Louder, louder

Before each major change, the refrain grows from being inaudible to loud, then louder. That’s how I know to prepare. In my mind’s ear, the man sounds like Hank Williams Sr. Maybe he is. That nasal, distant, mournful voice keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again. “Yer… gonna miss me when Ahhm gone… Yer… gonna miss me when Ahhm gone…”

In 1986, I became an intern in the News Department of a country music station. 20 hours a week, course credit, plus two dollars an hour for time spent. But, more importantly, I also go to DJ for three or four nights a week. Although I had grown up with country music as a background soundtrack, it was not the first, second, or fifth choice for voluntary listening. I knew of Donna Fargo, Dolly Parton, the Statler Brothers, Loretta Lynn, and some other performers, but they did nothing for me. I liked 70’s pop and rock well enough, but don’t remember having any major interest in music until just before junior high. Disco, then new wave and Synth Pop, any British music, really, they caught my ear, but never Country music; that was for sure.

I was excited about being on the air. I worked very hard at learning how to gather news and honed my announcing skills, and loved every minute of it, at first. I even learned to love some of the music. Roseanne Cash, Steve Earle, Lyle Lovett, Nanci Griffith, and Dwight Yoakam are still favorites. But after three plus years, I had grown tired of certain aspects of the job--very tired.

During the course of my tenure there, I played a song with the line, “Yer…gonna miss me when Ahhm gone.” Such a simple phrase, but it held serious emotional punch. Yer gonna miss me when Ahhm (I’m) gone. I will take myself out of your everyday life, and you will feel my absence. I thought about that phrase a lot. Those seven little words expressed a universal truth. You will miss me more than I miss you.

Who do you miss? Who misses you? Was it spite, or a simple statement? Seven little words in a country song…

In the coming months, there were obstacles and difficulties at the radio station. Each time something bad happened, I’d think of that line and smile, or glare. Each time, the line would be just a little bit louder. The song got much louder while work became much less…enjoyable. And then, one day, my friend Angie suggested working with her waiting tables. A week later, I was a waiter.

After three plus years waiting tables, the last six months of which spent living with my first serious boyfriend Doug, the line got louder: much louder. We were to move to Florida together, Doug and I. But we were too different. He seemed to have the ability to speak complete sentences before thinking about what they might mean. Towards the end, he would talk and talk and I could see his lips move, but all I could hear was that lyric, over and over. “Yer…gonna miss me when I’m gone…” After one particular fight over money and moving matters, he threatened to move alone if he didn’t get his way. To which I said, “Ok, if that’s what you want.” The called bluff, his expression, the line, all simultaneous. That, as they say, was that.

The last few months in Key West, the song returned. I’d ride my bike around, thinking of this current wrong relationship and the wrongs he and I committed against the other. All the while that line lingered in the background. He would miss me when I left, but I would miss him, too. I left one week after deciding to. The whole week was a blur of packing and good-byes and shock on both our parts.

Back in Branson, I missed him so bad. Sometimes I catch my breath about that time, regretting the decision to come home so desperately. Desperate phone calls and intense feelings and those awful mood swings were common. Such a dark time, but then, well, here I am now, after following the path…

About two years later, living in St. Louis, the song eased itself back into my conscious thought. Walking the hot streets, the heat from the pavement distorting vision, I hummed the tune, waiting for something to happen. My friend Kim called from Denver in early July. “What’s up? How are things? How’s St. Louis?” Hmmm, where to start…

After a rather thorough venting of my spleen about the day-to-day in St. Louie, she suggested I move to Denver. I’d never even considered it. She told me about life in Colorado and how happy she was, and that happiness was reflected in her voice. She liked where she lived, where she was, her progress, and state of mind. So, during the phone call, I told her yeah, why not (?), and made up my mind to move. I had never even visited Colorado, but six weeks and a day later I lived in Denver.

Just over two years have passed since arriving at Union Station that Monday morning in 1997. There is great truth to the statement “You change your geography, you change your life.” Life for the most part here in Denver has been great. The people are friendly and the climate is terrific. I’ve been able to make great strides within myself towards finding a suitable daily equilibrium.

I’ve been able to save money, work on these pages, and love myself for who I am while acknowledging my faults and shortcomings with objectivity less fully realized in the past. I feel good, about myself, about the past, about the future. It feels good to feel good. And now, as the song once again grows louder, I await the coming months with anticipation and excitement. I must be ready, for soon, more changes will occur. It’s 4 a.m. and I’m going to sleep.