John Prine was a childhood neighbor of mine, though I donât think I ever met him directly.
He was a year and a half older than me, and we grew up just a bike ride apart â I in Elmwood Park, and he in Maywood, no more than five miles away. His dad was a tool-and-dye maker, shaping the steel that my dad produced in his steel mill job.
And although we never met directly, I felt a sort of kinship with John.
As a teenager, John worked at Skipâs, a burger joint on North Avenue. I might have met him there, because my brother would sometimes take me there in his â57 Chevy convertible. Skipâs was where all the cool cars would come to show themselves off, and sometimes drag race if the cops werenât around. But Prine didnât work there long, because he got fired for being afraid of the bees that swarmed around the melted custard in the parking lot he was sent to clean up. So if I actually ran into him, I donât recall it.
John went to Proviso East, the high school my dad attended briefly before leaving at 14 during the Depression to help support the family. I went to Elmwood Park HS and later to West Leyden, the schools closest to Proviso East. John was a gymnast and I played football, wrestling and track, so maybe he came to my school, as I went to his. But I never met him directly.
I tell you all this because I always felt that John Prine and I had so much in common that we could have been close friends. We roamed the same streets, frequented the same burger joints, grew up in the same working-class families, and loved the same music.
And when he died of the corona virus just before Easter this year, I grieved for him as I would for a friend.
John Prine became one of the most revered singer/songwriters of his generation, rubbing elbows with the likes of Steve Goodman, Kris Kristofferson and Bonnie Raitt. He has been called the Mark Twain of songwriting, the first singer/songwriter ever to perform at the Library of Congress, and the winner of three Grammys, including a Lifetime Achievement Award earlier this year.
And on the day that he died, I picked up my guitar and played a half-dozen or more of his songs â or tried to, because I choked with grief – tears every time.
My tears were not just tears of rage at this virus that is claiming thousands of American lives every day, but rather tears for the gentle, grace-filled way that John faced lifeâs hardships and even death. Ravaged and disfigured by two different cancers, he knew that his time might be limited, and yet his song lyrics remained steeped in humor and acceptance of the pains that come with life. Take, for example, âThatâs the Way the World Goes Roundâ:
âThatâs the way that the world goes round/ youâre up one day, the next youâre down/ itâs half an inch of water and you think youâre gonna drown/ thatâs the way that the world goes round.â
Looking back on his writing, itâs astounding how many of his songs jousted with death, like âWhen I Get To Heavenâ:
âAnd Iâm gonna drink a cocktail, vodka and ginger ale/ Iâm gonna smoke a cigarette thatâs nine miles long/ Iâm gonna kiss that pretty girl, on the Tilt-a-Whirl/ Yeah, this old man is goinâ to town.â
When the end came, he was cremated and his ashes were sent (as he sang) to the coal town named Paradise in eastern Kentucky where his family lived before moving to Illinois:
âWhen I die let my ashes float down the Green River/ Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester Dam/ Iâll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waiting/ Just five miles away from wherever I am.â
Fare thee well, brother John. Roll on up the river, and enjoy that nine-mile cigarette, cocktail and pretty girl.
Paradise awaits.
Author, musician and storyteller TR Kerth is a retired teacher who has lived in Sun City Huntley since 2003. Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com. Canât wait for your next visit to Planet Kerth? Then get TRâs book, âRevenge of the Sardines,â available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other online book distributors.
