That Lucky Ole Sun

Like many people I have a daily, morning routine. My alarm sounds off at 5:45 and my iPod is set to play automatically at 6:00. By the time I’m sitting in the living room perfecting my thousand-yard stare, coffee cup in hand, any of the 13,000 songs on my iPod might be playing—I do love the shuffle play.

My music collection could be described many ways, but mostly I choose to think of it as a mirror. Whenever I look into it, I see me, and more often than not any particular song can bring back memories and moments that otherwise remain fairly dormant.

Take Friday for example. On a rented couch, in a rented apartment, in a place far, far from most of the people I love the most, there I sat, coffee cup in hand, staring a hole through the photos of my grandchildren that I had placed on my rented bookshelf. The next song came on, and honest to goodness I was nine again.

Up in the morning, out on the job,

Work like the devil for my pay

When I was nine, my family consisted of two clubs: the happy club and the grumpy club. They were my father’s invention as his way of expressing his general displeasure with certain people (as opposed to the palm of his hand on a backside as was also popular). He and I were charter members of the former—I as a self-preservationist who used humor to defer more tactile intervention and he by virtue of his habitual singing.

That lucky ole sun’s got nothin’ to do,

But roll around heaven all day.

For reasons he didn’t seem to need, he would often sing. Some songs he knew entirely, and some he just used the same few verses when the spirit moved him. You Are My Sunshine, You’re a Grand Ole Flag and, of course, That Lucky Ole Sun were his favorites.

Dear Lord above, can’t you hear me cryin’?

Tears are in my eyes.

Send down that cloud with a silver lining,

Lift me to paradise.

Willie Nelson’s version really does remind me of my father. Neither of them would be accused of singing in tune or on key or in any way the judges on The Voice might prefer, but Willie’s take on it, as was equally true of my father’s, is truly his own. By the time my father would get to the line in the song that says:

Fuss with my woman,

Toil for my kids,

Sweat till I’m wrinkled and gray,

But that lucky ole sun’s got nothin’ to do,

But roll around Heaven all day.

anyone who knew him could listen and tell that he meant it. I think that’s why he sang it so often. When he was in his mid-sixties things caught up to him. By then the fussing with his woman was chronic, and as far as his toiling was concerned it seems now that the number of people he had alienated over the years with his demanding presence decided to push back. The complaints turned to allegations and the allegations resulted in retirement.

Funny thing, retirement. As I sat there listening to my father singing, and remembering, and looking at my three precious grandchildren, I think I realized what he was trying to avoid—the wrinkled and gray part. I wondered if I am doing the same thing. He moved to Florida. I’m in the Netherlands. He hated growing old. Ditto. Funny thing though, I cannot remember his singing the final stanza:

Show me that river,

Take me across,

Wash all my troubles away.

But that lucky ole sun’s got nothin’ to do,

But roll around Heaven all day.

Maybe he knew that his favorite song, even one with a divine request wouldn’t be enough to do that. Maybe it’s not so funny after all.