Songs of a Lifetime

Originally posted on OD November 10, 2000

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I love Kris Kristofferson. Always have. Layers of armor built up over a lifetime fly away like confetti in a windstorm as his deep gravely voice finds every hiding place I have.

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Sunday Mornin’ Comin’ Down

I woke up Sunday Mornin’

With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt

And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad

So I had one more for dessert

Then I fumbled thorough my closet for my clothes

And found my cleanest dirty shirt

Then I shaved my face and combed my hair

And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day

I’d smoked my brain the night before

On cigarettes and songs that I’d been picking

But I lit my first and watched a small kid

Cussing at the can that he was kicking

Then I crossed the empty street

And caught the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken

And it took me back to something

That I ‘d lost somehow somewhere along the way

On a Sunday Mornin’ Sidewalk

Wishin’ Lord that I was stoned

Cause there’s something in a Sunday

Makes a body feel alone

And there’s nothing short of dying

Half as lonesome as the sound

On the sleeping city sidewalks

Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.

In the park I saw a daddy

With a laughing little girl who he was swinging

And I stopped beside a Sunday school

And listened to a song that they were singing

Then I headed back for home

And somewhere far away a lonely bell was ringing

And it echoed through the canyons

Like the disappearing dreams of yesterday.

On a Sunday mornin’ sidewalk

Wishin’ Lord that I was stoned

Cause there’s something in a Sunday

Makes a body feel alone

And there’s nothing short of dying

Half as lonesome as the sound

On the sleeping city sidewalks

Sunday mornin’ comin’ down.

…on a sunday mornin’ sidewalk

wishing lord that I was stoned

cause there’s something in a sunday

makes a body feel alone…

K. Kristofferson

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This song was written about Daddy. The words reflect his life as I imagine it to be during his self-inflicted absences from the lives of all those he loved. Time and again he would suddenly disappear. One day he was part of our lives and the next day he was gone. In his younger years, during his 20’s, his time-outs from life were relatively short in duration – a year or so. In later years, they stretched out as long as ten years with no word from him.

I never knew where he went or why he was gone. At times I’d hear whispers or snatches of conversations which included references to California, Arizona, or other place far removed from the deep south. I also remember hushed references to drinking and “pills” at various times. I knew instinctively that during those times he was absent from our lives, he had demons to wrestle and that he was alone, even when he wasn’t.

The first time I ever heard the song, I was amazed at how accurately it described Daddy and all I knew he must be feeling. I see him still, strumming a guitar with a cigarette dangling jauntily out of the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows arched and his eyes half closed against the smoke wafting upwards against his face.

Daddy never left the house without looking his best. His shoes were always spit-shined, clothes just so and his wavy black hair precisely in place. The song got it right, he’d have searched for his most presentable clothes and would never have gone out without shaving.

I see him in the damp morning fog lighting his cigarette, hands cupped to protect the flame from the wind. Then he continues down the street with his signature cocky step, not even wrinkled clothes and a black hangover able to diminish his dark good looks.

Seeing the children as he walked down the street would send his thoughts winding back to us. The little boy kicking the can would become my little brother. He’d remember his white hair and his chubby fists clutching dandelions he had picked in the afternoons when Daddy took us to the park. He’s see his blue eyes and how they lit up each time Daddy walked in the door.

The little girl on the swing would be me laughing and squealing as Daddy swung me way too high as he always did. He’d hear my voice calling “Shug” short for sugar – my nickname for him. Remembering us would make him smile for a moment.

He was born and raised in the deep south where Sunday meant Sunday School, church bells and fried chicken. Just as in the song, those things would have turned his thoughts homeward. When that happened, the guilt must have competed with the hangover for his attention. I always held the belief that he thought of us while he was gone. I wanted him to. I think he must have.