One More Town

I don’t think that I was too different than the average stubborn, hardheaded youth when I was young. Want to give me advice? Sure, I’d listen. But you might have had a hard time locating me. I’d pull into town with big ambitions, but after as little as a week or two, get royally pissed at something, and depart on the rising tide.

A great kickoff would herald the arrival. I’d find someplace that looked promising, get a job, make friends, perhaps find a girlfriend, and settle in. Somewhere along the line, something would turn corrosive—perhaps the job, or the relationship with the girlfriend. One night I’d get a great notion that perfection in life was somewhere else on the continent. The result was that the backpack got packed, Charlie, my guitar would be strummed, and I’d sing my leaving-town song.

The leaving-town song was a John Stewart song from 1963 sung by the Kingston Trio – If There’s One More Town. In it, the wanderer details his travels and some of the rather weak reasons he wanders, but wanders he does. It’s a sweet sentimental song about wandering, but buried not too deep in it are the very real flaws that belong to the wanderer. But of course it’s the romance of the wander we’re singing about, not about our own flaws – those we think we can leave behind when we shoulder the pack and put out the thumb.

I can think of any number of things to tell the young idiot: practicing the guitar more faithfully, and not giving up so easily on good places and times. More especially, I’d ask him to parse the words of that song and examine all that was going on in it:

If there’s one more town
I’ll be goin’
I’ll fight for the winnin’ and I’ll be there
If there’s one more song
I’ll be singin’
I’m always goin’ but I don’t know where
(Keep a move’n, a move’n on)

I spent seventeen years in West Virginia (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
Eight more years just for runnin’ free (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
But the girls back home in their blue gay dresses
Only heard one thing from me

If there’s one more town
I’ll be goin’
I’ll fight for the winnin’ and I’ll be there
If there’s one more song
I’ll be singin’
I’m always goin’ but I don’t know where
(Keep a move’n, a move’n on)

Went down to New Orleans last summer (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
On a flat boat workin’ my way (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
There were well-mannered ladies and street that were shady
But for me, I never could stay

Sailed up to New York on a schooner (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
But I won’t be stayin’ there long (keep a move’n, a move’n on)
There were bright city lights and girls in pink tights
But their faces were all painted on

If there’s one more town
I’ll be goin’
I’ll fight for the winnin’ and I’ll be there
If there’s one more song
I’ll be singin’
I’m always goin’, but I don’t know where
(Keep a move’n, a move’n on)

There were places that were on my habitual path for returning: Boston, Baltimore, and Portland, Maine. Others were one and done. It was inevitable that I’d double over my trail sooner or later. About thirty years ago, it happened for the first time.

I was on some idiot trip documenting things for my government job. I’d been late leaving a meeting over dinner, and about midnight, I gave up on making it all the way to my next stop. I pulled into a motel, took a room, shut off the lights, and slept until the clock radio buzzed.

Finding a place to have breakfast was easy; my feet led me fairly easily down a street that seemed familiar – the old mill building with the clock tower, the town square, the church. As I passed the church, I noted a familiar entrance to the basement. A little tinkle of music traipsed across my memory. I couldn’t quite recall the name of the little church-sponsored coffeehouse that had occupied that basement, but I could remember the wood stove in the corner, the stovepipe snaking up, the sagging platform built for 2-by-fours and plywood that was the stage, and the lousy little sound system. There were other memories too, but they’re not for a polite post on WordPress.

I walked into a coffee shop that I thankfully did not remember, and had breakfast. The shop was popular and liked by the locals; I tried hard not to associate anyone there with older versions of the people I had known. I ate fast, refused a refill of coffee, and was thankful that on my way to the car nobody stopped me with a “Hey! Aren’t you…”

I got out of town fast, and only briefly hallucinated the kid standing by the side of the road with a backpack on his back, holding a guitar. Nothing good could come from trying to give him a ride. He wouldn’t listen to advice about settling down, finishing his education, and such. I’d just wind up giving him a twenty and wishing him luck.

If you could go back in time and give your younger self advice, what would it be?

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