Turning Your Orbit Around
Our love is all of god's money
I’m a loner. Ferociously independent (until I need to get something from a tall shelf), I’ve always been adept at taking care of myself. Sometimes to a fault.
I’m also extremely outgoing and make friends easily. I’m told I have “high vibes,” which might be why the desk clerk at my hotel told me about his husband’s recent death while I was waiting for my dinner delivery in the lobby last night. I don’t mind. I love these spontaneous moments when strangers confide in me. I like knowing that people know they’re safe with me, and I get to hear stories that others don’t.
But I fly alone when it’s all said and done. Often by choice, often because everyone else seems to be partnered when I arrive and I don’t like to butt in. And I’m fine with this. I’ve been like this since I was a kid. An artifact of being an only child born in the middle of Generation X, probably.
I don’t mind going to concerts alone, especially in recent years as I’ve dealt with the mobility issues caused by my knees and then my back. I don’t want to hold anyone back. This is how disabled people end up isolated. I still can’t stand through an entire concert, so I get my seat and let my friends head to the general admission floor to immerse themselves in the music and energy. Do I miss it? I do. But I’m good.
The week between Christmas and New Year I went to Chicago to see my beloved Patti Smith. It was a last-minute decision, mostly because I was unaware of the show until a few days prior. Two other things fueled my decision: Patti, on the verge of turning 77, had been hospitalized a few weeks prior. And on Christmas Eve, an acquaintance died.
I knew Joe through my far-flung family of Wilco friends. He lived in Chicago, and we were first introduced at a gathering of Wilco fans years ago. In 2019 we talked a bit while staying in the same giant house for Solid Sound. My main memory of him was from a few days later when the vintage VW Westphalia van he was riding in burst into flames in front of that house. Everyone was okay, except for the material stuff in the van.
Right after I returned from New Orleans in December I was going to hang with him and members of our Wilco gang in Chicago, but opted out to nurse my usual post-travel ear infection.
And then he was gone.
Just like Patti will be, sooner than later.
As my friend Kevin once told me, life is short. Buy the concert tickets.
So I did, and worshipped at the Church of Patti, which fills me with life even after standing in the cold with my back seizing while waiting to get in, followed by an hour-long outside wait for a ride. Worth it? Of course.
My only misgiving that night was, down on the general admission floor, were three of my Wilco friends I’d yet to meet. They did some work to get us all together but, being the limpy straggler, I encouraged them to go without me. Luck threw me into the path of one of them when I was leaving, a miracle in that crowd. Otherwise, despite being dipped in the knowledge that we are all extremely fragile and fleeting, I went on my own way without meeting the others.
I’m in Chicago right now, taking advantage of a late check-out at my hotel after spending a weekend celebrating Joe. His funeral was earlier this month, but his family threw a celebration of life at his neighborhood tavern on Saturday. His family and childhood friends mingled in the bar’s back room with members of our far-flung Wilco family. We’re talking people who came from as far as Germany to celebrate Joe.
When I arrived I paused at the door to the room, surveying. First, seeing what the chair situation was, as all mobility-impaired people do. Second, seeing who I knew and could pair with since the loner at the celebration makes people nervous. It only took a minute until I was hugging my friend John, who danced with me in Kansas City, followed by my L.A. friend Donna, who I missed seeing on my wretched birthday.
I had no stories to share about Joe. I went as a third-tier mourner, hoping to offer comfort to our mutual friends who were much closer to him. I listened to beautiful stories about him, laughing and crying and wishing I had joined in more often so I could have known him better. Not that he lacked for people who loved him.
The next morning, beer-bleery and in need of a few more hours of sleep, some of the Wilco folks gathered for brunch. Every single one of us, talking at once, 20 conversations happening among 16 people, fueled by coffee, tea, mimosas, and love. I spent the meal finally getting to talk shop with the other reformed chef in the group.
When it was time to move on—the poor wait staff went so far as to take away our water glasses—I ordered a ride to return to my hotel for a nap when someone suggested we move to a nearby bar. While divvying up rides, I passed, since I had one on the way. And, what I didn’t say, because I didn’t want to put anyone out by having to find nearby parking to accommodate my limpy, back-spasmy, slow-ass self.
Once at the bar, someone noted that the barstools were very tall and might be a problem. And somehow a chair appeared. For me. Without asking. Without doing it myself.
Because we all take care of each other. That’s what so many of Joe’s stories were about—him taking care of people. From giving out-of-towners a place to stay for free when they were in Chicago, to throwing a bowl of weed into the woods when he was a teen to spare a friend from the cops, he helped.
On Saturday and Sunday, I finally got to meet and spend some time with Mary and Lori, the friends I had hoped to meet at the Patti Smith show. I wish I’d had that extra month of knowing them, but hopefully, it’s the beginning of many, many more months.
We gather in Chicago again in May, and again at Solid Sound in June. And I hope we’re all there. And that Patti’s still somewhere in the earthly world. Whatever happens, we’ve got a lot of ancestors guiding us—including Joe.
And no matter where we go and who we’re with (or without) we know we’ve got family out there*.
*With apologies to Jeff Tweedy
❤️ God got richer this weekend. Look forward to seeing you at the CAM StL
You made me cry again Robin. What a beautiful piece.