The Hunt:

A traveling man sees a lot of towns, plays a lot of songs. Some nights blur, others stick like a stubborn burr. I recall one such night in a Mississippi university town, springtime it was, the air mild after a long set. The music, it was still thrumming in my veins, but the quiet of a late walk seemed like a good idea.

Out under the moon, I spied some blossoms blooming near a residence – just a patch of nature's beauty in the dark. A simple thing, really, that caught my eye. Didn’t figure on it becoming a matter for the local constabulary, but they had their own notions about a man out walking late and admiring flowers perhaps a bit too… personally. Trespassing for beauty, you might call it, coupled with a spirit they deemed a little too high for a Tuesday.

So, a night as a guest in their city’s ‘accommodations’ was the result. It wasn’t the first time, nor the last, that I saw the inside of four walls not of my own choosing. But it gave a man time to think. And quiet moments like that, for me, often find their way into lyrics, into a melody that tells a story. That little stay, it eventually found its rhythm in a song I sang for many folks for many years after.

Now, I hear that particular university town actually put up a little marker, a plaque. A small piece of metal remembering that spring night, the ill-chosen flowers, and the brief, uninvited guest they had. A testament, I suppose, to how even a seemingly small, unplanned stop can leave a lasting, if slightly notorious, note in local history.