A traveling musician doesn't need much, but things
accumulate. Tapes, broken strings, worn out cables,
business cards, reams of unfinished ideas, they
start to pile up like a snow drift outside the cabin
door and if you're not careful your cabin may become a
tomb. January's wind is whistling through the
cracks and I'm hearing a Woodie Guthrey refrain
rustling in my brain like so many bare branches. "So
long its been good to know ya..., So long its been
good to know ya..."

The trick is knowing when to get rid of the junk and
just go.

Before I left for India, a great winnowing occurred.
The broken strings and things, yes, but more
importantly, the winnowing of the spirit. You see, the
older I get the more my family becomes important to
me. Jill has her family, and I love the way the
O'Connors are always there for each other. But
me, I am in constant reconnection mode. Lots of
leftover stuff from single parent childhood, and so
on, etc. etc. There are enough excuses for a lifetime.

Either you just let things go on as they are or one
day you get on a plane to Carolina, you borrow a car,
you drive 10 hours through a freak snow storm, bite
the bullet get there, use all your powers to laugh
with 'em and love 'em and let 'em know you care. "Come
on," you say, "Let's let bygones be bygones, turn the
leaf. Nobody remembers what the fuss ever really was."

So you laugh, and hold your sister's baby. You look
into that cute little droolers eyes and you see a
twinkle of yourself. You smell that sweet baby smell
as she gurgles and tries to poke your eye out,
focusing on only you. You cuss a little and what you
really want to tell her is all the things that make
the world a beautiful, amazing place, what to watch
out for, no good. Just hold the little thing and love
her. Although its good enough, You'll be halfway
around the world when she takes her first step.

The wind has died a little and that door is open more
than enough.

The snow started to melt on the roads and I had just
enough time to get back to Asheville, Jill was waiting

there for me with all our luggage along with the film
and sound gear. I had one last stop before I left.

There's a little restaurant down on the coast there in
Carolina where I've played so many times. I always
love to stop by and have a vegetarian meal with my
Dad, his wife, and my Grandmother and say hello to all
the locals. The folks down there always have a kind
word for the music and hold a special place in my
heart. After a time, a musician starts to feel a
particular closeness for those with whom he regularly
shares his soul.

I had just gone around shaking hands and saying "So
Long..." trying not to finish the last line of that
song, all the while my Dad loud and proud saying "He's
going to India, won't be back for a year..." And so I
get to tell my story again and again, tailoring the
details to each's need, snipping and saving the finer
points, who knows what's gonna happen...I don't like
telling a story before it happens.

I received Robin Snowden's ashes across a table cloth
with a candle burning in a stained glass chimney, a
salt and pepper shaker, a porcelain cup with packets
of sugar, two glasses of wine and a piece of cheese
cake. A woman I had never met before asked me if I was
by chance going to the River Ganges. Of course I was,
but I said, "I don't know."
She timidly spoke, "I'm Susan, nice to meet you."

Susan told me she had Robin's ashes in her underwear
drawer for five years. She once asked an Indian doctor
to take some of Robin to India and sprinkle her in the
Ganga. I guess it didn't work out. But, here I was,
and it was Robin's final request. Who am I to deny
such a simple and sincere thing? By now I had gotten
rid of so much. There might be a little extra room for
this. I agreed to take Robin to India.

I waited for 10 minutes with my grandmother in the
car while Susan went home to rummage through her
underwear drawer. The heater was blasting against the
freezing wetness. My Grandmother kept insisting that
we turn off the heater, that she could stand the cold.
She's tough, but I'm not. I left Granma there and went
inside the restaurant. In an all too non-descript and
unceremonious way, I received the velvet Zale's
Jewelery box in the smoky foyer of the restaurant. Its
only contents, a dusty sandwich bag of white grainy
powder and a little card which read simply:

"Robin Snowden. Have a nice journey. Love, Susan."

I slipped the box into my pocket, shook Susan's hand
and walked out into the chilly night. I revved the
diesel mercedes engine and drove away. Nearing the
outskirts of town I turned on the radio to cut the
slick silence. The crackling AM squished around as I
adjusted the station. The voice came faint at first
like music seeping into the street from an open window
on a summer night,

"So long, its been good to know ya...,
So long its been good to know ya...,
So long its been good to know ya,
This dusty old dust is a gettin' my home,
And I got to be drifting along...

"Its not me," I kept telling myself. "One day I'll
learn to just get out of the way."

• ~ - INTRODUCTION
• 1 - WINNOWING (Robin's Ashes)
  
• 2 - MIDNIGHT TRAIN RIDE #1
• 3 - THE CLOWN HORNS OF TIRUVANAMALA
• 4 - LITTLE LORD SHIVA AND THE MOB