Tom T. Hall's death really pisses me off, but maybe he's with Miss Dixie now. Thanks for the friendship and love of two great people

 


Tom T. Hall's death pisses me off.

Two of the people who made me feel most at home in Nashville were Tom T. Hall and his wondrous wife, Dixie, aka "Miss Dixie."

Dixie died in 2015. Her heart was mighty and we loved each other.

Tom T. died today at age 85.

He was my friend.

They both welcomed me into their home. Life was lonely for Tom T. in recent years. So much so that on a few occasions, he even invited me up to Fox Hollow for some coffee and bullshitting.

We talked of books -- he liked mine and I cherish his -- and music. His music. His verbal pictures of blue-collar life and yearning and disappointment and occasional triumph are some of the very best words ever put together by a songwriter, country or otherwise.

The last time we shared coffee together was a snowy, early spring day, if I remember correctly.

He told me that he sure liked a book I'd written -- "Shoebox Full of Toads: Farewell to Mom" -- a lot and he asked me to sign it.

"God damn, that's a sad book. Good. Real good. I know you didn't write it to make money. It's just one of those things you wrote just because you had to, wasn't it?" he said. "I know how that goes."

Sometime on our coffee sipping day, he looked over his cup and said "Tim, why don't people write letters anymore?"

I shrugged.

First thing I did when I got home was write him a long letter of thanks, for his hospitality, an apology for taking up so much of his time and a mention of how much I loved and missed his wonderful wife.

If things are as we are taught, then Tom T. and Dixie are together again. That's a great thought for me, as I loved them both.

I don't know what else to say tonight other than I was appalled that the local news stations didn't lead with Tom T.'s death.

It was like the fourth or fifth story, a simple one-minute, easy-way-out piece of so-called journalism.

Tom T. Hall was a damn nice guy who made magic with his words.

Largely forgotten in recent years, he really didn't mind it.

He was a great man, who made a huge impact on country music. I appreciate his friendship.

And his death, as noted earlier, really pisses me off.



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A few phone calls with a woman who used to "Dream. Dream-dream-dream" that her son, Donnie, would visit his old, black room

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"Junior Birdman" plays in my head as I battle sadness with Camp Spikehorn, Scotch with Marc, Topsy and oil-stained feet on a country road