A Walk Through Pampa

Note: this was written ahead of time by pen rather than typed, because I too quickly forget the magic of the dance of the pen across the page and how skillfully it turns my thoughts into words):

 I mentioned before travelling out to Pampa that, of all the places I've lived, Pampa never really felt like a hometown. And I felt that with a day to spare as I travelled through the area. But Dumas only gives one night at their free campsite, and Pampa one, and I travel at night, and there's more sentiment in Pampa, even if there is little.

So after searching for I don't know what, I grabbed lunch and headed for a shady spot in the gazebo across from the Schneider Hotel. I had slept in the free campground next to the railroad tracks, and trains make poor bedfellows, so a nap was in order.

I woke with some interesting lyrics in my head. Wish the muse had given me more, but it's what I got:

"...well, the nights are short and the days are hot, and there ain't much sleepin' in the parking lot when the sun comes up..."

...and that's it.

So I decided to stroll over to the Guthrie Center at the Harris Drugstore to see if anyone was in, but noone was. I walked around the back a bit and tossed some thoughts around like an old leather Spalding, sun faded and worn at the seams. About how I'd never lined up to their expectations, nor they to mine, about how they wanted me somehow to become musically what I probably don't want to be, and how I could have easily diffused a lot of the tension with the simple word "no", after realizing that designing the website was too tall an order with full time work, full time family, full time school, and a lengthy commute.

But the past is over, and sometimes stories are best untold until time removes the pain of the sting, and so I was careful not to let my thoughts wander too far in that direction.

My guitar and I headed east to the convenience store, a bathroom, and a cold iced tea. I was given an offer to play for my tea, but the boy I was asked to play for skedaddled across the store; he was having none of it.

Once upon a time, there was a Thursday night picking at the Schneider House; I think I'll hang around and see what gives.

...and then move on.

(Postscript: saw one of the old crew from the Guthrie Center board days. He was not unfriendly, but not welcoming either. So I decided to scratch the ideas to wait and see if pickers would show).