I made music yesterday with two friends. If you ever get a chance to make music with two friends, do it. We’ve played together off and on for about four years, taking our opportunities when they present themselves. Usually, we’re camping, but sometimes we’re in front rooms, or on somebody’s back porch. Some of our friends like to listen and some can do without. It’s okay either way.

This time we were on the back porch at Texas Heritage Vineyard where it’s more like family than a business because the people who own it are our friends. Usually, they present much more polished entertainment than our little band of troubadours. But they made us welcome, we did our best, and we had fun. We sang, played guitars, played a banjo, and played harmonicas. I like to think that’s how folks did it back in the day. They cleaned up, brought out their guitars, banjos and harps, and made music in the livin’ room. A grand tradition.

I think I’ve said this before, but making music has been key to helping me weather my grief storm. And I think the only thing to stop me now will be my own visit to the grave. In particular, I like writing songs, and I suppose that’s an offshoot of me liking to write in general. The act of creation. A nice itch to scratch. Made even better by being able to do with my friends.