Nanny and Willie
These last few days, I’ve been listening to Willie Nelson’s son, Lukas Nelson, cover “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” at his dad’s 90th birthday concert (Willie and I share a birthday, April 29th). Lukas nails it. He sounds more like Willie than Willie himself. I wish I could send the song to my grandma, who loved Willie Nelson, but Nanny’s resting on a mountainside near Princeton, West Virginia, overlooking some of the prettiest land God ever made.
Instead, I’m playing the song for my two boys, telling them how Nanny loved Willie. And Waylon. And George Jones. And all those old country stars. But Willie most of all. I know this because of our road trip together.
In the summer of ’96, my brother and I were invited to ride around the US with my grandmother, grandfather, and aunt. It was my grandpa’s dream, and with his cancer in remission, they made it happen. I don’t think his original plan included us, but there we were – me, fourteen, my brother, twelve – in for a solid month of travel in a rented white van.
But first we had to get to the van, which was in Florida, where my aunt lived. My mom put us aboard the Amtrak from North Carolina to Florida, one of the few remaining passenger trains plying the tracks, like something out of a Willie Nelson song.
That train broke down halfway there. While sitting stuck, we met another kid from school, riding parent-less, heading south. This was the 90s, still within the window of “pin a note on your kid’s jacket and send them far from home.” We played while the train delayed.
When we arrived in Florida, it was nighttime in a downtown train station. The next day, we loaded in the van headed west, ever west.
My aunt drove, with Nanny riding shotgun. Between them sat a box of cassettes, including Willie Nelson’s greatest hits. “On the Road Again” played on repeat that first day and every day thereafter.
Nowadays, I like Willie. Back then, I liked radio rock and pop, with a growing interest in punk and metal music. Classic country was embarrassing. I was fourteen: everything was embarrassing.
In the middle of the van sat my grandfather, nearest to the sliding door. For two thousand miles, he sat with his back perfectly straight, staring ahead with a slight smile. Like life was perfect.
Behind him were my brother and me, trying to ignore each other, listening to our Walkmans and looking out the windows at the country speeding by.
Each day, we stopped somewhere scenic: the Suwannee River, the white beaches of Biloxi, the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate Bridge, a casino.
Most memorable was walking an extinct volcano in Arizona, the gray dust clinging to our shoes and clothes for days after. And the Grand Canyon, of course, but more so the ground itself out west – how it’s painted purple, red, orange, and yellow, so you don’t need trees for color.
And the camels I spotted roadside in Texas. And that time I thought I saw Johnny Depp pumping gas in a dirty Stetson hat in the middle of the desert.
In California, we turned north, cruising up the coast before rerouting across the middle of the country, through gambling cities and places where it felt like winter in July. Willie Nelson kept us on the road.
Each night, we stayed in a motel, ranging from classy to orange shag carpet. We bunked as best we could, then next morning, back to the van.
Through deserts and detours, my grandmother wore gold jewelry and tasteful clothes, her hair fixed, lipstick on, playing Willie and clacking her painted fingernails to the beat, talking in her strong West Virginia accent.
That accent got me my first teaching job. I attended a job fair while still in my degree program, with the hopes of a lateral entry position. The hiring principal had a West Virginia sign on his desk. I mentioned my family, he asked where in West Virginia, I said Princeton. He had me call my grandmother, right there in his office. Her unmistakable voice came on the line, and they talked about people they both knew. He offered me the job on the spot. He’d heard all he needed to hear.
Nanny grew up in Mullens, West Virginia, a former coal town much like the area described in Barbara Kingsolver’s Demon Copperhead, which I’m reading right now. Kingsolver is a highly skilled writer, and the book is good, if a little much. Every event has a moral, every character a call to action, every plot point is meant to make you think. What I think is that it could have been edited to half the length and been better for it. But so could this blog post.
It was Nanny who taught me how to play rummy, a game I like so much, I used to keep a pack of cards in my purse, in case I got caught at a bar or restaurant with a bit of time, space, and a partner.
Nanny’s rules were different than most:
- No sets, only runs
- The Ace goes only one way at a time, you heathen
- Queen of Spades counts 50 points if play her, 100 points against you if you’re caught with her at the end of the game
- If you want to play it like gin-rummy and hold your hand until you’re ready to go out in a dramatic flourish, then go right ahead, but don’t come crying when it backfires
I wish I could play a game of rummy with Nanny right now. I wish she were here to back up my rule about runs only. I wish my sons could hear their grandmother’s voice. I wish we could all go on a road trip, and listen to Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” as many times as it takes.
by Jessi Waugh
reader-writer 