My stories? They could live behind the bars of country classics.
I prefer old and comfortable leather western boots. Faded and soft old blue jeans. Button-up Levi’s with a flannel shirt over a soft tank top. I’m not into fancy hairdos or facial makeup not even heavy perfumes. I like clean, soap-and-water, fresh-air kind of smells. But I’m not offended by honest, hard-workin’ sweat. I guess I’ve always been a “cheap package” personality. Like the old machines, once made in the U.S.A. A local metal band boy once tagged me safe from rebels and bad boys. Recall: a good wish list could be bought for five bucks: a long walk, black coffee, a jukebox, and five fun-size bubble gum balls. No clubs. But I did meet a few outlaws at one. Watched the full moon with four cowboys and a cup of coffee at an all-night diner. I was drunk just to see what they’d do. That’s one of those 40-minute nights that lingers into the morning. My stories? They could live behind the bars of country classics. If not Loretta Lynn, then definitely the words of Merle, Willie, Don, or the Johnnys Cash, Paycheck, Rodriguez. For the laughs? Bobby Bare, Jerry Clower, Roger Miller, Ray Stevens. But I always circle back to George Jones, Waylon, Tom T. Hall before the new boys like Alan, Blake, Toby. And of course, the girls go on… and George Strait… and the old Garth. There was a 1979 compilation with a track called “Outlaw Woman.” Guess that label followed me in S.E. Oklahoma. My west-side walk down Sinners Row started in ’79 and ended in ‘89. Since then? Captivity in Arkansas. Undocumented. Four governors gave me “time cuts,” but I’m still serving a sentence that adds up to over 26 years. My judge gave me 166 years across multiple terms. No one died. No eyes lost. No disfigurement. No drugs, alcohol, or “uglies” in my case. Just time. And I could use your prayers if you’re a child of God, then we’re kin.
