New Years eve was spent among friends with a rock band I have come to know well. I feel like their mother. Why you ask? Because, while they are all right around my age, they all got their start in music from the same person, my late husband Tim. To them he is a legend, the person they looked up to the ultimate in style and cool. He would laugh very hard at this because the thing about Tim they all admire so much was that he was totally himself, out there for the world to see. He accepted and even laughed at his faults. But he was always authentic, and comfortable with himself, the illusive thing that made him very special and magnetic to many.
He was heart and soul a musician, even though in the years I knew him it was his hobby and not his profession. He was once considered the best studio guitarist in his home town of Los Angeles.
The story of the transition from the concrete jungle to a farm in rural Washington State was an amazing trip and one that would not have been for the faint of heart.
Tim used to say that in the mid 70s the Los Angeles rock community was like a small town everybody knew everybody. Tims star was rising, his background in Flamingo guitar made him among the best in the business. His notorious love of drugs made him volitile and to unpredictable for a regular band. People tried to tell him this, people who went on to be incredibly famous but Tim wasn't big on being told what to do.
He always said he knew this life would have to end one way or another. It did, very abruptly one sunny winter day in Big Bear, California when his best friend from childhood overdosed and died right in front of him. It was like being struck by lightening he realized it was time for to go or it wouldn't be long until he met a similar fate. A week later he pointed his old Volkswagen van north and drove.
He arrived in Scappose, OR as spring was approaching to visit his dad. Four miles to the south of his destination the engine in his van blew up.
He decided to stay.
He had run from LA but he hadn't managed to leave the drugs behind. In Portland as in LA he was the big fish on the guitar. Everybody wanted him to play with them, for awhile, until his famous temper took over. He also learned such country wisdom as if you are going to run and hide from the police don't do it in a cow pasture because cows being curious will gather round to see whats going on, a dead givaway to your hiding place.
His dad became terminally ill one fall. Tim, not knowing what to do for him asked. His dads answer suprised him Clean yourself up and live a happy life. He told me that he went home and locked himself in for the weekend with a supply of drugs, and a case of beer. Over the course of the weekend he consumed them all, on Monday he checked himself into the VA rehab clinic in Vancouver, WA. He never went back.
Living drug free for Tim was never easy though he made it look so. Every once in awhile the would be a reminder that the man had the will power of pure steel.
He took up the other thing he really excelled at, fixing things. For hours he would work on his latest project some old car or motorcycle, or engine that was so bad off no one else wanted it. He always said that when he was working on one of these he was free of the cravings that plauged him almost constantly for the rest of his life. Whatever he worked on always saw life again.
He built a custom motorcycle for himself. He and his gutair tested it out on a road trip headed north to jam with an old friend. He ended up playing with the guys band that night in a roadhouse outside Olympia, WA. I happened to be there that night. He zeroed in on me because I was the only woman in the place that wasn't drunk. We talked in between sets and finally I became the first woman to ride with him on his Harley. As we rode up highway 101 that night I don't believe I have ever felt as free as I did at that moment.
I inherited all the bad genes in my family this includes what my grandfather described as a Danish skull, solid concrete between the ears, particularly when it comes to men. I left that night thinking I really liked this guy but neglected to give him anyway of contacting me because it never occured to me he would want to. My friend wouldn't give him any info, like that I worked weekends right across the street or even pass along a message. She had heard about his illustrious past and figured he was trouble.
It would take a year and two more chance encouters in very different places and across two states before he finally spelled it out good enough for me to get the message.
I was also the last woman to ride on his harley in the fall of 2003 when we made a long road trip revisiting the places of his illustrious past. On his death six months later from liver cancer brought about by exposure to agent orange in Vietnam where he served two tours as a marine tanker the memory of the ride across the Astoria, OR bridge and the perfection of that sunny day sustained me through the hard times.
But, it is the legacy that he left behind that has left me speechless. He was a man that never gave up on his friends no matter how great they became or how low the sunk they were always greeted with real affection. When he would announce we were going to Seattle to see an old friend of his I never knew if it would be someone coming from a performance at the colliseum or someone whos stage was a downtown street corner they all got treated the same. He was always there and always encouraging. They had to provide impromptu traffic control and security at his funeral there were so many people, the party afterward carried on late into the night, the music was beyond belief, the stories people told of the no nonsense help he had given them. His record for helping his friends kick drugs was better than any clinic ever dreamed of, but he never pushed. Funny thing is they all seemed to think I was the reason his life turned out so well. Aparently, it was a vicious rumor he had been spreading for some years behind my back. Not so, he was the toughest, and bravest human I have ever met. Who I am today I am because I learned from him.
He liked to help new bands get off the ground as well. Some have gone on to become semi famous, others find joy in playing local taverns. All remember him with great fondness. Once he was gone I took his place, dropping into their performances, encouraging their dreams. He would have liked that.
I will never forget the ending remarks he made in a eulogy for a friend. "Life is for the living, go out and live it to it's fullest because you only have one shot and you just don't know how long you have to get everything in. Just go do it because you might not get another chance." Did I mention he was abrupt and had no sympathy for sniveling or cowards?
So Tim, hope rock and roll heaven is all you hoped for. Hope your old buddy finally kicked your ass for saying he wasn't much a musician. You never could face the facts, the dude practially had his own cult. And yes, I will follow your advice, maybe a little belatedly but I have my own speed, now just watch my dust. I know you will be out there somewhere cheering me on. Thanks always for the memories, in the end they are what life is about, making memories. Time for me to get out and make some new ones, life is after all to be lived to its fullest.