January 15, 2008
Originally published December 7, 2003
"When it's midnight on the meadow and the cats are in the shed
That's the first verse of a song about a magical creature who takes children on big adventures at night and manages to get them back in their beds before the sun rises in the morning. It's a great song.
I hate Sunday evenings. After a weekend of enjoying a house full of kids, I find an eerie quiet around the Crackerbox after Quinton leaves. That quiet disturbs and depresses me. I feel as if my life-force is being sucked right out of my heart.
I looked at a picture this evening that made me cry. It's a picture of me playing guitar and singing to Quinton when he was still in diapers. Every time he pitched a fit as a baby, I could make him hush and settle down when I sang to him. His favorite song was "Pony Man," by Gordon Lightfoot. I must have played that song more than 100 times for him. He liked it long before he could understand the words.
In that picture, Quinton has a big smile on his face and he appears to be clapping his hands. He is less than a year old. I remember that day. I'm perched in a kitchen chair and his little ass is sitting on the floor. I am playing and singing "Pony Man." His mama took that picture because she always was amazed at the way Quinton settled down and behaved when I sang to him.
Quinton doesn't care to hear me play and sing anymore. He's outgrown that phase now. He prefers to have daddy throw a football or shoot hoops with him. I don't mind doing those things, but a part of me really misses that little boy who sat on the floor and listened to my music with wonder in his eyes.
Yeah. I miss being the Pony Man.
All content © Rob Smith