roots

 

 

Just outside of Nashville is Brentwood, Tennessee. My family built a palace and for a year, I skipped around the pool.
It’s the only place I’ve lived so far with no memory of food or cooking or kitchen.
Unless you count chocolate pop-tarts, dispensed by coin-less vending (don’t tell Mom).
Instead, fireworks in hand, singing along and pushing Katie in.
A senseless detour, moving to the South, might have been essential. I wonder now, if we stopped by just to pick up songs.
My brother Michael’s music is the most perfect that I’ve known. He had a way of translating soul directly to sound. It’s his doing that I feel most at home amongst musicians.
A dear friend, papa bear and monster guitarist Darrell Scott taught me to watch the energy move through a song the way I can see it in dance or taste it in stew.
I hear he’s also a great cook.