We are living in the future
I’ll tell you how I know
I read it in the paper
Fifteen years ago.
—“Living in the Future,” John Prine
The humid Florida air hung heavy, even as I leaned against the vintage cherry-red 1977 Coupe de Ville. Heat radiated off its expansive hood at the Gulfport CITGO station, a shimmering testament to the scorching day. I was waiting for John Prine, the car’s owner, to reappear from the convenience store. The paint job was a nostalgic dream, evoking shades of classic Americana – nail polish red, lipstick gloss, and maybe a hint of Mad Dog 20/20 boldness.
Finally, John Prine emerged, his signature wide smile in place, carrying two gallon jugs of water. “Just in case!” he announced, a twinkle in his eye. “That’s a long bridge coming up.” Our destination was Sarasota, and between us and it lay a lengthy causeway, the kind that prompts pre-trip fuel checks. This Cadillac, a recent eBay score, was practically brand new to him, with only a few test spins around the block under its belt before this inaugural serious drive.
“Isn’t there coolant in the radiator?” I couldn’t help but ask, a touch of concern creeping in.
“I don’t know,” John Prine replied, his voice characteristically laid-back. “We’ll find out. When it starts smoking we’ll pull over and get a beer!”
John Prine exuded an aura of calm contentment, a playful indifference to potential mishaps. This was reassuring, especially considering the Coupe’s charming flaw: the absence of a passenger-side seatbelt latch. The shoulder belt was there, dangling, but the crucial part on the seat was missing in action. A momentary flicker of worry crossed my mind, quickly replaced by the thought: if fate calls, a ’77 Coupe de Ville with John Prine might just be the most poetic way to answer.
He settled into the driver’s seat, and I sank into the marshmallow-white leather beside him. The engine roared to life – a Wagnerian overture of American muscle – causing a nearby pedestrian to jump, then grin and give us an enthusiastic thumbs-up. John Prine, clearly delighted, waved back, the man’s smile reflecting the sheer joy the classic car evoked.
“I like giving people a smile when they see this car,” John Prine said, genuinely happy. “This car brings back dreams.” It was clear this was more than just a vintage automobile; it was a rolling piece of Americana, embodying nostalgia and a certain rebellious spirit, much like John Prine himself.
“So what is it you want to do?”
Fiona Prine, John’s wife, a warm, insightful, and ever-present manager of his world, had posed this question to me weeks earlier. We were enjoying tea and scones in their expansive new Nashville home, a stately white-columned residence nestled in a refined neighborhood just south of the city center. John Prine was on the cusp of touring to support his latest album, The Tree of Forgiveness, his first collection of original songs in thirteen years. The album was a poignant tapestry of tenderness, regret, longing, and that unmistakable John Prine wry humor. The tour was set to launch at none other than New York City’s iconic Radio City Music Hall, with Sturgill Simpson as the opening act, a testament to John Prine’s enduring appeal and influence across generations.
John Prine himself was as you’d expect from his songs – sweet, funny, genuinely humble, and a touch reserved, admitting to some pre-tour jitters. He was fully present, engaging in conversation about music, family, and life. After my third cup of tea and second scone, Fiona, with a gentle but direct gaze, asked the question that had also been echoing in my own mind.
I had been grappling with the same question. While familiar with John Prine’s discography, especially his early work that cemented his status as a songwriting icon, I hadn’t experienced his live performance until the fall of 2016 at New Orleans’s Saenger Theatre. One moment from that night remains etched in my memory: when the band stepped back, leaving John Prine alone on the vast stage to sing “Mexican Home,” his deeply personal song about his father’s passing. In the immense, hushed theater, as he began to sing, I felt tears welling up. What is this?, I wondered, overwhelmed by the raw human truth resonating from the stage. That was the moment I knew I needed to write about John Prine, to try and capture the essence of his profound connection with his audience.
It had been a long time since I’d written a performer profile – twenty-two years, in fact, since I profiled bluegrass legend Jimmy Martin for this very magazine. I was forty-one then; now I was approaching sixty-three. The traditional interview format had never been my preferred approach, and life had taken me down different paths – seven books written, three seasons writing for HBO’s Treme, and the shared experience of Hurricane Katrina and rebuilding life in New Orleans. But somewhere along the way, a shift had occurred. Friends, contemporaries, were beginning to disappear with increasing and unsettling regularity. Mortality, once a distant concept, was now a palpable presence.
John Prine’s well-documented health challenges of the past two decades – the 1997 throat cancer surgery that altered his neck and left his head with a permanent tilt, followed by lung cancer surgery in 2013 – are etched on the seventy-one-year-old face gracing the cover of The Tree of Forgiveness. It’s a face that seems to meet mortality head-on, inviting you to confront the truth alongside him. The songs on the album navigate the spectrum of human emotion, from the poignant, autumnal melancholy of “Summer’s End” (“Summer’s end came faster than we wanted . . .”) to the exuberant gallows humor of the closing track, “When I Get to Heaven.” This final track, a spoken-word reverie of afterlife plans – forming a rock & roll band, opening a celestial nightclub – punctuated by a joyous, sung refrain listing heavenly indulgences, felt like a preemptive jazz funeral, complete with a ragtag chorus, handclaps, and even a kazoo. It was easy to interpret it as a poignant, yet playful, goodbye.
Yet, in February 2018, just before The Tree of Forgiveness was officially released, John Prine returned to New Orleans and delivered a performance that defied any notion of farewell. He played a two-hour show at the Orpheum Theater, culminating in a full-throttle rockabilly rendition of “Lake Marie.” He knee-rocked, guitar-wielded, and finally, in a burst of energy, placed his guitar on the stage, performing an unclassifiable dance around it before strutting offstage to the roar of a standing ovation. He didn’t embody someone with one foot in the grave. Instead, he stood as a testament to resilience, continuing to create defiant beauty in the face of life’s inevitable challenges. John Prine was not just enduring; he was thriving, artistically and spiritually.
I fumbled for words to articulate this – the feeling was still amorphous, perhaps beyond verbal expression – as Fiona and John Prine listened intently.
Fiona excused herself to refresh the tea, and as she left the room, John Prine remarked, “That kind of surprised me, that she asked you that.”
“Well, I know it’s what she’s supposed to do,” I replied. “But that’s really the best answer I could give. If it’s even an answer. Like with writing a novel—I can’t make a plan from beginning to end and then execute it.”
“Yeah—if you knew how it was going to end why would you write it?” he responded, instantly understanding the creative process.
Fiona returned, asked a few more insightful questions, seemed satisfied, and gave her nod of approval. I looked at John Prine.
“Sounds good to me,” he confirmed, a collaborative spirit evident.
Instead of the typical Nashville hangout piece, Fiona suggested a visit to their place just outside St. Petersburg, Florida. They had been going there for two decades, to a waterside haven filled with quirky shops, ex-hippies, palmettos, hibiscus, and a relaxed, laissez-faire vibe. John Prine loved it, and she thought it would offer a fresh perspective, a different backdrop to his story.
As the Florida trip approached, I realized I was experiencing a mix of anticipation and, surprisingly, dread. This puzzled me initially. Part of my motivation was a feeling of connection with John Prine, a sense that we might become friends, based on his performances and our brief initial meeting. But the recent loss of several longtime friends had cast a shadow. The themes of mortality in John Prine’s new songs resonated deeply, forcing a confrontation with those thoughts. While this was part of the piece’s appeal, I also wondered if forging a closer connection only to potentially face loss again was wise. It felt illogical, yet the feeling was real.
I arrived in Florida the previous evening, joining John Prine, Fiona, their son Tommy, and a friend for dinner at a local Italian restaurant. They were fresh off the first leg of the tour, having sold out Radio City Music Hall and witnessed The Tree of Forgiveness climb the sales charts. If mortality was on John Prine’s mind, it was well-contained. The atmosphere was celebratory, filled with stories, jokes, and a feast of seafood and pasta. Due to his neck surgery, John Prine often looked slightly sideways when speaking, lending an ironic undertone to his natural wit. He mentioned the idea of a memoir, dismissing it with a characteristic quip.
“That’s for when you’re almost dead, isn’t it?” he said. “I’m just getting started. There’s a lot of things I want to do.” Coming from anyone else, it might sound hollow. But John Prine’s hunger for life, for experience, was palpable. He proved it by devouring a tiramisu intended for us both. As I recounted a story, the dessert vanished. My mock protestations led to playful accusations and defenses all around.
As the evening wound down, John Prine mentioned his new acquisition: a 1977 Coupe de Ville bought on eBay for just over ten thousand dollars, haggled down from thirteen-five, shipped from Philadelphia. His lifelong affection for classic cars was evident, his excitement infectious. “We oughta take it for a ride,” he suggested. “We’ll go as far as we can get before the engine burns up!”
A wave of relief washed over me. Any apprehension about a somber reflection on mortality evaporated. This was about the present moment, a road trip, open windows, and letting the worries blow away in the wind.
The wind rushed through the open windows as we cruised down the four-lane highway towards I-275. The Florida sun warmed my right arm, the hot breeze exhilarating as we passed roadside diners, gas stations, and wild foliage interspersed with pawn shops and liquor stores. The exit ramp appeared, and we merged onto the southbound interstate.
“I used to have a ’51 Ford. Green, gorgeous,” John Prine reminisced. “Back when I was living in Chicago. I’d been to Nashville, heading home on Sunday morning. Bought one of those CB radios, antenna and all. On the interstate, nobody around. Flying, doing about a hundred and ten, passed a state trooper parked on the side. He didn’t even start his engine; he just gets on the CB and goes, ‘Why don’t you slow that big, bad green thing down? It’s too pretty to stop.’”
His laugh rumbled, like rocks in eggnog. The car’s vibe mirrored his stage presence: comfortable, easy, like being with an old friend. His playful humor was instantly familiar and welcoming.
Approaching a tollbooth, he quipped, “Let’s see if they ask about the car. Maybe they’ll say, ‘Hey, go ahead. The car’s too pretty to charge you.’” He handed the attendant a five, waited for the change, poker-faced. “Thank you,” John Prine said, and we drove on.
“Not one word,” he noted.
“Nothing,” I confirmed.
“Nothing.”
“You’d think we were driving a Volkswagen,” I joked.
“She’s too young,” he reasoned. “Oh man, this is nice. This car is loving this ride. If you’ve never been to Sarasota, you’re going to like it.”
A police car appeared ahead. I mentioned it, instinctively pulling the shoulder strap across my chest. “What are the seatbelt laws here?” I asked. “Trying to look like I’m wearing this thing…”
“We can just get you a t-shirt that has a seatbelt printed on it,” he suggested. “Wait—where’d you see a cop?”
“In front of us. Isn’t that a cop?”
“I can’t see that far,” he admitted.
I glanced at him, unsure if he was joking again.
“When I’m driving in Colorado, every car with a ski rack on the roof looks like a cop. It’s okay, I’m doing the speed limit. I just don’t have a legal plate on the car.” He explained he’d temporarily put his RV plates on the Cadillac.
I couldn’t help but laugh. The situation was veering into vaudeville: no seatbelt, no coolant knowledge, illegal plates, and a partially-sighted driver…
“Only fifteen miles to Sarasota,” he read from a sign, proving his vision wasn’t entirely compromised. “You’re gonna love this bridge up ahead. They built it so big ships can go under. Steep climb, looks like you’ll drop off the other side.”
This seemed to remind him to buckle his own seatbelt, which, unlike mine, had a functioning latch. I reminded him again about my missing latch.
“It’s down over here,” he said, pointing to the seat beside me.
“No, it’s not there.”
“Sometimes it’s underneath, right under here…” He looked down, and the car veered sharply right.
“Keep your eyes on the road!” I exclaimed. The car corrected course.
“Here comes the bridge, Tom! They haven’t finished the other half yet! Forgot to tell ya.” From our perspective, the bridge rising steeply ahead did seem to end abruptly in mid-air.
“What?” I asked, feigning panic. “We’ll go off the end!”
“Yeah! This is it! Thelma and Louise!”
We both laughed, hoping he was indeed watching the road. We crested the bridge, descended safely, and drove alongside the sparkling bay. I asked how he’d discovered this place.
“Mostly from playing gigs in the late seventies, different venues,” he explained. “Later, this guy tried to make a venue out of the little casino by the water. Fiona and I came for lunch, just fell in love with it.”
We drove on, chatting about Florida, Nashville, New Orleans, until he leaned forward, squinted, and announced, “We’re already to Sarasota!” He laughed, pointing to a sign. “We talked our way here!”
We followed signs to St. Armands Circle, a curated shopping district with a central fountain, upscale boutiques, manicured landscaping, and sidewalk cafes. The crowd was mostly middle-aged and retirees sporting impressive tans and Bermuda shorts.
“This car deserves a parking spot right on the circle,” John Prine declared, scanning for an opening. He spotted a shoe store he wanted to visit. We circled St. Armands, and miraculously, a Cadillac-sized space opened in front of the Columbia Restaurant, a renowned Cuban establishment, a branch of the Tampa original.
“I’m used to not finding parking this easily,” John Prine marveled, maneuvering into the space, watched by lunchtime diners. “Must be our karma.”
“Hope we aren’t blowing our whole karma just on this,” I joked. “I mean, it’s worthwhile, but…”
“Very worthwhile! A ’77 Cadillac? Are you kidding?”
My previous musician profile, the Jimmy Martin piece twenty-two years prior, culminated backstage at the Grand Ole Opry: chaotic hallways, musicians tuning, jokes, and jostling crowds. Jimmy had been intoxicated, I’d driven his stalling limo to Opryland, and he’d almost fought Ricky Skaggs and Bill Anderson. This trip’s biggest drama so far? John Prine’s tiramisu consumption. And now, a shoe store. A shoe store. Twenty-two years changes things.
Inside, John Prine headed straight for leather Top-Siders. I glanced around. My own feet had been bothering me. A salesman greeted me politely. While John Prine tried on shoes, I figured I’d browse. A peculiar gray hybrid of sneaker, boat shoe, and walking shoe caught my eye. I asked for a 10 1/2. They felt good, lightweight, but roomy, with a slightly odd puckered top, like space shoes. I asked to try a ten.
Meanwhile, John Prine settled on boat shoes with intensely shiny brass eyelets. Seriously bright.
“Jeez,” I said. “You’ll need sunglasses to dim the glare.”
“They feel great,” he said, pacing.
“Nice of them to include shoes with the eyelets.”
“I can black them out with a magic marker.”
We both bought our chosen shoes. Stepping back into the heat, shopping bags in hand, I tried not to picture us. Sunglasses on. “There’s your article, right there,” he said. “Buying shoes with John Prine!”
We walked around the circle, seeking a place to talk and eat. Kacey Musgraves’s song, about wanting to “burn one with John Prine” played in my head. He evoked that kind of feeling. Fans genuinely loved him, singing along at concerts, shouting requests he deflected with witty asides. (Audience: “Fish and Whistle!” “Flag Decal!” “Paradise!” John Prine: “Yeah; I know ’em all!” then launches into “Grandpa Was a Carpenter.”) He created an intimate, club-like atmosphere even in large venues. People felt like he was their friend, just as I did. But the whimsy and wit were intertwined with the deeper currents of his songwriting: the kitchen’s fly-buzzing emptiness (“Angel from Montgomery”), the Korean War’s senseless loss (“Hello In There”), the family income vanishing into “a hole in Daddy’s arm” (“Sam Stone”). Or his father’s death on the porch in “Mexican Home,” the song that had moved me so profoundly. John Prine’s music was a complex tapestry of joy and sorrow, humor and heartbreak.
Bob Dylan famously described John Prine’s songs as “Pure Proustian existentialism—Midwestern mind trips to the Nth degree.” John Prine and I had discussed Dylan the previous night, and it made me consider their contrasting performance energies. Dylan often exerted a hypnotic, magnetic pull, especially on male fans who seemed to vicariously experience life through him. John Prine was different. You didn’t aspire to be him; you simply wanted to be around him, to share a moment, a laugh, a story.
It was three PM, past the lunch rush. We stopped at a seafood restaurant for a snack. Having had a late, large breakfast, we weren’t very hungry. We ordered soup, and I asked John Prine about his first Dylan encounter.
“New York,” he began, “couple months before my first record came out. Second time I’d been there. First was three months earlier, Atlantic contract. Record made, maybe late August ’71. Album out in October. New York with Steve Goodman, Kristofferson in town. Kris calls, ‘Come over to Carly Simon’s apartment. Surprise for ya.’ We go. Later, knock on the door, Bob Dylan walks in. Signed a record deal three months prior, second time in NYC, and I meet Bob Dylan.”
“He comes in, sits, we talk. Carly passes a guitar. We start singing. Bob just wrote ‘George Jackson’ the week before. Sings it. Goodman, smart aleck, leans in, ‘Great Bob, but no ‘Masters of War.’”
“Dylan’s reaction?”
“Totally cool. I wouldn’t have gotten away with it! Then I sing a song.”
“Which song?”
“‘Far From Me.’ Second chorus, Bob joins in. Almost fell off my seat. Record not out for two months. Jerry Wexler at Atlantic sent him an advance copy. Bob knew the words! First meeting, felt like a dream. Except for Kris, never met anyone whose records I owned.”
Our soup arrived, and John Prine continued.
“Buddy with us, Eddie Olsen, Chicago folksinger. Mouth hanging open. Couldn’t believe he met Bob Dylan. Eddie pipes up—to Bob—‘Hey Bob, Chicago people think John Prine sounds like you. What do you think?’ Bob looks at Eddie, then me, ‘First time I heard your record, thought you swallowed a Jew’s harp.’” John Prine roared with laughter.
“Over the years, ran into his relatives, accidentally. Saw Bob in Chicago, sat next to his mom. Introduced, she says, ‘Oh, we’ve heard about you, John Prine.’ Met his brother David, ran a Minneapolis theater. Bob’s wife Sara, before divorce, played my records constantly at home. Thinking, ‘Must’ve driven Bob nuts!’ Son Jakob said they sang ‘Fish and Whistle’ as kids.”
He ate soup, laughed again.
“‘Swallowed a Jew’s harp…’ My voice is unusual, but… Wish I’d sung in Chicago clubs for two years, got my footing. Having a record, touring, meeting heroes—hit me hard. Wish I’d been more prepared. But can you prepare?”
He asked about my Dylan meeting. 1991, leaving New York for Iowa Writers’ Workshop. Writing about music, wanting to focus on fiction. Dylan article discussions in New York, but nothing finalized before Iowa. Two months in Iowa, heard Dylan was coming to Ames, two hours away. Ice storm, state paralyzed. Cleared roads, packed car with supplies. Drove to Ames, backstage invite, twenty minutes with Bob pre-show.
“Relaxed, fun,” I described. “Charisma meter zero. Poe’s collected tales on a table. Asked about the workshop, ‘Does it help?’ Asked about The Great Gatsby, Buddy Rich bio by Mel Tormé, where I grew up. Gracious, almost courtly. Liked him instantly. But knew he wasn’t like others. Something different. Everyone acts like he’s Bob Dylan. Worst thing you could do.”
Waiter arrived. Decaf cappuccino for me. Granny Smith apple tart with vanilla ice cream for John Prine. “Extra scoop, two spoons, see who tells longest story!” referencing the tiramisu.
Waiter left. John Prine still on Dylan.
“Rarely go backstage pre-show,” John Prine said. “Know how I feel. Important person or not, might have jitters. Only time I went backstage to Bob was 1975. New York, meeting with Ahmet Ertegun at Atlantic. Told him I wanted to leave. Four albums in three years. Contract for ten in five years—original material! Two LPs of John Prine songs yearly, they got half my publishing!”
“Friday afternoon, manager Al Bunetta and I, Ahmet’s office. Rockefeller Plaza, just moved offices. Told Ahmet, ‘You’re with Led Zeppelin, Stones, which I’d be too. But I need someone to argue with me. ‘Why not do this?’ Then I’d say, ‘No, that.’ Four PM Friday, Rockefeller Plaza, went to window—must’ve been high—said, ‘Look.’ He came over. ‘Look at those people. You made records for them. Don’t think you do anymore. I want to go. Nowhere specific, somewhere else.’
“He wasn’t ready. Didn’t know what to do. ‘If that’s how you feel, we’ll figure out how you get out.’ Then, ‘Anything else?’ ‘Yeah. Give me your limo; I want to see Bob Dylan in Hartford.’ He gave me his limo and driver! Me and Al in back, cigars, driving to Hartford! Al calls someone, says we want to see Bob. No problem. Bob was great mood, Rolling Thunder tour.”
The Rolling Thunder Revue, Dylan’s legendary tour with Joan Baez and rotating guests like Ramblin’ Jack Elliott and Joni Mitchell.
“Great picture of Bob, Springsteen, me, backstage,” John Prine recalled. “Springsteen just released Born to Run. I’m laughing at them, they’re acting like outlaws, gunfighters. Best show ever seen. Must’ve been like mid-sixties peak. Putting everything in. Solo songs, band songs. Loose, loved it—noise, rock & roll noise.”
Waiter brought coffee, dessert: apple tart with vanilla ice cream mountains.
“Road after this,” John Prine announced, digging in. “Quarter to five, back almost seven, traffic depending.”
“Actually trying to lose weight,” I confessed. “Hard I’m trying.”
“Didn’t know you were losing weight,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t have ordered dessert.”
“No, it’s good. Finding someone to blame.”
“Go ahead. Blame me. See, I lose weight when my mind kicks in. Since record out, on tour? Burning calories mentally. Don’t know how, but mind spinning, weight loss.”
“Physical activity onstage too, right?”
“Guess so, but lost twenty pounds, metabolism sped up.”
“Lot of weight,” I said. “Should think more.”
Eventually, we left. Melancholy tugged as we got into the Cadillac, leaving St. Armands. Didn’t want the afternoon to end. Sun lower, light richer, but heading towards darkness. “Not dark yet, but it’s getting there,” as Dylan sang.
“Told you I know how to waste a day,” he said. “Least we got something done. Perfect way to do it.”
We passed white birds on a lawn. John Prine pointed, we struggled for the name. “Flamingos,” he guessed.
“Not flamingos!” I protested. “Flamingos are pink.”
“Well, they don’t have to be.”
I wasn’t sure, but doubted it. “There’s white flamingos,” he insisted. “Pink ones are tastier.”
Driving along, Gulf on our left, condos, palms, hotels. Cloudless, perfect Florida day.
“You know,” I said, “joking about shoe article. Remember Fiona’s ‘gavel down’ moment?”
“Yeah—‘What are you gonna do, who you doin’ it for?’”
I reminded him of my words about creating despite mortality, mentioned his Lost Dogs and Mixed Blessings CD booklet photo, leaning on a cemetery fence. Released 1995, cancer diagnosis next year.
“Whistling by the graveyard,” he said. “Did that on purpose. Asked the photographer, ‘Get a picture of me walking by, whistling.’”
“Okay, so talking about it?”
Silence.
“Not sure,” he said. “But writing about mortality—earlier, now—might be humor-related. Mortality, natural target. Songs about death, heaven. Humor outlet. Now, seventy-one, articles say ‘mortality,’ before ‘just joking.’ Part of it. Not like I haven’t written about it before. Just wasn’t seventy-one before.”
“Wonder about it? Speculate?”
“Don’t think so. Natural ending. Only option. Life, death, not much between. Fall in love, trapped in bodies, clock turns, time to go!”
“But many afterlife songs. Saint Peter, ‘Flag Decal,’ ‘Please Don’t Bury Me.’ Just a device?”
He considered. “Think I believe in afterlife,” he said. Then, “Maybe not. Doesn’t matter, can’t check in after gone. Soul lives on, maybe. But if heaven, souls wouldn’t know each other. Except kindness, heavenly grace. Go somewhere, maybe come back as something else. Wouldn’t know. Dry-cleaned, come back as something else! Most think you die, that’s it. Cremation, ashes in ashtray, outta here.”
“Never feared death,” he said. “Even first cancer diagnosis. Never felt consumed. Like I wouldn’t be here. Scary, but felt like I’d make it. Believed doctors. ‘What do you want to do, what’s my plans after surgery?’”
Silence. Then, “Fiona had it tough. She had it tough.”
“How long together then?”
“Babies just born. Kids one, not-two yet. Suddenly I had cancer? Fiona thought world caving in.”
Then, “Don’t turn around, cop behind us.”
Unsure if serious. Why interrupt for a joke? “Wave?”
“No, don’t think so.” John Prine checked the rearview. “Maybe calling in plates.”
“He isn’t. We’re fine.”
“Speed limit.”
“We look clean cut.”
“Retired citizens.”
“Wait…”
“Father and son.”
“Don’t go that far. Still behind us?”
“Yep.”
“No idea,” I said, “what I think about mortality stuff. Really don’t. Dad died, weird things happened. Don’t think Wizard of Oz levers. But… Dad died August 16th.”
“Wait. What’d you say?”
“Dad died August 16th,” I repeated. “2002.”
“2002.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the day my dad died,” he said. “1971. August 16th.”
“That’s a little weird,” I said.
“Sorry; go ahead,” he said. “Too weird.”
Spooky, given “Mexican Home” and wanting to write about him. “Dad died sepsis, gallbladder surgery. ICU three days, heart stopped, revived. Day he died, after do-not-resuscitate order—heart stopped again—cloudburst, thunderstorm, ten minutes. Then incredible rainbow. Every year after, ten years or so, August 16th, afternoon, wherever I was, thunderstorm/rain, then rainbow.”
“Wow.”
“Every year, August 16th. Same time. Artists’ residency, Saratoga Springs—Yaddo, mansion. 2004, two years after dad died. Dinner, gigantic cloudburst. Rain stopped, huge, close, fluorescent rainbow. Everyone went to terrace to see.”
“Crazy.”
“Crazy part: watching it, thinking, ‘You again. Did it again.’ Then thought, ‘Really impress me? Double rainbow. Come on, let’s see.’”
“Let’s see what you got. Bring it on.”
“Rainbow turned double rainbow.” John Prine laughed. “Not kidding, John!”
“No!” he exclaimed. “I know! My mother’s a redbird. Every move, first week, redbird at window, looks me in eye. ‘Thanks, Mom.’ Checking on us.”
He stopped, looked in rearview, alarmed. “Look—now he’s passing us; he’s…”
Police car passed. Honda with ski rack.
“Oh fuck,” he laughed. “Lost three years of my life! There’s the rainbow!”
Recovering, “August 16th—etched in mind. Visiting Dad, beer on porch, had to go. ‘Gotta go home, Dad.’ ‘Aw, sit, another beer with your old man.’ Hour later, brother found him slumped in chair, porch. Front porch, watching cars, beer, daydreaming.”
“Sick?”
“Heart condition since mid-forties. Didn’t care for himself. Didn’t like doctors; doctor said quit drinking, found another. Not a drunk. Drunk, not mean.”
John Prine’s flip phone pinged. Text from Fiona: See you at 7-ish.
I texted Fiona we’d be there around seven. Seconds later, text back: reading my book, “riveted.” Told John Prine.
“Is that what she said? Made your day!”
“Sure did,” I admitted.
“Well, don’t tell her the ending,” he joked. “Kris’s got a beautiful song, ‘Please don’t tell me how the story ends.’”
Right. Approaching a rise, railroad crossing, took it too fast, landed smoothly.
“Thought we’d take flight,” John Prine said.
I asked about Chuck Berry’s “You Can’t Catch Me,” “custom-made Flight De Ville…”
“Got it,” John Prine said. “In ‘You Never Can Tell,’ refrigerator ‘coolerator.’”
We sang, “The coolerator was crammed with TV dinners and ginger ale.”
“And when Pierre found work…” I continued.
He joined in, “. . . the little money come in worked out well. C’est la vie say the old folks…”
Singing down the road. If that moment could last forever…
Back in the waterside village around seven, windows open, cruising main street towards his house, my hotel. Guy in thirties about to cross, stopped, watched. As we passed, he yelled, “John Prine!”
John Prine waved, “Hey!”
Continuing down the block, John Prine chuckled, “Not drawing attention in this car or anything.”
Pulled behind hotel. “Dinner in an hour. Come by house. Gonna lay down half an hour.”
I said I might too. As he started to drive off, the guy ran up, breathless. Apologized, asked for a picture. John Prine said, “Of course.”
Recognized the impulse—stop time, fix the moment, prove it happened. Guy handed me phone. Took his photo with John Prine. He thanked us, left.
John Prine gave a thumbs-up. “See you in a while.” Watched him drive off. Went inside to rest, prepare for dinner, happy to postpone thinking about how the story ends. John Prine, in his music and in life, always found a way to make the present moment resonate, leaving the final chapter unwritten, yet full of life.
