4.9.24
Don’t be mad at me for wanting to keep you
‘Til my life on this old world is through
You’ll be free at the end of my farewell party
But I’ll go away loving you

And here we are, at the end of this round of the the Cosmic Jukebox.

When I started this little project on Jan. 1, 2024, I had no idea what would come of it. I thought maybe I’d write for a few days and give up, and I thought maybe I’d just keep doing it forever. 

Music and writing are two of my great passions. So maybe, I thought, I’d end up in a peanut butter and chocolate situation. And I did for a while. Then I found myself enjoying music a bit less as I constantly wondered, should I write about this one? What about this one? And so for now, it’s time to call this project good and move on to something else.

A hundred consecutive days of writing about music is nothing to scoff at though. And I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if I come back to this and do it for another stretch. Maybe not 100 days. Or maybe way more than 100 days. Who knows?

Before I unplug the Cosmic Jukebox, though, I’ve got one more song to write about. It’s a tune that ties together a bunch of different themes I’ve touched on over the past few months. Family. The farm. The unknown. The unknowable. Synchronicity. Growing up. Growing old. Probably more, too.

Let’s go.

Farewell Party is a country music standard. It was first recorded by Lawton Williams, the man who wrote it, in 1960. Little Jimmy Dickens was the first to cover it a year later, and since then, it’s been covered by the likes of Waylon Jennings, Alan Jackson, and, of course, Gene Watson.

Watson recorded his version for his 1978 album, Reflections. His cover of the song is full-throated, soulful, and rich. Not to mention a bit mournful. There was a whole vibe in ‘70s country music that leaned into mourning. It’s a thing that’s been replaced by easy cliches and cheap sentiment in modern mainstream country music, which is a shame.

I’d never heard Farewell Party until early in the morning on Friday, June 28, 2019, the morning my grandfather passed away.

He’d died in my parents’ living room, in the hospital bed where he’d spent the past few months. All his kids were there at the time, along with his grandchildren. There wasn’t really anything in the way of a struggle at the end. Grandpa had some pain that was being managed with medication, and I think he was as much at peace as anyone could be when he left.

Grandpa was an old Vermont farmer, but he was also tender-hearted. During his last few days, he’d watch the same episode of The Waltons over and over. The episode was called The Ceremony, and it dealt with a Jewish refugee family that had moved to Waltons’ Mountain, trying to hide their heritage for fear of antisemitic backlash. Grandpa would get so worked up each time he watched.

“Why do folks have to be like that? Can’t let anybody just be who they are. It’s awful.”

I worried it was too much for him, but looking back, I think Grandpa needed that moral clarity at the end. Needed to see a clear vision of good people doing good things. He struggled after Trump was elected three years earlier.

Grandpa also loved his country music. He and my parents would watch Country Music Family Reunion regularly, and one of Grandpa’s favorites was the episode on which Gene Watson sang Farewell Party. During some of his more lucid moments over the last days of his life, Grandpa would talk about Gene Watson. I didn’t know Watson from the next guy.

Anyway, after Grandpa passed, the appropriate calls were made, and in a little while, the funeral home people arrived. That’s when three incredible things happened.

It had been a quiet night/morning. By this point it was around 2:30 a.m. or so. The funeral home guys prepared Grandpa to go and placed their stretcher next to his bed. A few of us stood around his body, ready to help transfer him from one spot to the other with the sheet that was under him.

We grabbed hold, and as we lifted him up, someone asked, “Are you ready to go?” And before the question had a chance to hang in the air, a gust of wind blew in through the living room windows, sending the curtains out, perpendicular to the wall.

We all agreed he was ready.

As preparations were made to wheel Grandpa out to the hearse, the funeral home director asked what sort of music he liked. This funeral home does everything it can to make all involved as comfortable as possible. Dad told the director Grandpa liked country music best. The director went out to get the music set.

We carefully wheeled Grandpa and his stretcher out the front door and across my parents’ patio, onto the front lawn. That’s when the second thing happened. As we gently pushed him past where he’d sat so many times to visit, watch traffic, have barbecues, we could hear the music.

Dad smiled.

“That’s Gene Watson,” he said. “The singer Grandpa liked so much. The one he kept talking about.”

And of all the songs in Watson’s catalog, the one playing was Farewell Party. 

I know you’ll have fun
At my farewell party
I know you’ll be glad when I’m gone

The words drifted on the air, bitterly ironic, given how much we all loved (and still love) Grandpa and were not glad that he was gone. But the words were also perfect in their connection to Grandpa’s admiration of Gene Watson and how much he talked about the singer in his final days. 

It felt like the universe was giving us a bittersweet gift with the song. I said something like, “This must be part of a playlist they use or something like that.” I was assured by the director that it was satellite radio, and whatever song was playing was at the discretion of whatever station it was.

Grandpa was placed in the back of the hearse, and before the funeral home guys left, Dad asked if they’d mind taking Grandpa down the road to the barn he’d managed for so many decades. Just for one last visit. They agreed.

The barn is less than a quarter mile from my parents’ trailer, and we all stood on the lawn, standing beneath stars that seemed brighter than they’d been in a while. Gene Watson’s voice blasted from the hearse as it slowly drove down the road, taking Grandpa on his final trip to the barn. The hearse carefully pulled into the barn parking lot, pulled up to the barn and paused for a bit, and then drove back by us before going to the funeral home.

Standing on my parents’ front lawn, watching the hearse, hearing Watson sing, saying goodbye to Grandpa, I felt the world get so incredibly small before ballooning out to feel bigger than it’d ever felt before. For a moment, it felt like my spirit left my body and I was looking down on everyone who was gathered there.

I’d never felt that sensation before, and I’d never felt it again. Until yesterday.

Sitting on my own front lawn, gazing up at the totality of the eclipse, it happened all over again. The world shrank. Felt like it was there just for me. Then it expanded exponentially, and I knew I was sharing it with so many people who were sharing the same wonder and awe and hope that I felt. And for a brief moment, it felt like I was looking down on it all.

Thanks for reading. Whether this is the first Cosmic Jukebox you’ve read, the twenty-fifth, or the hundredth, thank you.

And remember, this isn’t farewell. Just a pause. The Cosmic Jukebox will be back someday.