Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there and most especially to my amazing Crown Royal Mom of All Moms ‘Cause She Will Whip You in A Wrasslin’ Match Mom, Jeanne! You gotta be tough to make it as a Mom.

A Baby Human?

I longed for kids for years. Now I see my 14-year old son, Sam, the almond-eyed boy that was in my heart many years before he was in my arms, growing into a man. Sam is learning to follow his path and I’m happy. My 10-year old son, Hank, blue-eyed and tender-hearted, moving into middle school next year, who will no doubt be the mad crush of the older girls (hold out for the 8th graders, Hank).

In my mind, I hold their hands every day at school, ready to mentally squeeze it in a show of solidarity in case they come upon something that takes their confidence down a notch, shames them or hands them doubt. At the same time, I know they have to learn by doing, because the goal is for them to find their own way, speak up for themselves in their own voices and know their own truths.

The parent roller coaster ride only gains momentum—it never slows down. Raising another human can be daunting. Caring for kids is like being entrusted with a perfect but easily shattered Gazillion Carat Diamond mounted in pure platinum that you must protect. You simply have to get it from Point A to Point B—safely and intact.

Navigating this Sneaky Real World

Tricky ol’ world. Tsk, tsk. It “forgot” to tell you that while you go about your day, you are constrained inside a clanking, grinding, old-school pinball machine. Tempting, easy ways out seem everywhere. They often turn out to be flimsy hopes of perfection. No one earns an A++ on their parenting report card. But keep up, because the machine is filled with scary things in the closet, high fevers, working on cursive, salty tears, bullies at school and my favorite, “Lift up the seat!” You encourage their hopes and listen intently to Minecraft tales. You give in to the yucky ramen noodles that you secretly love yourself and enjoy their moments of happiness. In the pinball machine, you can’t stop moving and bulldoze through errands and wash another tower of soggy towels abandoned on the bathroom floor—yet the diamond is safe. Whew. You begin to enjoy the small victories, which is very smart, because face it: the world is the high scorer. The world has an endless supply of quarters, while you have 3 leftover tokens from Chuck E. Cheese.

Adults Learning to Be Kids

You love what you live—moments. Moments of shy smiles, accidentally escaped cusswords that bring a chuckle, busting your kid watching South Park again and the fun of watching him squirm through an excuse. Your own mischievous youth, thrown right back at ya. Who is guiding whom here? I think we are raising kids into adults while they are teaching adults to be kids.

If ever anything deserved the title “Labor of Love,” it’s being a Mom. And that includes my Dad friends who set a very high bar in the Single Parent category. To me, Moms are anyone compelled to caretake biological children, adopted children, cousins, siblings, friends in need, nephews or, in some cases, orphaned creatures lucky enough to have been plucked off the street by someone committed to them.

To me, Mother’s Day is really about a simple “Thanks for putting me first” no matter the circumstances. Parenting ranges from days of “lather, rinse, repeat” to “I never realized there was a decibel level of Eleventy Hundred. Let me turn on the vacuum cleaner for some peace and quiet.” Some mornings after a big storm I awake to find 3 dogs, a cat and two adolescent boys sprawled next to me, sleeping off a middle of the night search for security, while I cling to 2 inches of mattress.

The Payoff

Oh. You want payment for this? Payment is in abundance. Payment is a “Goodnight, Mom, I love you so much” or one of my kids ‘fessing up to a fib I didn’t even know about. So that’s where that twenty-dollar bill went. My favorite is when I get a kiss on the cheek in front of my son’s friends and the ensuing blush while trying to play it cool. I get rewarded being told a secret that “you can’t tell anyone!” and asked questions about alternative lifestyles. I feel trusted. “I see you’ve found your moral compass, Grasshopper,” I think to myself when all is quiet.

Mother Knows Best

Mother’s Day no longer feels like a Hallmark Holiday when you find love in the fleeting moments. There is some small peace knowing you truly are giving your all. Parenting for me is also a huge mythbuster. Adult couples talk about unconditional love, but after a few falls in the rodeo of life, I am convinced the only unconditional love is between a parent and child.

Hey, Mom. You were right—the best way to stay in this pinball machine game is to keep at it until you exhaust it and the circuitry goes haywire. Maybe I’ll take the kids and park near the airport with a picnic basket for the afternoon to watch jumbo jets take off to destinations unknown like you did for us when we were kids. And let them dream.

The Broken Spoke

I’ll skip the girly, lovey-dovey, professing of love for a man, conveniently named Charlie, (as in “OMG, my favorite name ever!”) and get to the heart of my heart’s Catch-22. Coming out of a 16-year relationship, which produced two amazing human beings I’m proud to call my sons (and whose best interests are always on my mind), the ink was barely dry on my “I Swear Off Men Forever!” vow when Charlie and I collided, metaphorically so. I had absolutely no intention of caring for anyone but my kids and myself and getting my career on track.

Being bathroom-prone can be annoying, but this time it added something to my life. Score one for urinary frequency! My best gal-pal and I were at an early Broken Spoke front-room show to hear the fabulous sounds of boogie-woogie-country-jazz piano player T Jarrod Bonta and blues harmonica player Greg Izor. Two tablespoons of “unsweet” iced tea later and I’m headed to the Ladies’ room.

Not Silver-Haired, “Un-Dark”

I noticed a particularly interesting looking, un-dark haired, rough-and-tumble Kris Kristofferson type at the bar alone, but didn’t pay him much mind. It was one of those “imprint” moments. A moment when you see something in someone’s eyes, but due to life circumstances, that’s all you get—that momentary imprint. Ten minutes and four more trips to the Ladies’ room later, it’s possible this Charlie person thought this was a Texan woman’s way of flirting, being as he’s from up north. Sweden, to be exact. Maybe he felt obligated, but nevertheless, Charlie asked me to dance. I’m certain I heard my rusty heart squeak open an oonch as we slow danced and chatted when he said to me, “I’ve never met anyone who could talk so much while dancing.” The truth tickles on a good day. Busted.

Charlie was going through a divorce and returning soon to Sweden. He had traveled to Texas often to document in photographs and stories the dying, dusty, often little-known honky-tonks of Texas; how ironic that we met at one of the world’s most famous honky-tonks, on a sleepy, mid-week evening. We got to know each other enough before he left to know there was a bond building between us. I possibly, maybe, sort of, had those wet, salty things coming from my eyes as I saw him off at the airport on his way back to The North Pole.

Advice from a Toadliquor

Daily communication via Skype or email gave our feelings for each other a chance to deepen. We’ve had obstacles to overcome, each bringing our history to the table of life, with old wounds as the main dish. Well-meaning, good friends said, “be careful” and “go slow,” concerned that I will get hurt. A dear friend asked, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” to which I replied, “No, does anyone?” (Note to self: If you’re happy and you know it, shut your mouth.)

I believe relationships run their course. Five weeks, five months, five years or fifty years, so I am enjoying the moments of friendship and solidarity with this gentle, insightful and sometimes complex man, instead of counting them. Toadliquor Earl B Freedom blew my mind over coffee one day with this simple truth: “Nothing ever works out anyway, so why sweat it?” (On a serious note, I like this article by Marc and Angel on 12 Relationship Truths We Often Forget.)

I’ve been frivolous in my younger years with rebound love, and careful in my later years. Neither guarantees a positive outcome. One doesn’t even know the outcome until or unless the loves concludes. What I am involved in now I call “Team Building.” Team building, really? Sounds like a PTA thing. The closest I’ve come to the PTA is Jeanie C. Riley in the key of C, but that’s the best way to describe it. One friend suggested I might be having an adult relationship to which my prompt reply was, “Eeeew!”

Better Safe or Sorry?

I recently visited Charlie in Stockholm (by the way, Stockholm in February is really flipping cold). In addition to our friendship turning new corners, it felt as if we were straightening bricks we have been putting down without even realizing it. People pshaw and pffft my fascination with social media, but hilarity, brilliance and insight can be found anywhere. Someone I follow on Twitter wrote recently:

“When life experience leaves your heart broken, allowing love to seep into those broken, jagged edges is sometimes the only thing you can do.” — @honeybadgerMel

Score: Twitter: 1, Skype: 1, Urinary frequency: 1.

Ain’t Skeered

I’m not scared of my feelings for Charlie or afraid of being hurt. Sometimes the feelings he hands me unknowingly in simple conversation echo memories from decades ago. If anything, that is where possible fears lurk. But that is the same in every relationship. Yes, they sound different in Charlie’s soft voice, but they give me pause. Is this one of those icky Life lessons?

Charlie and I are human, with all the failings and frailties that come with the limitations of being so, and the incessant need to always try. I told Charlie once that sometimes I see us as Raggedy Ann and Andy, tossed out of a moving car, left on the side of the road to gaze at the stars while the cars zoom by and leave us behind. And other times, I feel like we are holding hands and jumping off the moon.

“We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love…”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man’s Fear

Listening to the Universe

Paul Skelton used to say he was “listening to the universe” for answers. I’m listening, too. I’m listening with my head, with my heart, with the things I know about myself and even the things I don’t know about myself. Do I run away from a chance, even if it came at such an odd time? I can’t. The feeling is too strong to not be worthwhile. This is Charlie and me. My friends with the best intentions don’t know him and his friends don’t know me. Yes, I may get hurt, as could he. The irony isn’t lost on me that I have a few red flags and my friends that love me are giving me a free pass. I’m an open book, and I talk to my friends and ask advice. This is why I hate asking for advice—because I always get it.

I’ll stick my toe in the water. I’ll try this happiness thing. If I fall on my face, what’s one more sidewalk?

See Charlie’s work documenting Texas Honky-Tonks at Almost Out of Gas.

This Caleb Klauder Country Band song is the first song Charlie ever played for me and I still love it.

Being solution-oriented, I’d like to look at the benefits of menopause. Menopause could possibly be the neatest trick ever. I don’t think enough women fully harness the power of menopause. Think Wonder Woman. Superpowers, of the mental sort. Admittedly, menopause has a few downsides, the most humiliating one being that people murmur behind your back, “She’s not usually this crazy; she’s menopausal.” Worse, when you’re hot and bothered, you are literally hot and bothered. People refer to menopause as something you’ve “got,” as if it’s something you can catch.

Menopause is the end-all of the You Know What. Oh, happy day, right? Now you can spend all that money on wrinkle cream. Heavy sigh.

The beauty of menopause is that if you play your cards right, you can get away with so much more than you would under non-menopausal circumstances. Actual examples in my house:

1. Bounce a check? “Sorry, honey, I’m menopausal. I just had a brain fart.” Husband: “It’s okay, darling, I understand.”
2. Burn the pizza? Menopause.
3. Shave your head? Menopause.
4. Running through Nordstrom Rack to snag that last set of Betsey Johnson earrings because you can no longer fit into any of her clothes? Menopause (it wasn’t your fault some chick was in your way).
5. Ram your shopping cart into a car in the parking lot at the grocery store? Menopause.
6. Need a few days off from work? Menopause (definitely call this one in as: “I think I’ve got that bug that’s been going around—there’s always a bug going around).
7. Need the air conditioning down to 50 but still want to snuggle under 4 blankets? Menopause.
8. Walking around the house naked to “cool off?” Menopause.
9. Hot looking cabana boy giving you the sweats? Menopause.
10. Hell on wheels? Menopause.
11. Cry at a Bud Light commercial? Menopause.
12. Missed an episode of Hoarders? Well, that’s just plain stupidity.

The good news is that basically, everything you previously attributed to PMS can now be attributed to menopause, only times ten! Hormones, schmormones. Take heart—and take advantage! Retaining water? Rock those cankles with some snappy, strappy sandals. Any good cobbler can add a little elastic to the straps. And a great cobbler won’t ask you why.

I recently read on the webernets: “Most women find their monthly cycle to be a hassle at some point.” Der. Thanks for that. But I like this woman’s take on menopause, giving a zen characteristic to hot flashes: “The first thing I noticed is that the energy slowly rises from the base of the spine and so I think it is kundalini energy which makes very much sense that it is sexual energy being released.” Ain’t denial great?

Excuse me, the phone is ringing. Be right back. “Hello? What? Hot flashes come every 30 minutes? Are you kidding me? And you don’t feel ultra-sexy? Gotta go.”

Forget everything I said. But hang in there my gorgeous, Goddess friend. Be your beautiful self, and if someone cuts you off in traffic, try not to throw a brick through their windshield (but if you do and the cops pull you over, remember: you have instant access to waterworks).

*********

By the way, I am not yet menopausal. I made this all up anticipating the best way to deal with this when it happens. I realize it’s irresponsible and frivolous, but what do you expect from me? You get the last laugh here: in my family, it is not unheard of for menopause to last twenty years.

Many people ask me why I am not singing at present, and frankly, even I get a little tired of talking about myself, so if you’d like to know more, read on.

Okay so, why am I not singing? It’s not because I’m a stay at home mom or have lost the fire or desire. It’s because I have had at least two vocal hemorrhages caught on tape, no telling how many others, which likely lead to a scarring of my right vocal cord. This scar injury is rare and is known as a sulcus vocalis. It prevents the cord from vibrating and greatly affects pitch, etc.

My first surgery was a complete guess as to what was wrong. I had been to many doctors, including one considered the great Oz, who could not tell me what was wrong with my voice. In fact, even my excellent voice doctor in San Antonio was uncertain. He wanted to take things slow with my voice. He did not take cutting a singer’s vocal cord lightly, but after trying all sorts of sinus meds, anti-reflux meds, etc., we decided together to do exploratory surgery. That is when the sulcus was discovered under a monster magnifying glass; mine was a medium sized sulcus (imagine the line going down the middle of your tongue–sort of a “gutter”–that’s what a sulcus looks like). Instead of cutting along the edge of the vocal cord to remove the sulcus, Dr. Simpson cut along the top of the cord, and went inside the cord and pulled away as much of the scar as possible.

I went to speech therapy in San Antonio, then about 7 months of voice rehab (singing) therapy, driving to Houston every few weeks (ka-ching!) and felt certain there was still a problem. I was also getting numerous sinus infections, something I have always had. Out came the tonsils, in the hopes that a lack of harsh coughing would help my vocal cords recover. Let me tell you, at 38 years old, having your tonsils out is about as fun as rolling around in a huge box of nails with Saran Wrap for protection. I think I’d rather have three more c-sections.

After that, still problems, mostly on vowels, where the pitch would “crack,” leaving just air and me with no ability to control it. In an effort to strengthen my voice, I began singing harmony in a band, Dead End Angels, but eventually had a falling out with a band mate and left the band. This was a blessing in disguise because deep down I knew my voice wasn’t “right.” I feel I may have stayed a background singer otherwise. But I have to thank the very talented and sweet Scott Melott for teaching me how much fun it is to sing harmony when it clicks.

More surgery. My doc and I discussed and agreed on an implant in the muscle next to the vocal cord, to try to push the vocal cords together a little. At this point, my voice was extremely breathy, and not in a Norah Jones way. I wasn’t expecting to take home 8 Grammys anytime soon. The procedure (are you ready for this?) is that you get to lie on a table with a bunch of really cute doctors (of course you’re totally hopped out on anesthesia so for all I know I was on the {Planet of the Apes) and then they cover you up to your neck with a sheet, probably so you don’t get blood in your eyes. Then they make an incision in your neck (I have had three of these surgeries and was awake for one or two of the incisions), and stuff, sew, stuff, and sew in a GoreTex implant in the muscle near the wretched cord. Oh, yea. You have to sing during this surgery so they can check the size of the implant. Definitely not Grammy material. Then they stitch it up real good and Frankenstein your neck, but two times the implant fell into some type of bizarre sinkhole so they replaced it, which was the second procedure. The third time they took it out. I believe they also harvested some fat from my tummy and injected the naughty cord at that time. The fat oozed out unfortunately. So, we tried again a few weeks later. Fat oozed again. Wish this would happen with my butt.

Very recently a new injection has been approved. I won’t go into the details at this time. I will likely have this procedure done. However, yesterday at my vox doc’s office, he discovered something new in my OTHER vocal cord. There is a small pearl-like lump developing in my left cord. My doctor has been noticing my voice has been getting worse and this appears to be a new problem. It’s too soon to tell what is causing it; I am having some lab work done for conditions that might cause it and am on heavy steroids to try to shrink the bastard down. I go for my follow-up soon. If the knot hasn’t shrunk, my doctor will go in and get the lil’ SOB by cutting along the top of that cord and taking it out–whatever it is. Could be a cyst. If there isn’t too much bleeding I may get the other procedure done at the same time, which is also an injection, but it’s not fat, it’s a synthetic material, so we may have a better result–less ooze.

My doctor has been working with me for many years and he is an excellent doctor. He knows that the best way to help my voice is not through a series of haphazard surgeries. Everything he has done so far has been in line with the “normal” procedures, although I’m not sure my case has been normal. Hey, if you haven’t gotten enough, ask me about the fun and games of testing for nerve damage. They stick a bunch of needles straight through your neck directly in the cords. It’s a kick in the ass!

Now you know why I am not singing right now, in case you were wondering. I get alot of kind people saying “but can’t that crack in your voice be part of your sound?” Not to me, unless I want to sound like a tin can being run over by a skateboard. This has taught me enormous patience and also to accept the fact that I may never sing again. Although, deep in my heart, I have a feeling I will. And I appreciate all the letters I get from folks. Thank you very much.

One day, when this is all past, I’m slapping some gory pics up here–then we’ll have a “Holy Crap!” post-pity-party! Smooches.

UPDATE JULY 2011:  I’m past it, but I still don’t think you want to see the pics. But the best news is I have my voice back! It’s a little huskier, but then, so am I.

Thanks to Dr. Sharon Radionoff of the Sound Singing Institute in Houston, TX for the voice rehabilitation, and most especially, a million thanks to Dr. Blake Simpson at The University of Texas Voice Center in San Antonio, TX, who gave me back my creative identity, which is priceless to me.

Available for download on Amazon.

Necessary, written by Alan Andrews Necessary

South Texas Highway, written by Libbi BosworthSouth Texas Highway

Press for Libbiville

New York Press

“Libbi Bosworth is an incredibly sharp songwriter in a trad mode, and she sings the living piss out of her songs here. Her attitude is all kickass Texas and the session is all kickass Texas musicians…” — Crispin Sartwell

Austin Chronicle

“It took Libbi five years to follow up her impressive debut, Outskirts of You, but it was well worth the wait…with a voice that oozes country….she comes at you with sassy confidence that’s invigorating. She wrote 10 of the 13 songs on Libbiville, and her sly sense of humor and ability to capture simple emotions and everyday situations and put them to music is a rare gift…Libbi Bosworth proves once again that she’s a rare gem of a country singer. Libbiville is a place you’ll not only want to visit, but a place you’ll want to stay.” — Jim Caligiuri

Washington Post

“Bosworth’s new “Libbiville” (Ramble Records) is as Texas as armadillo eggs. Firmly rooted in country music traditions, but not a re-creationist by any means, Bosworth captures the spirit of the genre by virtue of her sheer sincerity and devotion to the form. Her songs are blissfully melodic and spiced with the indigenous flavorings of pedal steel, accordion and fiddles…it’s Galveston native Bosworth’s solid songwriting that holds it all together. The deceptively clever “Ha Ha Ha,” the leadoff number, and “Man Overboard,” a cautionary tale brightened by Earl Poole Ball’s piano, bounce out of the speakers and send the dance impulse through to the feet. “South Texas Highway,” a jaunt to Buck Owens’s Bakersfield, is punched up with Chip Dolan’s accordion, and “No Place to Go,” a song about homelessness set to an oddly fitting two-step cadence, shows lyrical sensitivity, but with a beat.” — Buzz McClain

In my twenties, I was interested in what was then called New Age thinking. I dabbled in it, even though I cringed at the lame music piped in at every bookstore reading I attended. Edgar Cayce and Louise Hay books were toppling off my nightstand. To this day, I have a large, quartz crystal ball reminding me of my New Age foray. In my lifelong quest to understand myself, which I now realize is probably never going to happen, I delved into hypnotherapy, neuro-linguistic programming, transcendental meditation and even past life regression. No, I was not Cleopatra, but I do feel a spiritual connection with Velma from Scooby-Doo.

Church was never prevalent in my life. I did not grow up attending church, except for the occasional tag-a-long with a girlfriend, where we inevitably passed notes about cute boys during the snoozer sermons. At home, we had the classic, massive family bible portraying Blond Jesus. All known genealogical information was meticulously written on the inside cover in pen, but I opened it only to see who my relatives were. They all had old-fashioned names like Uncle Jewel and Aunt Fay, and I was more intrigued by the family notes.

About 10 years ago, I found a used little pocket bible in a desk drawer when I started a new job. Like many people, I was looking for answers, and I read every passage over the following months. Some of it was confusing to me, and some of it seemed open to too much interpretation; sort of like daily horoscopes in newspapers that can apply to a thousand contexts. While I believe that Jesus Christ was a man, and from all written accounts a very good man, some things in the bible were just too neat of a trick for me to swallow. I understand that people can act on complete and utter faith, as if their belief is an absolute truth to them, but I cannot. Lay some Jesus DNA on me (after he rose from the dead) and I might reconsider. But even if he called me for a lunch date, I’d arrive with backup and squinty, skeptical eyes (by the way, Jesus, my cell is the best way to reach me).

Just because I believe that Christ was a person doesn’t make me Christian, as I don’t follow the doctrine of Christianity. I don’t believe God “magicked” his son down to Earth, and when I think of the Immaculate Conception, my first thought is “I would’ve told my parents I was a virgin, too.” My skepticism comes from real data. Many people don’t realize that miraculous birth is a common theme in many religions, not just Christianity. Holy conceptions and divine intervention are pretty frequent practice in religion. I read of a deity who was supposedly born through the palm of his virgin mother’s hand. Everybody’s gotta have a gimmick.

I believe that religion is wonderful for those that embrace it. It provides many people with hope, contentment and even certainty, for they believe so fully. I also believe each religion has its good points (except Mormonism and Scientology—kidding!). That doesn’t mean, however, that I am called to worship in a group. Us We’re-Not-Sures generally respect a person’s right to worship, but I cannot stand having religion pushed on me. I am the least private person I know, but I am very private about my relationship with God, or Higher Power, or whatever the catch phrase is these days.

Every single day, I have my little talks with God: “Seriously? Bristol Palin on Dancing With the Stars?” and “Thanks for letting my son have a better day today.” Yet still I do not feel religious at all. Some days I believe God is watching over me, and some days I think He sends his flunky. Let’s face it; He’s got bigger fish to try.

There’s a famous saying that “God is in the Details.” That is what I believe. The little details that one might not notice. Like when my car won’t start and my roadside assistance plan hasn’t expired. Or that everyone got along last weekend. It can be something as simple as the postal worker running late so that I’m able to get that birthday card off to my friend on time. At this exact moment, it’s the little stray we adopted who just came up to me, crawled in my lap, put his front legs around my neck and rested his head on my shoulder. I believe that God is in the details.

I don’t think there’s a Heaven, but I do believe that the human spirit never really dies. I don’t believe in Hell, either. But on the wee chance I’m wrong, I’ve picked out a custom retro handbasket from Etsy, lined in a tasty barkcloth. I have it packed with 50spf, a water mister and an autograph book. Hey, what if I run into Hitler? That autograph would go crazy on Ebay.

Don’t Call Me Crazy

Don’t Call Me Crazy

Press for Outskirts of You

No Depression

“Libbi Bosworth is as hard to pin down as her music is to resist…this could be the most commercially promising country debut of the year, if only the year were 1962 instead of 1996.” — Don McLeese

Austin Chronicle

“…a voice splashed with beer, one that puts an arm around your neck and shuffles with you across the dance floor, one that searches for an all-night trucker show on AM radio as you head home in your old pick-up.”
— Lee Nichols

Happy Birthday, Buck!

Compilation, 2002
Featuring tracks by Rodney Crowell, David Ball, Susanna Van Tassel, Rosie Flores and more.
Available at Amazon.

Blastered

Compilation, 1998
Featuring tracks by Josie Kreuzer, Hot Rod Lincoln, Tom Clifford and Last Train Home.
Available at Amazon.

Uprooted: Best of Roots Country

Compilation, 1998
Featuring tracks by Tom Russell, Kelly Willis, Amy Rigby, Gwil Owen, Kevin Gordon, Robbie Fulks and more.
Available at Amazon.

True Sounds of the New West

Compilation, 1997
Featuring tracks by Bruce Robison, Marti Brom, Derailers, High Noon and more.
Available at Amazon.

Austin Country Nights

Compilation, 1995
Featuring tracks by Dale Watson, Cornell Hurd Band, Roy Heinrich, The Wagoneers, Charlie Robison and more.
Available at Amazon.

I have been lucky to have my songs recorded by Kelly Willis, Sunny Sweeney, Toni Price, Walter Hyatt and The Hollisters, to name a few. In 1996, I had the honor of performing on Austin City Limits. I’ve played beer joints with 5 people in the audience, a total of ten teeth between them, and I’ve performed for 5,000 people opening for Willie Nelson. To me, they are not so different. It’s all about getting back what you put into it.

My songs have been featured on Friday Night Lights and the upcoming pilot for ABC’s Good Christian Bitches (I know, right?). I have co-written with amazing songwriters such as John Sieger and Walter Hyatt. I have played with some of the best players in music. In particular, I learned so much about enjoying music from my late friend Paul Skelton, a musical mad scientist who feared not a note. I like the way Annie describes the way he played: “like falling down the stairs on purpose.”

I don’t know how everyone else gauges success—money, accolades or awards. I doubt I’ll see much of that. But I have locked in my mind moments of magic with good friends on stage and good friends in the audience. It may sound hokey, but it takes us all to make the weird and wonderful happen.

To me, the reward for playing music is that I get to play music.