I still have every one of them.
Boxes full of notebooks.
Simple things, really.
Spiral notebooks.
Yellow legal pads.
Three-ring binders.
Pages filled with words…
thoughts…
and memories.
Old.
Tattered.
Stained with things…
that we probably won’t mention.
Statute of limitations and all.
It was the ‘70s, ya know.
There are hundreds of songs in those notebooks.
Good ones.
Bad ones.
Some that should have stayed exactly where they were.
Thankfully… most of them did.
High school was nothing more than just another stop along the way for me.
I learned a whole lot more and much more important things after graduation.
Everybody else seemed to be trying to figure out where they fit.
I never understood all the clique stuff.
It always seemed kind of silly to me.
I was more interested in the people who didn’t fit.
I’ve never really ‘done’ normal very well.
Normal doesn’t usually have very good stories.
Most of my closest friends didn’t even go to my high school.
Most of them were older.
One of them was Randy. Randy could really sing.
The boy had pipes.
I hated him a little… just sayin’.
He also happened to be a bit of a smart ass.
We got along just fine.
Before long we were writing songs together.
We probably spent more time laughing than we did writing.
If there was a laugh to be found, Randy usually got there first.
Randy reminded me that music didn’t always have to be serious. Sometimes the best songs started with laughter.
Dad finally asked me one day,
‘Why are all your friends smart asses?’
I answered,
‘Because of the first word.’
He just looked at me.
Mom laughed.
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