A Moment for John Prine
In spite of ourselves we’ll end up a-sittin’ on a rainbow
Against all odds, honey we’re the big door-prize
-John Prine
COVID-19 upped the ante on me last night with the death of my most beloved singer-songwriter, John Prine. I knew he had been hospitalized in critical condition, but then read that he had stabilized. Since I knew he was ill, his death was not totally unexpected. But the back and forth of the news created space for it to feel like a surprise.
I’ve seen John Prine perform over a couple of decades, at venues in Salt Lake City, Boulder, Red Rocks and most recently in Boston. I’ve always attended shows with the dearest of friends. My husband and I went to see him last year, leaving our kids for an overnight with their grandparents for the first time. Having not seen him for several years, I was a little disappointed at the dampening of energy I could feel from the stage. It was still a great show, but you couldn’t miss that John Prine was losing a bit of steam. It left me feeling sad — and perhaps because of this, more immersed in the spirit of his music than on any other occasion.
John Prine’s songs aren’t looking for solutions. They lead us to places where the heart is very tender and aloneness looms. They celebrate our unremarkability. Prine’s glory was his willingness to write, and sing, and continually convey what is unfixable beyond the striving we do each and every day.
Around the time I saw John Prine in Boston, I was adjusting to life in a new house in Underhill, VT. We have a shared driveway with one other house. You have to cross a wooden bridge that people are often convinced is in imminent danger of collapse, though it was built just a few years ago and can theoretically hold 45 tons.
Our neighbors are a couple from our parents’ generation. One has an art studio over the garage where he paints vivid still-life paintings in which you might find a grenade, an extension cord, a bottle of soap or a chicken. They have a solitary sheep who wanders freely around the yard, sometimes coming over to our house to visit our duck flock. I wonder if it vexes M that our dog wanders into his yard and down the driveway, though he would probably never say so.
During the first year we lived in our house, this couple initially came over with two pies, and made conversation when we happened to be outside at the same time. For some reason I always feel apologetic about our presence — the animals mixing it up, the kids yelling and running around, me yelling at the kids. Not that M and L didn’t occasionally shout at each other or have a wandering sheep, but we were new, on their turf.
There was a point when M and I were chatting, and he said something that happened to catch me. It wasn’t the words but perhaps the fact that we made eye contact for a moment. I watched him exhale into a pause while realizing, he has nothing up on us. He is a nice guy doing his best to connect with the neighbors, with us. Not because of anything about us, but because we’re here. Embarrassed, I realized how limited my capacity to do the same had been while locked up in fear that he would rather we disappeared. As if we were that important, that remarkable.
It was a John Prine moment. The whole thing. It’s hard to be alive, but there are those moments when there’s a great deal of peace. I hope you can rest there, John. I’m so sorry you’re gone.
