can't look at a cage of crickets and a cane pole as a way out anymore. It just reminds me that a little boy will one day walk and talk and hold that pole in his hands while Daddy shows him how to bait his hook and when to pull that white perch out of the water.
Musically things have been a little slow, but if the creative juices flow toward the pen more than the stage and studio for awhile, I reckon that'll be okay. I wrote songs about this boy before I ever consciously dreamed of having him. Now I can appreciate the lyrics that I scribbled down from some cosmic realm, unawares of what they might mean someday, and soon. Got a couple of new ones though: one about a junkie on the lam and another about a moonshining, truck-driving daddy with a taste for long stretches of highway at high rates of speed.
Went to the annual Williamson reunion this past weekend. A behemoth barbecue pit covered in over a hundred pounds of several varieties of greasy pork drenched in vinegar was the guest of honor. Couldn't eat it all, but I tried. Also saw a heapin' help of fine folks, old and new, who I could hardly bear to leave at the end. Missed the ones who'd gone on ahead and those who were otherwise predisposed and couldn't make it. Learned a little more of deep, dark family lore and philosophized for a good 20 hours straight on the best species of wood to cook with, hams vs. shoulders, the government, horses and mules, tractors, burgeoning populations of white-tailed deer, revenuers, young'uns and a passel other fine points of Southern living.
All in all, I'd have to say life is grand. And to those of you who actually read this rambling pile of poor grammar from time to time, you've got my upstanding and respectable cousin Jack Wayne to thank for kicking me into gear. Here's to you, Mr. Hilton.
More to come,
JW
Frank James.............return of the legend!! - March 19th, 2006
"I hope you don’t mind a little ribbing, but you must have realized the connection your son’s
name gives him to one of the most notorious, famous outlaws of the American West and that if you
are so fortunate to have a second son you’ll have to think long and hard about naming him Jesse.
I can just see Frank James now showing more than just a passing interest in Clint Eastwood films and
antique shootin irons at the early age of three while rejecting any footwear at all unless
hand-crafted of leather with a hint of polished steel fastened just above each heel. You may
want to watch out for signs of Frank James being particularly adept at performing tasks with either
index finger, and suddenly ducking down in his car seat and pulling his blanket over the bottom
half of his face when marked patrol cars pass on the interstate. Asking for his juice slightly
fermented in a dirty bottle may be a tip off as well. Don’t be too surprised if he favors a dusty
bedroll on the floor or outdoors over a crib. Just try to understand if he checks the flanks
and teeth of all the rocking horses in Wal-mart and gets overly frustrated when he can’t pry
their hooves up off the rockers to check the quality of the shoes. He may not be able to resist
the occasional chew or smoke, but please do try to hide that from the neighbors...you know how
people are these days!"
I didn't write that. That came to me in the fine form of an email from one of my favorite cousins,
Skip Stanley, an artist, musician, ex-hard drinking South Georgia redneck and father of two. I cut it
and pasted it (learning this computer lingo all the time) 'cause I couldn't have said it any better myself.
So now I guess y'all know the outcome of our little trip to the ultrasound lab - yep, it's a boy. Alright,
I'm off the hook for staying up late worrying about some sixteen-year-old taking my daughter out and misbehaving
to the point of needing his hide tanned. Now my little chip off the ol' block can handle the dirty work for me so I
don't have to go to the penitentiary and leave a whole family without...without...well, without a worthless bum asleep on the
couch, but that's beside the point. No, now I've got a whole new set of worries to contend with: how will he soup-up his first
car when four-barrel carburetors are obsolete? How am I gonna explain to him the importance of a good, solid
day's work when his old man never does anything but strum a guitar and stare at the wall, thinking about all of the
incredible pieces of furniture he could build if he'd just get up and do it? How do I keep my permanent school record
a secret? How in THE hell am I gonna pay for a whole herd of horses, motorcycles, shotguns and fishing poles? Maybe I can
get him a job sweeping up somewhere and take all his wages to a poker house...or maybe not.
Now, to his name. His grandpa on his mama's side is called Howard Frank (Mosher), and the other one was James Larry, so
naturally we wanted to keep up the family tradition...and we hope it stops with the names. Actually, if he turns out like the
Moshers, he probably won't be so bad. And okay, so I've always had a little bit of a soft spot for Confederate expatriates
who rob banks. But my Daddy really was named James Larry.
It's a good day to be a daddy-to-be,
JW
Big News in a Small Package - February 20th, 2006
Ah, spring is in the air...uh, wait a minute...Jack Frost nip...no, spring...wint...
Alright, if anyone can really predict the weather in the Tennessee Valley, let him please step forward.
We went from 69 degrees to 12 in a week, from daffodils to three inches of snow, from open the windows to long handles.
Somebody's got some sort of plan, I gotta believe that.
The old antique car project continues to roll along smoothly. Well, not literally of course. But rest assured,
progress IS being made. A few new songs are almost finished, one about cheating, one about drinking whiskey in heaven (the
family back home oughta be real proud of me). Some friends from down in the Gulf region are in town this week - sixteen of them to be exact,
and they're riding a chartered bus to every writer's club in Nashville. Needless to say, these are the retired sort of folks, the type
that like to travel in large groups on buses and live most of their year in warmer climates. But these ain't no fogeys, no sir. Just try to
outdrink 'em if you feel that way, and you'll see what I mean. The next door neighbor's big diesel plumbing truck sputtered out of the driveway
yesterday pouring black smoke like Niagra Falls pours water. And I'm gonna be a Daddy. How's that for news?
We'll be finding out on the 1st of March who it's gonna be, and I'll be letting y'all know. 'Til then,
JW
When in Doubt, Play For All You're Worth - December 3rd, 2005
Thanksgiving was a fine time. I got to visit with all my wonderful family, eat some wonderful food,
take a big ol' nap on the floor at my Granny's house, and play some music. Lots of folks showed up for the
gig I played with my brother Glen and our cousin Terry Thompson. The Treehouse Bar and Grill was nearly packed to
capacity with kinfolk, friends and strangers, all enjoying themselves and filling their bellies on county-famous steaks
and their favorite libations. We got set up to play, and right away I knew something wasn't right. My old Martin guitar
just wasn't doing its thing. I mean to tell you, it wasn't doing NOTHING. Nothing in the monitors, nothing in the mains...nothing.
Not to be deterred, I simply unplugged, pulled out my tool kit and headed for the backroom of the bar, a place I knew well.
Once disassembled, I found what I believed to be the problem: a wire had become disconnected from the bridge pickup. No problem.
I soldered her back together and headed for the stage. Nothing. Back to the backroom to inspect my hurried work. Back to the stage.
Nothing. Lacking an instrument mic, I tried to set up a vocal mic. No dice. What to do...lots of folks...no guitar. The nearest left-handed
model I knew of was at least 50 miles away, and the crowd was getting restless. "Well, the show must go on," I thought. Glen and Terry knew a
few of my songs, and I knew a lot of theirs, so I did what any red-blooded American would in an extreme crisis - I faked it. I just played my guitar
unplugged. And man, did I play it. I reckon out of hope that at least someone in the bar might hear it (hopefully at least me), I gave it what for and
banged it out. By the end of the night, I didn't know who was hurting the worst, me or that little old Martin. But I learned some things: Always, always
come prepared with a second guitar, and never let 'em see you sweat. I'm not sure if anyone knew or cared that I was unplugged, and I sure din't
let it bother me. Funny thing is, the next day when I rolled out of bed at about noon, first thing I did was try to figure out what was wrong with the guitar.
I picked it up and strummed it - still in perfect tune - and then it dawned on me. I'd had a little luthier work done on it just a few weeks before. Tom Smith
had replaced the saddle and nut with bone and reworked the frets. Could it be that nothing at all was wrong with the pickup? Could it be what I thought it was?
It was. I pulled the strings off and sure enough, when I tried to remove the saddle it wouldn't budge. So it turns out the South Georgia humidity had caused the
bridge to swell, somehow pushing the saddle up enough to lose contact with the pickup underneath. Mmm, mmm. Well, at least I have a story to tell, and hopefully
someone else can learn from it, too. If I had a nickel for every time I saw someone plug in a guitar to the same problem, especially in the winter when guitars
are up to their weird little tricks, I'd be a wealthy man. Alas, I ain't. But that's alright, I got my little Martin guitar, and some more good news to boot...
To be continued...
JW
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