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That is all up to this point but I am sure that we will continue writing.  He’s a story-teller from way back.  I became misty-eyed more than once while speaking to him that day while eating (or rather not eating) our breakfast.

The way it happened was this:

I walked into Corner Kitchen, a swanky little restaurant in Asheville, NC one Saturday morning after having a visit with my dearest of friends Phil and Becky to see a concert (Heartless Bastards) the night before.

Upon greeting everyone in that place who was working with a smile and a gesture of “good morning” I sat down at the bar, ordered shrimp and grits and a bloody mary, extra spicy, and did some casual people watching.  The sun was shining in the glass eating area behind me and the bartendress was a fabulous, no-nonsense type of “sweetheart once you get to know her, but she’ll probably kick your teeth in if you don’t watch it”.  You know the kind.  I love all of them.  I like to think of myself as one those people, if you don’t watch it.  (Though I’d never kick anyone’s teeth in, really.)  As soon as I received my vittles, an older gentlemen sauntered in, obviously saluting everyone who worked there as an old friend with a big grin and loud booming voice.  Wearing overalls and a smile, he sat down one seat over from me at the bar and began chatting up the lovely bartendress.  He and I looked at each other and I greeted him with a “good morning to you!”  At that, we were non-stop talking.  He had so many questions about me and I about him.  He learned that I was a singer/songwriter/activist/poet.  I learned that he was a story-teller, life-liver, and ex-postmaster and musician.  We gently bombarded one another with sharings of our pasts and questions of current pass-times and hobbies, works and interests.  It was as if I’d met someone whom I’d known for lifetimes, in an 87 year old man.  He didn’t remind me of my grandfather, he reminded me of ALL of my grandfathers, boyfriends, and those whom I’d like to meet and spend eternity with in all of my upcoming lifetimes.  I’ll never forget that day and the magic it brought me.  He sang a song for me that he’d written for one of his greatest loves.  He’d put it down on paper and memorized it for a date when they were courting.  I sang him a ballad I’d written about Ransom and his murderous, heartbreaking death.  I sang him also Utah Phillips’ song “I Think of You” because Joe’s mannerisms reminded me of Utah Phillips and the way he tells a story.