Clinton, South Carolina, Monday, December 30, 2019, 9:16 a.m.

I have no use for resolutions. I hereby resolve to do in 2020 what I always do, most of which is write, but I also plan to keep myself pacified with my guitar and Kindle.

So there. Good to get that out of the way. It’s more natural for me to reminisce. As I am fond of telling people on the occasional radio show, I didn’t major in prophecy. My training is in writing about what already happened. This year I will undoubtedly be both naughty and nice, with an emphasis on the latter, and I’ll ask the Lord to forgive me my transgressions.

First up this morning, I read something it’s probably best not to do, with a cup of coffee and a laptop I know how to use, within sight of another year. I went through the list of people who died in 2019 and mourned those who will perish today and tomorrow because they’re going to be left out.

Who of my age never attempted feebly to imitate Dr. John and Leon Redbone? I have gone so far as to imitate Redbone singing a Dr. John song.

If you’re in it for longevity, the best career choice is probably not “rapper.”

Tim Conway? I just watched a clip on YouTube the other night when the football game got out of hand.

I will miss the righteous thunder of Elijah Cummings. Few in politics revealed their souls with the willingness of Representative Cummings.

As I’ve spent so much of my life writing about stock car racers, the death of Junior Johnson was thought-provoking. I always considered Junior the archetype of the deceptive Southerner who hid the fact that he was the smartest guy on the property by talking slow and playing dumb. Images flood in of Junior, smiling and delivering his punch line, one of which was, “Huh. I probably made more money off Terry Labonte than anybody ever drove for me.” He pronounced it “Turry.”

Three “Bond girls” died, one French, one English, one Belgian. They were old. I thought them forever young.

One person, Steve Levy, died of nose cancer. The centenarian, I.M. Pei at 102, was the architect.

Some died in hospice care. One fell out a window. Another fell off a boat. A comedian died in the middle of a performance. Lots died from “complications.” Life is full of them, too.

I always loved Mac Wiseman’s voice, a soulful version of bluegrass. One of the world’s many great Jimmy Johnsons, the guitarist, died at 76.

I got up in the morning for many years to watch Don Imus’s radio show. It was on TV, but it was still a radio show. Imus was sort of like the commentator Howard Cosell and the columnist Dick Young. People loved to hate him. Watching him every day was to forgive him his outrageous idiocy. He put a lot of good music on the air. In recent years, I’ve sort of missed him at the beginning of the day the way I miss David Letterman at the end of it. Not the same way. Beginnings are not ends.

Most of them I never heard of till they died. It’s a sad attribute of people. They never reveal what they think of people until they’re gone. Deaths, particularly of people who lived long, productive lives, don’t sadden me as much as they once did. They make me want to go to people who are alive and tell them I admire them.

 

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Another way I cobble out a living is with my books, a wide variety of which is available for sale here.

 

My eighth novel is called Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Lightning in a Bottle is now available in an audio version, narrated by Jay Harper.