Happy Happy, Washie Washie, or Thanks for the Party, Bobby!

I live my life at full volume...

…and it was loud,

Loud like a hurricane,

Loud like a roarin’ train.

Yeah, it was loud.

Loud,

Like a trashcan cherry bomb,

Like a storm before the calm.

It was loud.

Two weeks before the sail date for Kid Rock’s fourth annual “Chillin’ the Most” cruise, we learned John Eddie would be playing a pre-pre-cruise show in our back yard. Had I not been on CTM3, I probably wouldn’t have known he was the songwriter behind Kid Rock’s “Happy New Year,” “Fuckin’ Forty,” and “Lowlife.” I certainly couldn’t have guessed he’d written Sammy Hagar’s “Loud.” But, at the time of the call, I DID know. I also knew we’d been referring to the upstairs balcony as Scott’s “Real Big Deck” since the first time we saw Eddie perform the song on last year’s cruise. To think he could actually play at the house made my heart stop. Momentarily. Then I thought, since delegations from Detroit, Ohio, Texas, and Canada were staying with us before the cruise, the house would be full, anyway. Odds were good we’d also have at least a dozen friends over to see them, all primed to drink and dance the night away. Why not add a live band?

The neighbors jumped on board immediately. We built a 12’x24’ stage, found a canopy to cover it, borrowed and/or rented sound equipment, arranged for friends to bring food, set up tents in the front yard, and invited everyone we knew to invite everyone they knew. On a Monday night – yes, I said Monday – we collected over $1,300 in donations for the band and had almost 100 people in attendance. Some were Kid Rock fans on their way to the cruise, some were local friends from nearby, and some were firefighters who’d come to celebrate our neighbor Rhett Carlo’s last day on the job. Though it wasn’t an “official” retirement party, he decided during the planning process to seize the opportunity to end his 30-year career on a high note. To say it was an honor sharing those moments with him is the understatement of all understatements. Like John Eddie says, “They Don’t Make ‘Em Like That No More.” Cheers, Rhett! It’s a privilege to call you friend.

Guests who didn’t leave after the show departed the following morning, most bound for the pre-cruise “pajama party” on board the Norwegian Pearl. Scott and I stayed home that Tuesday, cleaned up, recuperated, and packed for the following day. Having commenced our celebrations on Friday, when the first houseguests arrived, it was hard to believe the cruise hadn’t even started, yet. I questioned my stamina. And my sanity. At forty-eight, part of me says I’m getting too old for this shit. There’s another part, though, that believes wholeheartedly in the magic of Kid Rock and the dysfunctional family that follows in his wake. This cruise is like Christmas; every year, I feel like a little girl who can’t wait to see what Santa brought.

This time, like every time, Santa didn’t disappoint.

Kid Rock wore pink and kicked off his sail away show by passing out shots of Jim Beam Devil’s Cut to everyone on board. It was a little chilly, but the whiskey warmed us up, and the sun shined bright over Miami Beach as we pulled out of port. Next stop: John Eddie. His first show was in the theater, immediately following the sail away. He talked about the party at the house, thanked me for the hospitality, called my husband “a good sport,” and dedicated “Real Big Deck” to Scott. Shannon Curfman, one of Kid Rock’s back-up singers and a true talent on her own, tapped me on the shoulder after the John Eddie show, thanked me for the invite to the house party, said she was sorry for missing it, and assured me she’d be there next year. She was very gracious, chatted for a few minutes, and gave us a CD (which I LOVE). Growing anxious about being late for a scheduled dinner with the Kid Rock Life Line Admins, I thanked her for finding me, apologized for rushing off, and hurried out of the theater. (I know, I still can’t believe I basically said, “I’m sorry, Shannon Curfman, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got a thing.” I’m such an idiot. Hopefully, she won’t hold it against me.)

Dinner at the Japanese restaurant was both entertaining and delicious, and I was pleased that I was neither late nor shitfaced (I was both last year). Sonia Woolf, our fearless leader and founder of the KRLL, did a great job reining us in. It was a pleasure sharing several moments throughout the cruise with her and our fellow Admins. I was especially grateful for the sit-down dinner that night; the buffet line was the only place we ate for the next three days.

Once I hooked back up with Scott, the rest of that first night was something of a blur: New Orleans’ own Trombone Shorty in the theater, Robert James (aka “Junior,” Kid Rock’s son) in the Atrium, DJ Mark EP in Bar City, then back to the Atrium for the Big Rock Show. We tumbled into bed around two, slept ‘til about eight, drank coffee and mimosas with the neighbors on the balcony for an hour or so, perused the schedule for the day, grabbed a quick bite from the chow line, then boarded a tender bound for Great Stirrup Cay, a small, private island owned by Norwegian Cruise Lines that – for this, particular cruise – Kid Rock calls “Redneck Paradise.” It was still a little chilly, but the water was beautiful, and the overcast skies made for great dancing weather.

In addition to the women’s Lucky Bitch and men’s Speedo contests (which provide all the nudity anyone can handle), John Eddie played again on the beach stage at one, The Trews played at three, and Scott Munns played at four. I can’t begin to tell you how hard it is to dance in sand – but I highly recommend it! Back on the boat, we caught Trombone Shorty again at 6:30 on the pool deck, got wowed by Lukas Nelson in the theater at eight, then sampled a little Shooter Jennings and Band of Heathens before hitting the buffet for a late snack. We might have gone to bed immediately after, but we ran into John Eddie’s bass player, Kenny Aaronson, and (later) his sound guy, John DiCapua, and ended up bullshitting and drinking Jack Daniel’s ‘til almost two. Despite being worn out, it was one of the highlights of the trip.

Day two on Redneck Paradise was amazing. The sun was bright, the water sparkled, and the beach was overrun with 2,000 hardcore Kid Rock fans. Everyone brave enough to float on rafts in the chilly, sharp rock-infested water got free beer. I got two (matching, temporary) tattoos! Will Byington, the official photographer, flew a helicopter camera over the crowd for aerial shots. Among the many beach balls bouncing back and forth, to and fro, was a white, inflatable sheep that later showed up tied to the balcony in the theater. There was a guy in a lawn chair wearing nothing but a speedo with a rooster head jutting out the front (thanks for the picture, darlin’!). It was in that atmosphere that Kid Rock played his afternoon beach show. If you’d like to know what he wore, you’ll have to check with someone else; I was having so much fun enjoying the music and the people, I never once looked up at the stage.

Back on the boat, we joined a group of friends on the balcony overlooking the pool deck to catch Shooter Jennings at 6:30. Of all the musical moments on the cruise, the most memorable for me happened when Shooter took over the drums and invited his buddy, Lukas Nelson, to bring his guitar and step up to the mic. Seeing them together on stage was like watching “Willie and Waylon Part II.” My dad was a truck driver and a lover of outlaw country. Their performance gave me goose bumps from head to toe.

Because the lead singer (guitarist?) from The Trews told me in the elevator to see their show at eight, we followed up the windy deck with the theater to see them before rushing back to the pool to catch Lukas Nelson’s 9:00 show. We missed London Souls, Band of Heathens, and Howling Diablos, but had the great pleasure of watching Whodini rock the stage with some badass, old school hip-hop. We ended the night with one last dose of Trombone Shorty, made a quick stop at the buffet, and stumbled back to the room. It was after midnight, maybe close to one, by the time we settled in on the balcony. Within minutes, we heard what sounded like singing. Bad singing. I guessed karaoke. But I think I knew better. We both did. Knowing we still had another whole day to go, I elected to stay in the room and hit the sack. Curious, Scott followed the noise to the pool deck where, seated on a bench under the gazebo, Kid Rock and his son were (somewhat accidentally) entertaining a small crowd with a kind of iPod trivia meets “Name That Tune.” Rock was hammered. Junior was grinning ear to ear. Scott said it was obvious they love each other. I’m sorry I missed it, but tickled Scott was able to be there.

We slept through the belly flop contest and, unfortunately, the Eye Candy Friday Club photo, but caught Lukas Nelson’s first three songs on the pool deck before grudgingly tearing ourselves away and running (vigorously, frantically) to the Flip Cup tournament. Team KRLL won their first match after the opposing team forfeited, won the second match due to obvious prowess and skill, and lost the third match because no one honestly expected to get beyond round one and we weren’t kidding anybody. As a second-year cheerleader (who missed our only match last year while standing in line for a drink), I was simply elated to be present for all three games. GO TEAM!

Shooter and Lukas played the same stage one last time around 4:00 on the pool deck. Kid Rock held court for his Q&A at five, with Junior standing close behind (sporting a video camera and the same broad grin he’d had all weekend). It was exciting to see our good friends participate after being selected as two of the dozen or more cruisers who got to step up to the mic and ask Rock a question. Go, B.J. and Josee! Quotes of the day include, “No, I won’t sleep with you,” “That was funny, right?” “What was the question, again?” and “This is A-murr-ica, we speak A-murr-ican.” Drinking with Tom and Cathy last year was worth every minute, but I was happy we made it to this year’s Q&A.

We saw John Eddie and the band one last time in the Spinnaker Lounge, then watched a bit more of The Trews and the Big Rock Show before – to Scott’s chagrin – I called it a night early. Not that I was thrilled. My knee was throbbing and I was on the verge of seeing double. If I had any hope of getting off the boat in the morning AND having the wherewithal to drive on I-95 for an hour to get home, I knew I should stay off the dance floor and away from the bar. So, Scott rejoined the party and I tidied up the cabin, packed my suitcase and shoulder bag, made a pot of decaf, and enjoyed a quiet cigarette (or two) on the balcony. Listening to the waves crash below, I was grateful for the calm. I thought about the cruise and the pre-pre-cruise and the amazing people we’ve met along this unexpected road. We’re blessed: there’s no truer way to say that.

One of the greatest gifts we’ve given ourselves as a species is music. When we all tune in, the music binds us, lifts us up, and transports us beyond the moment. Few things can take you back to a particular place and time like a song can. Think of Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight.” INXS’s “New Sensation.” Journey’s “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’.” Stevie Nicks’ “One Winged Dove.” Boston’s “Don’t Look Back.” Sometimes I swear I can smell the wrestling mats tucked behind the gymnasium bleachers, or the vinyl interior of the Duster, with its banana scratch and sniff stickers on the dash and the Visine and mints in the glove compartment. Music makes us smile, laugh, cry, and dance. Together. As the song goes, what a wonderful world it could be if we did that more often.

When I hear a Kid Rock song, I’m reminded of more than a single memory. I think of the people. I think of the friendships. I think of New Year’s Eve and Mardis Gras. Redneck Paradise and Orlando Calling. I think of Detroit and the legends of Motown (and dancing in the Walmart parking lot). I think of the heart and soul of Bob Ritchie and the music he’s introduced me to for the past 15 years, through his songs, his cruise, and through the people he endorses and surrounds himself with – Kracker, Hank, Shannon, Jessie, Cheryl, John Eddie, Ponderosa, Heather Luttrell, The Rhythm Yard, Trombone Shorty, Big Sam and the Funky Nation, The Young Brothers, R.L. Burnside, Robert Bradley… By introducing me to Lukas and the Promise of the Real, he’s even helped me find my way back to my musical roots. Who knew Willie Nelson was THAT cool?! (Thanks, Dad, for making me listen to that crap.) J

Without Kid Rock I might have missed it all. So, thanks for the party, Bobby. Thanks for ALL the parties. As long as you’re at the helm, I’ll be there – with my friends, my dancing shoes, and my hat – ready for you to turn it up loud.

~ Dawn

Top 10 Best Moments

Inspired by our dear friend, Cathy, and her entertaining “Top Ten” (especially love the Big Wheel), I’ve been considering my own best moments in life. It’s been a good exercise, to help remind me where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. I didn’t include obvious things like the day Scott proposed (which was pretty cool), our wedding, the birth of my kids, or the day we brought home our first dog. Buying our house isn’t here, either, though this place has continually boosted my spirit. Specifically, I tried to pinpoint moments of pure joy, when my heart felt as full as it could be. Beginning with one of my earliest memories, and progressing mostly chronologically from there, I humbly give you my Top 10…

1. Singing, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” in my grandparents’ rec room. I was very young, maybe six or nine, and all the family had finished dinner and gathered to watch the show. I clutched the microphone that attached to my mom’s cassette recorder, the shades were drawn, and Grandpa spotlighted me with a flashlight. Beyond the obvious, I couldn’t have had any idea what the words in “Joy to the World” meant. I’ve found they fit me pretty well today.

2. Winning a bike in the egg drop contest in fifth grade rocked, but there was a better moment a few years later: The day in 1978 when the winner of Grand Mound Middle School’s Presidential race was announced on the school’s PA system. We were sitting in homeroom (I think). In my opinion, the other candidates were smarter and/or more popular, and a girl had never before been elected as school president. I couldn’t believe I won.

3. Driving my first car – alone – to my first job. What a rush! Got a speeding ticket on the maiden voyage. When the officer first approached the driver’s side window, I apologized and told him it was a habit. My mom got a lot of miles out of that story. Knowing it always amused her long ago made up for the embarrassment.

4. Standing in the ruins of the Temple of Apollo in Pompeii, Italy, beneath the watchful eye of Mount Vesuvius. Beyond saying it was surreal, I shouldn’t have to further explain this one.

5. Sitting on a wrought-iron park bench in Jackson Square, at the heart of the French Quarter, with a Pat O’Brien’s Hurricane in my hand, on my birthday. I’d left my daughter and her friend in the pizza place and took a short stroll around the square. Since the first breath I drew there in 1993, on a day trip with my parents and grandfather, New Orleans has been a special place for me. Might sound cheesy, but the energy there restores my soul. It was a couple years after Katrina. The streets around the square, normally full of sidewalk vendors and starving musicians, were painfully empty. A few days later, I mistakenly drove through a particularly devastating stretch of I-10 and sobbed for almost an hour. But, on my birthday, and despite the quiet streets, I felt hope for New Orleans. The Crescent City will never be the same, but her light shines on.

6. Watching my son graduate from boot camp. Fort Sill, Lawton, Oklahoma. Scott and I drove there from West Palm Beach. We’d had so much trouble with him for so many years. The event was a milestone for all of us. I wanted Chris to see proud smiles, not tears, so I kept the emotions in check. After the ceremony, on our drive back to the hotel, I had to pull over and cry.

7. Christmas morning, when Casey was about three or four. She got an Easy Bake Oven. After dinner, she baked a cake and insisted everyone – all 10 of us – share in her bounty. On large paper plates, she commenced to distribute the tiniest slivers of frosted chocolate cake to each one of us. We laughed for days. Actually, I suppose we’re still laughing.

8. Typing “The End.” Can’t say the feeling was better with either the first book or the second. Following a crude, mostly biographical (and totally lame) attempt at writing a book, IMMORTAL BONDS became my first, real, fully fictional, 90,000-word novel. My family and I sacrificed a great deal on that year-and-a-half learning curve. Somewhere in the middle, I actually had to set the manuscript aside for six months to help rebuild the townhouse after Hurricanes Frances and Jeanne tore off the roof. Wish I could say CKR was easier. Though it was written in a flurried three months, editing took a grueling, life-changing four years. Holding it in paperback for the first time seemed like a miracle.

9. Sharing a shisha with a Palestinian gentleman in a courtyard café flanked by the Pantheon in Rome. It was summer 2010. The courtyard, known as the Piazza della Rotunda, was filled with tourists from all over the world. The Fontana del Pantheon, a massive marble fountain topped by a steep, Egyptian obelisk, adorns the center of the piazza. Steps to the fountain create a large seating area for visitors. Street performers entertained us with music and hilarious pantomime. I wish I’d taken more pictures. Also wish I’d taken more than one draw of that sweet peach tobacco, but the two hours spent in conversation with him – parenting, drugs, religion, government, terrorism, the meaning of life – were priceless, truly beyond measure. Seated only steps away from a two-thousand-year-old temple dedicated to ALL Gods, the scene could not have been more inspiring.

10. EVERY moment with the Kid Rock family. Seriously. Our first Chillin’ the Most Cruise in 2011, CTM2, departed from New Orleans. As we motored along the Mississippi River on our way to the Gulf of Mexico, the sail away concert featured an amazing sunset over the Louisiana landscape. I literally hit happiness overload. Shortly after that, a few Facebook friends and I started a little group called the Kid Rock Life Line. We’ve raised thousands of dollars and orchestrated the distribution of countless care packages, cards, and prayers for Kid Rock fans dealing with tragic life events and the aftermath of natural disaster. Meeting the Life Line Admins, in person, for the first time was an emotional high. Meeting the single mom who lost her house and belongings to Hurricane Irene, the loss that sparked the group’s creation, was more exciting than the Kid Rock concert that had drawn us all to the Orlando Calling festival. Then, there was our second cruise, CTM3, in 2012. We traveled with six good friends from here in the West Palm area. Though we’d been relatively anonymous the first time around, Scott and I felt like we shared Redneck Paradise with hundreds of our closest friends. And New Year’s Eve! Just two weeks ago, we opened our home to a van full of strangers from Detroit. Well, five strangers and two Life Line Admins. Plus another Admin from St. Louis, who flew in the following day. All were bound for Kid Rock’s New Year’s Eve concerts at the Seminole Hard Rock on the 30th and 31st. Two crazy nights at the “campground” and two, back-to-back concerts in Hollywood later – which we spent with an additional 50 or so more members of our Kid Rock family – we all discovered we’d not only made dear new friends, we’d added another moment to our Top 10. I can’t wait for March and CTM4!

Should you ever get the opportunity to really, truthfully, look back on the moments in your life that brought you joy, I highly recommend it. We move so fast today and spend too much time struggling to get from one thing to the next. It’s easy to forget how blessed we’ve been – how blessed we ARE. Every day can’t be filled with magic, but some rare moments are bursting with it. I hope you find more than ten. I also hope, during your voyage of discovery, you realize the best moments are yet to come.

~ Dawn

Will Write for Beer

Besides the groupie shit I tossed out a few days ago, I haven’t posted in a while, so let’s start with some FAQs, K? Beginning with the obvious: Yes, I’m working on a third book. Yes, it’s historical fiction, set in Malta, circa 1565. No, it’s nowhere near finished. Yes, it’s a prequel (as opposed to a sequel) to my first book, IMMORTAL BONDS. Yes, I plan to make DeSAIN, the villain of the first book, the hero of the third. No, it won’t be anything like CKR (except, maybe, for the orgy scene). No, Kid Rock will NOT appear in the third book, although there is a Joe C. And, no, I’m not rolling in dough. Yet. Why? Let’s just say this gig ain’t as easy as it looks.

Back in ’06 or ’07, I set the sales goal for my second book at “more than Paris Hilton and her dog.” I’ve so far fallen short by a few million units. Granted, Tinkerbell had a better marketing staff. Every time I think about it, though, I’m further disheartened by the fact that I’m actually competing with a dog. And not even a “real” dog, a purse dog! With or without sales reps, you’d think I could outsell a fuckin’ teacup Chihuahua.

Of course, I knew this would happen. One could even say I set myself up. I wrote a book I didn’t want to write, then named it after a guy who’s barely in the book. I used settings like strip clubs and NASCAR races, things that attract an audience not generally known for their literary inclinations, and those who pride themselves on their reading material will instantly – mistakenly – wave it off as an amateur attempt at a groupie how-to. No wonder the dog’s selling better.

Part of the problem is that I have an aversion to asking people to “buy my book.” Okay, it’s a big part. But I’ve said it before: I’d prefer the words speak for me; if people like what I write, they’ll look for more. In my opinion, my limited Facebook (Twitter, Classmates, Google+, LinkedIn…) time is better spent peppering witty and charming comments on friends’ pictures than cramming their news feeds with links to Amazon. They’re easy enough to find. I’m here to entertain, not sell. Don’t see that changing.

Another (rather large, seemingly impassable) hurdle is the book, itself: it’s raunchy. Remember that strip club remark a couple paragraphs back? Though most enjoy it, some are hesitant to admit it. Consequently, not every reader recommends it to someone else. Perched where I am in my career, I depend on word of mouth. Surely, you can see where this “pucker effect” might be a hindrance.

Why is it raunchy? you might ask. Because I wrote it for men who don’t read. (Yeah, that’s an issue, too.) Specifically, I took a long, hard look at my husband, his friends, and my own male friends and acquaintances and asked myself, “What would THEY want to read about?” Answer: Penthouse, fart jokes, binge drinking, and morning wood. Easy enough, right? I’d been monitoring trends in technology and social networking for several years and had noticed more men were communicating, but few exhibited a mastery of the English language. Armed with the knowledge and strong, personal belief that vocabulary improves with reading, I thought it was time to give “the boys” something on their level – or, at least, something that appears that way. Enter Redneck Fiction. Just don’t tell them it’s actually literary-quality shit.

The title doesn’t help, either. On the one hand, I elected to use an acronym for the cover and spine because (a) it was never my intention to capitalize on the Kid Rock name and (b) I didn’t want to discourage non-fans from picking it up. On the other, by not printing the full title on the book, and by using only an acronym in marketing and advertising, I’m not catching the attention of fans and am routinely missing out on the opportunity to reach a fair share of my market. It’s basically a “fucked if you don’t, fucked if you do” scenario.

Why not change the title? Because, given that it seems more accurate to say HE’s chasing ME, I think it’s funny as hell.

Though every coincidence further convinces me I’m doing the right thing, every break that’s come along has been whisked away just as quickly as it appeared, with no progress to show for it. (What was it Garth Brooks said about unanswered prayers?) Then there’s the self-published, Print-On-Demand label that keeps the book off retail shelves. And the industry expectation I wholly disregarded: As a new, breakthrough author, I’m supposed to stick to a genre. My first novel, IMMORTAL BONDS, was paranormal suspense. CKR is contemporary. The next will be historical. Agents and publishers can’t ignore me fast enough.

But there IS hope: BeanPods Press, a small publishing firm created by dear friends Maggie West and David Bean. The first short story I ever published was released earlier this year as a part of their compilation, BIOHAZARD 2012, and they’re bravely taking me on as a permanent author. Their 2013 anthology, FIRST LOVE, will include my second published short story. In a couple months, they’ll be re-releasing IMMORTAL BONDS as an e-book. Next year, we’re looking into offering a collection of my earlier, favorite blog posts and (maybe) an easy-to-follow, illustrated version of “The CKR Diaries.” If I can git ‘r done, they’re hoping to release DeSAIN in 2015.

As for CKR, I might consider re-evaluating my sales goal. Selling millions of copies would be nice, but – at this point – I’d be satisfied if royalties covered my vices and helped me feel like more of an asset around here than a liability. To make that happen, all I need is 200 e-book sales this month. And then, again, next month. And the month after that. And so on. It’s do-able. I’m an award-winning, thought-provoking, genuinely-published author (that’s two novels, six magazine articles, and a short story, for those keeping track), and CHASING KID ROCK is a damn good book! The profanity, alone, will keep me off Oprah’s reading list, but who needs Oprah when I have … well … you, and the handful of others who “get” it. Plus, I have faith in the powers that guided my hand to write the story in the first place that it will get where it needs to go. In the meantime, I’ll keep pecking away at my keyboard and dreaming of the day I get to tell Scott the advance check arrived and he can quit his day job.

Anyone know how to get in touch with Tinkerbell’s marketing staff?

~ Dawn

I'm Not a Groupie, Bitch: An Open Letter to Kid Rock

Let me first repeat the comment I posted last week on your Facebook page:

Fuck David Von Bader. In the ass. With his smart phone. Anyone who reports people having a good time on New Year’s Eve as “heartbreaking” is a narrow-minded idiot. You are who you are, and that’s all you’ve ever claimed to be. Neither Von Hater nor the New Times deserve your attention. Let the review go, and have faith karma will balance the scales, maybe with a nice venereal disease.

Okay. With that of the way…

Growing up on a small family farm, nestled in the foothills between the Olympic and Cascade Mountains in Washington State, I wasn’t exposed to much beyond C.W. McCall, Dionne Warwick, and Barbara Streisand. Television was worse. As a band geek, I broadened my horizons. As a teenager, I discovered KISS and Alice Cooper. In 1990, I got married and moved to Florida. My husband brought home DEVIL WITHOUT A CAUSE in 1998. Since then, watching you develop, both as an artist and as a human being, has been one of the highlights of my adult life. When you played “So Hott” in Times Square a few years ago, I grinned from ear to ear. I was tickled for you, proud of you, and honored to be a fan.

But it’s not just me, which prompts me to wonder: Back when you were an egotistical, crotch-grabbing, foul-mouthed, punk-ass kid from the suburbs, did you know how many lives you would change? Did you foresee fan sites like Extreme Kid Rock and Facebook groups like KRF and Chillin’ the Most, where thousands of fans would flock to share their love for you? Did you know those fans would band together, travel from one concert to the next, form life-long friendships, and forever defend your honor? Did you imagine The Sisterhood of the Traveling Banner, an international network of fans that ensure the same banners pop up at show after show? Did you expect the creation of groups like the Eye Candy Friday club, who share photos and videos of you daily and donate thousands of dollars to the Rainbow Connection every year? Or the Kid Rock Life Line, a non-profit that offers support during personal tragedy and has shipped countless boxes of needed supplies to fans across the country who lost everything to fire or flood? Did you know, then, that thousands of Kid Rock fans would follow your lead and strive to make this world a better place by performing small, random acts of kindness every day?

Did you know? Or has this all been a divine accident? Not that it matters. Either way, I’d like to thank you: for the friends, the memories, and the example. I wouldn’t be me without you. (No shit.) Now, get back to work and kick some more ass!

Sincerely,

Dawn Scovill

Hillbilly, Patriot & Proud Kid Rock Fan

August 29th

Had Mother Nature not been such a cruel bitch, Scott and I would have been grandparents by now. Our daughter would have been a new mother, her boyfriend a new father. Granted, not a one of us was ready. But, like many, we would have muddled through and eventually grown into our new roles. We might even have been good at them. Instead, our family was sideswiped by a twist no one saw coming. It might be a long time before any of us feels whole again.

Casey and Mitch drove us to the airport on Wednesday, July 25. While Scott and I were in Seattle for a week, visiting friends and attending my family’s annual BBQ, the kids were going to stay at our house to take care of the dog, cats, garden, mail, and whatever else popped up. The neighbors were due back from vacation the following Monday; Scott planned to fly home on Tuesday; his parents – Casey’s grandparents – were scheduled to return mid- to late-week; and I had tickets for the red-eye out of Seattle on Thursday. Despite the light support system, and though Casey had grown convinced she’d deliver early, she wasn’t due for another month. The timing seemed safe.

We arrived at SeaTac Wednesday evening around 10:30pm, picked up our rental car, and drove directly to Magnolia, where we’d arranged to stay with friends our first two nights back in the Pacific Northwest. The drinking started early and went long into the night. The following morning, I fluttered back to consciousness around 6am, surprisingly wide awake. We had breakfast at Chinook’s – a favorite Seattle area hangout, located at the Fishermen’s Terminal – then did some sightseeing downtown and around the Queen Anne and Magnolia neighborhoods. All via car, by the way. Which reminds me: I should mention I couldn’t walk.

Rewind some six weeks earlier, to Saturday, June 9. Following an evening with friends and playoff basketball, I stepped outside onto the pitch black deck to toss some recycling into the bin and slammed my right foot into the leg of a deck chair. Stunned and likely driven by shock, I slid the chair to the side, hobbled carefully to the recycling bin to finish my quest, then turned and moved with equal care back into the house to sit. Noting the unnatural, nearly 45-degree angle of my middle toe, I calmly asked Scott to fetch the Bandaids from the downstairs bathroom and the crutches from the garage … and please hand me the bottle of Jack on his way out.

I set the toe, wore Birkenstocks, iced my foot three or four times a day for a week, and walked only when it was necessary. By Friday, I didn’t feel entirely up to attending the Operative Me concert in Lake Worth, but we had plans to meet up with friends for dinner, and I didn’t want to miss “the kids’” show. I brought the cane instead of the crutches. And wore “pretty” shoes. I probably should have stayed home.

The first week’s worth of over-compensation aggravated my previously strained left knee, which required me to elevate and ice BOTH legs. No, it wasn’t pretty. Two weeks to the day, the toe re-broke while I was attempting to shave my legs in the shower. By the end of the fourth week, I’d re-broken the toe at least three more times, had watched seven seasons of Weeds, and hadn’t written anything more than one or two updates to my Facebook status. I was beyond frustrated. No position was comfortable. I couldn’t bend, squat, reach, or carry anything. Poor circulation had spawned numbness down my right leg. My left knee started to concern me more than my toe. And daily updates from the neighbor about her ex-husband and the startling leg amputation he’d endured only fueled the fire. Everywhere I looked – inside, outside, upstairs, downstairs, the pool, the yard, the dog – things that needed my attention screamed abandonment. I felt surrounded by disorder. That’s when the anxiety attacks kicked in.

Concerned about my blood pressure, I was finally driven to see a doctor. The clinic took x-rays and referred me to an orthopeadic surgeon who, among other things, said I needed to calm down. He offered Xanax. I declined. I was also advised to get an MRI on my left knee and to stay off my feet. He re-taped the toe to the one on the opposite side, slapped my foot in a boot that looked like a Birkenstock, and sent me on my way. Not being able to drive, I was (and still am) eternally grateful for the neighbors for making sure I made every appointment.

So, I shouldn’t have been traveling across the country. But I did. And, with Scott’s help, I made it. There wasn’t a muscle that didn’t hurt, of course; my toe and knee throbbed, my legs and back ached from the long flight and cramped, coach-section quarters, and my shoulders and neck were screaming on account of the cane and the unaccustomed pressure on my upper body. Even my hands hurt. I was relieved, then, when our friends in Seattle set me up immediately Wednesday night with two ice packs and a cold beer. When I woke up Thursday morning, everything throbbed, so our friends hooked me up again, this time with ice and an Aleve. Breakfast was great, the weather was fantastic. On our driving tour through the neighborhoods, I spotted a small park overlooking Puget Sound. Scott pulled over so we could take pictures. Spying a collection of empty beer cans in the grass, I carefully hobbled around and began disposing of them in the trash. There was even an empty vodka bottle! Some people, I thought as I stepped up the moderately steep incline toward the trash can…feeling a “pop” in my right calf as I did so. Scott shook his head as he watched me finish the up-hill hike backwards, to minimize the pain.

Can you say, “Dumbass”?

After another amazing meal at the Fishermen’s Terminal, this time at Bay Café, Scott and Jim left to see about putting the boat in the water to look for crab. Danielle and I took off to surprise a dear writer friend of mine who had no idea I was about to show up at his book reading. The amazingly talented and prolific Rick R. Reed was, indeed, surprised, as was his partner, Bruce. We walked across the street after the reading to share a drink and catch up. It was a highlight of the trip. After we said goodbye, and I promised to never surprise him like that again, Danielle and I headed to Ballard to meet up with the boys at the Lock & Key, another favorite haunt. As with the night before, the drinking started early. I remember thinking it’d been a long time since I’d had such a good time.

Around 9pm that Thursday night, Scott’s phone rang. It was Casey. He stepped outside the bar to take the call. Grabbing my cane, I followed and immediately didn’t like the look on his face. He mouthed something I interpreted as, “Lost the puppy,” and I grew instantly tense. What happened to my puppy?! Visions of life without our precious chocolate dog skittered across my thoughts. I was beside myself with fear as their conversation continued. Finally, Scott said, “Here, talk to Mom.” He handed me the phone and told me what was wrong. It had nothing to do with the puppy.

Back in April, when Scott and I learned that our jobless, not-quite-graduated, 18-year-old daughter was four months’ pregnant, we swiftly embraced denial. We’d had problems with her in the past, but her life was finally turning around. She’d seemed happy and had planned to join the Navy after high school to be the first girl in the family to serve in the military. We were so proud of her. A baby meant all her dreams would be postponed, might never happen at all. I remembered what it was like for me at 21 to have my first child. It changed my life. Nothing was ever going to be the same for her again. For months, I mourned her childhood and cried over the loss of her dreams. Mostly I drank. I’d wanted better things for her. But, I reminded myself, she’d chosen her path; it was her life now. And I had to learn to live with it.

She started showing early, the family talked through its doubts, and, by mid-July and the baby shower, we were all coming to terms with the inevitable. Casey had successfully graduated high school, had moved in with her boyfriend and his family, and the two of them were working things out. When it came time for our trip to Seattle, the kids seemed to have everything under control, and we were warming up to the idea of being grandparents. Then, not quite twenty-four hours after we’d arrived in Seattle, everything changed again. Only weeks before her due date, Casey was in the hospital. Scott hadn’t said “puppy” – our baby had lost her baby.

I held the phone tight to my ear, tried (unsuccessully) not to cry or think about standing on a sidewalk, outside a bar, 3,000 miles away, and said as many encouraging things as I could. Inside, my heart was breaking for her. My legs felt weak, my chest heavy. I told her I loved her and that she was strong. I prayed she believed me.

We went back inside after the call. Danielle met us with hugs and a tray of shots. Scott and I sat across from each other, locked eyes, clinked glasses, and offered up a toast, “To the lost.” I wanted to cry. Wanted to scream. Being painfully aware of the public spectacle I’d make of myself, I held back the majority of tears and drank, instead. It all seemed so unfair; Casey’s parents were in Seattle; her grandparents were in an RV somewhere in Texas; our neighbors were in Washington, D.C. The only family nearby were her brother, who didn’t have a car, and her aunt (Scott’s sister), who lived two hours away. She was so alone.

Only she wasn’t alone; her boyfriend and his family were at her side the entire time. Before the end of the night, her brother had also made it to her bedside, as did her aunt. Scott and I found some comfort in knowing she wasn’t without a support system. It didn’t help me sleep, though. I couldn’t stop thinking about Casey, couldn’t stop asking why. Why her? Why now? Although Friday morning ultimately started early, and with no signs of a hangover, the night seemed to last an eternity.

No one talked much. None of us knew what to say. We resorted, then, to practical matters. As we’d taken a cab home the night before, our first item of business that morning – after one last bite at Chinook’s – was to retrieve the cars. It was the first time in six weeks that I’d driven anything. Thankfully, I did it without much pain. Afterward, Scott and Danielle took a short detour to the dental office she works at to fix a cap Scott lost at dinner the previous night. We’d hoped to leave Seattle by noon, but didn’t make it out of Magnolia until nearly 3pm. Expecting the drive to Michigan Hill would be no more than two hours, we headed south on I-5. And finally started talking about what we should do.

“A lot of women,” as I explained to Casey a few days later, “would have dropped everything and returned immediately. WE,” I said, looking into her eyes, “are NOT a lot of women.”

I come from hearty stock, only a generation removed from pioneers. I’m proud of my heritage and proud of my family. Living so far away, I generally get one visit a year with which to reconnect and recharge my “hillbilly battery.” We all look forward to it. It’s likely for that reason it never occurred to me prior to Friday that Scott and I should consider going home. Given the information we had at the time, I’d convinced myself in the short-term there was nothing we could do; she’d lost the baby. If we hopped on the next flight out, the earliest we’d see her would be Saturday morning. Yes, we could hold her hand, but the worst would be over. The healing was all up to her.

I was also convinced that, cruel as it was, the timing had to be intentional. Everything happens for a reason. Casey was alone because she was meant to be alone. If there was a lesson here for her, would she still learn it if we returned right away? Isn’t my job as a parent to guide my children to responsible adulthood? And doesn’t that include making hard decisions sometimes? I’d sacrificed a lot of things for my kids, some small and insignificant, some not so small – at least, not to me. If I thought I could help, I would have insisted we leave on the first plane out on Friday, the morning after we heard the news. But I didn’t. Right or wrong, my instinct told me to stay.

The minute we left Jim and Danielle’s, Scott got on the phone and started looking for someone in Florida to take care of the dog and the cats. The first calls struck voice mail. I sent out a few feeler texts to find back-up. An hour into the drive, we were no closer to resolving the house-sitting problem and still hadn’t reached the half-way point. A commute that normally takes less than two hours was stretching to three. Scott tried to call Casey. She didn’t answer. Neither did Mitch. Seemingly cut off from the rest of the world, Scott and I had only each other. And we were both confused. We wanted to do the right thing. But what was the right thing? Continue on through mercilessly unending traffic to Michigan Hill? Or turn around and fly home to Casey?

My heart was breaking for my daughter. I wanted to be with her, wanted to offer her comfort and do everything I could to ease her pain. But I wasn’t with her; I was in Washington. To be so close, to have endured so much to get to the west coast, only to turn back and face the prospect of waiting another year to see my dad, my sister, my brothers… What if we all didn’t make it another year? How would Casey feel about that?

Go to my family? Or go to my family? I’ve never felt so torn.

It was somewhere near Fife (about an hour or two into the drive) that Scott re-capped his early morning chat with Casey. He said she was in better spirits and the doctors were inducing that afternoon. My heart stopped. “She said induced?” I asked. “Yeah,” he answered. “But she lost the baby last night,” I countered. “That’s what I thought,” he said. I made a brief and not at all comical note to self: Do not EVER allow a man to relay information relating to childbirth. “Did she say anything else?” I asked. He ended with, “She said she wanted us to come home.” I was struck with overwhelming guilt for not being there for her.

Casey told me later that, although she had told her dad that morning she wanted us home, the intent of her call that Friday afternoon was to tell us to stay in Washington. With the worst behind her, she’d come to realize there was nothing we could do. By the time we finally spoke to her, some two or three hours into the drive, it was too late to turn around, anyway. We relayed to her our plans to spend the weekend on Michigan Hill, attend the BBQ on Saturday, and fly home on the red-eye Sunday night. She was okay with that. To our relief, she sounded better, too. She’d had visitors, and several people had been intent on cheering her up and making her smile. I felt overcome with gratitude for the friends and family who raced to her side.

Despite my continued lack of mobility, and with thanks to the weather, the Fifth Annual Hillbilly Luau was a success, and our time on Michigan Hill did us both good. With each hug and greeting – from my sister, my brothers, my dad, my nieces and nephews – I found renewed strength and grew to understand why my dueling instincts had led me there. Say what you want about rednecks; their actions might sometimes betray their levels of intelligence, but their hearts are always in the right place. And my family is my foundation. Together, we’ve lost friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, and even Mom. We made it through. We were going to make it through this, too.

Sunday was quiet. And ended too soon. We packed and said our goodbyes around 6pm. The drive to SeaTac airport took less than two hours. Back in Florida on Monday morning, the neighbors picked us up and brought us home. Without changing clothes, we jumped in the car and drove to Lake Worth to see Casey. She’d returned home (to her home) on Saturday. We brought her lunch.

When we finished eating, I invited Casey to join me outside for a cigarette. Specifically, I said, “Let’s get this over with.” Scott and I had been aware for years that Casey smoked. Knowing we disapproved, she’d never done it in front of us. Once outside, she admitted she felt awkward and had been dreading the moment all day. I began what ultimately became an hour-long conversation with the words, “Honey, you’re not a little girl, anymore.”

The members of Mitch’s family weren’t particularly fond of us from the get-go. We were, after all, the people who kicked out the pregnant girl. (That’s not entirely true, of course, but I understand how they’d see it that way.) When Scott and I didn’t fly home right away, they saw it as another example of our obvious parental neglect. Our son didn’t approve, either, and said so in a phone conversation we had on Tuesday while I was spending another afternoon with Casey. He couldn’t believe I was upset about leaving Washington early. “Geese, Mom,” he said, “think how Casey feels!” I hung up on him. (We’ve since made up.) People will judge. Most of the time, in my opinion, it’s because, “They don’t know the half of it,” as the lyric goes. Whatever happened, happened for a reason. We did what we thought was best, and I’m at peace with our decisions. Most importantly, Casey understands. That’s all that matters to me.

August 29th was the day we were supposed to welcome our new granddaughter, Braelynn Lee Glover. But she won’t be coming today. Or ever. The spot I hadn’t even realized I’d prepared in my heart for her is empty. For Casey and Mitch, the hole must seem a bottomless, cavernous expanse. I hope she knows how much her parents loved her and love her still, how much they sacrificed for her, and how much her family looked forward to watching her grow. She didn’t get to meet us, and we’ll never get to spoil her, but for me this day will always be hers.

Wherever you are, baby girl, Grandma sends her love. xo