Red Dirt Rocker (6 page)

Next
came
the sound…the forbidding sound that only a tornado makes.
A growling, rumbling, whistling sound as though the 10:00 Frisco freight train had been diverted directly across the top of the root cellar door and was ready to fall in on top of us.

We were all paralyzed with fear as the twister roared over like an angry monster. I’ve never felt so small, so scared, so close to God. Aunt Carmen held the boys and me in her motherly arms and prayed out loud to Jesus. Dirt and wood splinters spun violently over our heads and it sounded like someone cracking open a pop-top can. The sucking winds ripped the door off the root cellar, but we didn’t budge. It was all over in a matter of two terrifying minutes. The untamed twister disappeared back into the dark and thick rolling clouds.

Jake was the first to go back up. The boys and I hoisted Mollie up the stairs brigade-style. We expected to see a war zone as we emerged from our bunker, but to our shock and relief, the tornado hadn’t done much damage to the barn or the house. They were both left virtually unscathed. The only things the twister took with it were an old rusty plow, two black shutters from the house, and the creaky wooden door to the root cellar.

The boys and I stood in disbelief as we surveyed the property. All the color had drained from Cody’s face. He repeated over and over, “The cellar door is gone…the cellar door is gone.”

“Cellar Door Is Gone…that’s it…that’s our band's name," I said in no more than a whisper. The hair on our arms seemed to practically stand up and shout, “Yes!” The boys heard me loud and clear.

I
continue to play our band's original song, "Sweet Goodbye.” I wrote the song with
D.J
. as my inspiration. It’s about changing relationships, and the unfortunate fading of some friendships over time.

My friendship with
D.J
. sadly ended years before. He and I used to play kickball on the playground every day in elementary school, but it all ended in third grade when
D.J
. and I got placed on the same baseball team. He wanted to play first base, and it became my position.
D.J
. was our pitcher and did a great job, but his competitive nature got the best of him at our second game of the season.

I was the only leftie on our team and panicked when my glove mysteriously disappeared from the dugout just minutes before the beginning of the first inning. My dad gave me his right hand glove and sent me out to center field.
D.J
. was put at first base and I had to play the rest of the game as a right hander. We lost the game and
D.J.’s
dad found my left handed ball glove in
D.J.’s
baseball bag. He insisted he didn’t put it there, but our short stop admitted he saw him slide it in before the game started.
D.J.’s
dad took him out to the parking lot by his ear and grounded him from his Play Station for two weeks.
D.J
. ignored me on the playground from that day on.

D.J
. is an incredible athlete and sly as a fox. He always
yes sir
and
yes
ma’am
s
his coaches and teachers, but I know his true colors. He still deals with me as though I’m his competition, not his friend.

I’m bummed that
D.J
. feels this way, but grateful for my
bandmates
, and especially Kyle. We have an unconditional friendship that will last. There’s nothing I can do to erase the resentment that
D.J
. feels toward me, so I feed off the “friendship gone sour” story, and channel my feelings into my songs.

I first started writing music for the band when I was just twelve years old. My juvenile and corny compositions started with the typical themes of rock star dreams, lyrics about our amps, guitars and the beat of the drums. As I continued playing and experiencing life, the quality of my songs matured. I could sit down in a single night, if the feeling inspired me, and write an entire song, lyrics, melody and all.

Song writing had become my passion. I could transform my hopes, dreams and conflicts into musical form. Mama said it was a gift—a gift that cost me nothing to share.

I close my eyes and I begin to sing:

Life will not be the same without you

I’ll never doubt you

But you turned away from me

I just
wanna
forget about you

Sit out on a bayou

And sing you a sweet goodbye

As I play and sing, I become distracted by a tiny barn mouse that’s scurried out from under a hay bale. I sit for a second, watching the tiny, dusty grey rodent nibble on a piece of Mojo’s molasses coated sweet feed that has spilled out onto the barn floor.

I think to myself,
W
hat
a simple life the barn mouse must live—no school, no cell phones, no computers, no girlfriends, no chores…might be nice.

The mouse darts back under the hay bale and my daydream is interrupted as a motley crew bursts through the barn door. It’s my
bandmates
.

"I found some hitchhikers on the road!" my sister Megan announces as she heads the pack.

"Dude!
Were you really hitching?" I question, shaking my head. (I find myself shaking my head at my
bandmates
quite often.)

"Yeah, we were
hangin
’ at my house after school and didn't
wanna
wait for a ride, so we just hit the open road.
Ya
know, when you're carrying a guitar case, people think you're legit," Jake boasts
cooly
.

"Well, looks to me like my sister was the only one that thought you looked legit. You guys are insane." I chuckle. “You’re lucky a serial killer didn’t pick you up.”

"I'm outta here, guys," Megan waves. "And
no
more
stickin
' your thumbs out," she lectures, pointing her motherly index finger at the boys.

Jake, Randy and Cody thank Megan for the ride. She exits the barn, leaving the scent of her Cotton Candy Bath and Body Works spray behind.

"Man, she smells righteous! Just like sugar cookies," Randy mumbles with a dreamy expression floating across his round baby-face.

“Yeah, your sister’s
hot
!” Jake declares, and Cody nods heavily in agreement.

“Oh Lord,
pleeease
do not
ever
say that in my presence again!” I beg with my hands over my ears.

“Sorry man, but if the skirt fits…” Cody adds dryly.

“Oh forget it, guys,” I concede as I approach the
mic
stand with my head dropped in denial. “Let’s just play!”

I wait for Cody’s cue to start the first song. He always clicks his drumsticks four times to begin our jam session, but only silence fills the large barn. All the boys hesitate, standing motionless at their designated jamming stations. I survey the stoic expressions on their faces and I can tell they have something on their minds. The boys never do “serious.”

Jake is the first to pipe up. “Hey, Forrest, we heard in sixth hour that
ya
got hurt, or maybe broke your arm in football practice today.” He begins with concern.

“No, no, not broken. My wrist is just a little bit sprained.
D.J
. had his brain-dead sidekick Box
tackle
me without pads on when I wasn’t ready for it,” I explain, hoping to squelch their worries.

“Man, Forrest, you need to be careful.
Ya
know that
D.J
. has it in for
ya
. He
freakin
’
loves
Heather. He’s been jealous of you guys since the first day of school,” Jake continues as he reaches down to connect his frayed and duct-taped guitar cord.

“Yeah, Forrest.
What if you break your arm or
somethin
’ and can’t play your guitar? We really wish you’d quit football,” Cody adds, as he instinctively twirls his sticks.

“It’ll be all right, guys. Don’t worry about a thing. Besides, my dad would disown me if I quit the team now. We’re
havin
’ a winning season. It looks like we might actually have a chance for the playoffs. It’ll all work out,” I assure them. The only problem is
,
I’m not even quite convinced myself.

“Okay, man…if you say so, dude. Yeah, it’ll all work out. Just be careful, man,” Jake finishes, putting an end to the serious discussion.

After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Randy mumbles. “Hey, Forrest,
ya
know what?”

“What?” I respond cautiously.

“Chicken butt!”
Randy answers matter-of-factly. “
Ya
know why?” He questions with a smile.

“Chicken thigh!”
I grin widely, thankful for Randy’s random joke.

Jake and Randy raise their guitars to their hips. “Let’s rock this mother!” Cody exclaims, as he cracks his wooden sticks four times and crashes his cymbals.

We light right into our original song, "Rocket." It’s a totally catchy hard rock tune that some would affectionately refer to as an “ear worm,” a song in which the chorus gets stuck in your head and you can’t help but hum it all day long once you've heard it. This is maddening to some, but magic to record labels.

I
’m revived and ready to go after the mini jam session. Playing guitar always helps to clear my head and ease my mind, and Jake, Randy and Cody never fail to make me laugh.