Willie Nelson's Letters to America
Page 10
Now, you won’t see no sad and teary eyes
When I get my wings and it’s my time to fly
Call my friends and tell ‘em
There’s a party, come on by
Now just roll me up and smoke me when I die
Roll me up and smoke me when I die
And if anyone don’t like it, just look ’em in the eye
I didn’t come here, and I ain’t leavin’
So don’t sit around and cry
Just roll me up and smoke me when I die
Hey, take me out and build a roaring fire
Roll me in the flames for about an hour
Then take me out and twist me up
And point me towards the sky
And roll me up and smoke me when I die
Roll me up and smoke me when I die
And if anyone don’t like it, just look ’em in the eye
I didn’t come here, and I ain’t leavin’
So don’t sit around and cry
Just roll me up and smoke me when I die
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, WOODY!
Hey, pal. Wish I was there to celebrate with you (wherever “there” is). I’m on the hill in Austin, still in quarantine, bored to fucking death and missing playing poker and telling bad jokes. Speaking of which . . .
A couple were doing their thing on the second floor of a whorehouse. They were doing it in the open window, got excited, and fell out onto the street below.
So a drunk bangs on the front door, and when a lady opens it, he says, “Madam, your sign fell down!”
My guess is the sign was still working.
Woodrow, I’m looking forward to being back on Maui and mixing up the dominoes and burning one with you. We’ve had some good times making movies and television together, and it was fun watching you learn to play golf in Austin. But it was even more fun watching you learn to play dominoes and poker. Most people would have given up after a few of your beatdowns, but you’re a pigheaded son of a gun and were determined to get it right or lose trying.
I want to say thanks to you and to Owen Wilson for your generous contributions to the beautiful Woody Harrelson wing on my house on Maui. I know you’re determined to win all that money back, and I want to encourage you to drop by anytime to give it a shot. My door is always open to a good friend with a pocket full of hundreds.
You busted me up when you wisecracked that people who wish I were president don’t realize that I’m a “fucking hustler.” That’s about the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.
I think we’ve burned down a forest of marijuana together since that first joint on the bus in L.A. That was twenty-something years ago, and when I invited you to come to Maui and see us anytime you wanted, I didn’t know you were gonna stay! But I’m glad you did. It don’t matter how old you get—there can never be too many poker pals or too many bad jokes. Which reminds me again . . .
A guy goes to a psychiatrist and says, “Can you help me? My brother thinks he’s a chicken.”
The shrink says, “Why don’t you tell him he’s not a chicken?”
And the guy says, “I would, but we need the eggs.”
As a good friend, I should probably suggest you quit gambling while you’re behind, but please don’t. Like the joke says, I can use the eggs. But since I’m running out of ocean-front property for future Woody Harrelson wings, I’ll offer you some tips that may help. They’re easy to remember:
—Never gamble with a guy named Pops.
—Never eat at a place called Mom’s.
—When you’re wondering if I’m bluffing, never ever doubt that I can look you in the eye and, without ever saying a word, convince you to make the wrong call.
How’s that for a confidence builder? See ya on Maui. Bring cash.
Willie
P.S. What did the elephant say to the naked man?
How do you breathe through that little thing?
MARRIAGE IS A FOUR-LETTER WORD
In an ideal world, a marriage starts with both passion and affection. Lots of marriages survive and can even thrive after one of those is gone. But if you lose ’em both, you may as well turn out the lights, ’cause the party’s over.
When I turned fifty, I took stock of my life and thought maybe marriage and me weren’t meant to be. I’d been married three times without getting it right. I loved being a dad and being a granddad too. Maybe that was enough—end of story.
But life has a funny way of getting your attention. In January 1986, Waylon, Cash, Kris, and me were shooting a remake of the classic Western movie Stagecoach. They all had family members with them, but I was solo and found myself hanging out with the makeup artist, Annie D’Angelo.
Not only was she good-looking and a fair amount of sassy, she was funny too. We hit it off pretty quickly, but it took me some time to convince her I was good marrying material. We did eventually have a nice wedding, but the courtship was long enough that both our young boys were part of the ceremony.
Kris Kristofferson is a great friend of both of us. “We marry what we need,” Kris says. “I married a lawyer, and Willie married a makeup artist!” That’s a good line, but in addition to being a great mom, Annie takes on a lot of responsibilities in my world, and there ain’t much call for me to wear makeup. I spent years perfecting this face—why cover it up? On the other hand, I do love for her to brush out my long hair.
Either way, thirty-five years after we teamed up, I still look better with Annie at my side. I’m not saying we’re perfect; I’m just saying we’re close enough.
Despite it taking me a few tries to get the relationship thing right, I’d be the last guy in the world to ask about women. But here are a few things I think work for us.
We share our love for each other and our love for our kids. We share a commitment to peace and to do our part of the work to teach it and to work for it. We share a commitment to the environment of Mother Earth.
You know the old joke:
A married guy’s pals ask him if he can play poker all night. “I absolutely can!” the guy says. “But let me ask my wife if I want to.”
That joke’s probably not a fair comparison, ’cause Annie knows I’m gonna play poker. We see things differently sometimes, but we also listen to one other. We compromise when we need to, but it’s more fun when we don’t have to. And we’ve been married so long now that we usually don’t have to ask. All it takes is a glance.
We also share a lot of laughs. The past few weeks, we’ve been taking care of a puppy for Lukas, a really sweet dog that Annie was getting attached to. The night the puppy left with Lukas, Annie seemed sad, so I turned to her at bedtime and said, “If you’re missing the puppy around four in the morning, you’re welcome to carry me outside to pee.”
I like it when she calls me “Babe.” And unlike when I was younger, we know how to talk it out when things aren’t perfect. One time, we were going back and forth on some problem; I don’t even remember what. It was serious, though, ’cause at one point Annie said, “There are worse things than being alone.”
My eyes lit up, and I said, “Thank you. I think I’ll write that song.”
One of the favorite instrumentals I’ve written is called “Annie.” Since it has no lyrics for me to add here, I guess I’ll go with the song she inspired. I know she won’t take that personally, because there are lots of things worse than being with Annie.
THERE ARE WORSE THINGS THAN BEING ALONE
by Willie Nelson
We finally said all our final goodbyes
And tear after tear fell from everyone’s eyes
But just like a funeral where nobody dies
There’s worse things than being alone
There are worse things than being alone
Like a full house and nobody home
If the feeling keeps changing then something’s gone wrong
And there’s worse things than being alone
Well past my halfway in time
But I still have a l
ot on my mind
And there’s one thing for certain beyond right or wrong
There’s worse things than being alone
There are worse things than being alone
Like a full house and nobody home
If the feeling keeps changing then something’s gone wrong
And there’s worse things than being alone
If a feeling keeps changing then something’s gone wrong
And there’s worse things than being alone
DEAR KIDS,
When it comes to lucky dads, I hit the jackpot. From my firstborn to my youngest, and to every beautiful one of you in between, my pride for you knows no bounds. I think if someone had asked me when I was younger what kind of family I’d like to have, I might have been smart enough to say a family that is filled with music and a family that lives for love. And here we are.
We’re a big clan, the Nelsons—including my bonus daughter Renee, who we lost, but who left us with her beautiful daughter and granddaughter. We also lost our dear Billy, but he is with us still. I’ve been blessed to live long enough to see you and your kids and their kids turn out so well.
Don’t ever forget that we are blessed. Some would say everything is made easy by having a famous father or mother, but we know that a parent’s fame can make life harder for kids. I’ve always believed in my fans and tried to be generous with my time for them. Some of that time was taken from you, but we found our ways to make up for it, and I cherish every moment I’ve spent with each of you.
You’ve heard plenty of my advice on life, but maybe this is worth writing down for Nelsons to come, and for anyone else. It all starts with the Golden Rule—with treating others as you’d like to be treated. There’s no reason for anyone to go thinking they’re special. For every soul on this planet is blessed and deserves love, family, friendship, opportunity, and more, just as we’ve had.
Sometimes we face hard choices, but remember, the best advice I’ve ever been given was: “Take my advice and do what you want to.”
Doing what we can for others is always a winner. If you see someone who needs help, you help them. Why else are we here? Besides, you can’t give it away. Whatever you give away, you get back ten times over.
My mother, Myrle, your grandmother, once wrote a few lines about her beliefs, and I like to think that what mattered for Myrle still matters for all of us. Her creed is filled with optimism, love, and faith in our fellow humans. My favorite part is Myrle writing, “I will eliminate hatred, envy, jealousy, selfishness, and cynicism by developing love for all humanity.”
That’s a pretty tall order, but we all become better people just by trying to ban negativity from our thoughts and our lives.
In conclusion, please remember that there are three main rules for the Nelson Family: #1. Don’t be an asshole. #2. Don’t be an asshole. #3. You’ve got it: Don’t be a goddamned asshole.
When in doubt, always choose love, for love is the best way. Love is the only way.
With love,
Willie
P.S. For you and for every kid in the world, it’s not too late to save your daddy.
This is one I wrote for my youngest kids, Lukas and Micah.
* * *
VALENTINE
by Willie Nelson
Valentine, won’t you be my Valentine?
And introduce your heart to mine
And be my Valentine?
Summertime, we could run and play like summertime
With storybooks and nursery rhymes
So be my Valentine
Candy heart
If anyone could, you could have a candy heart
You’re the sweetest of all sweethearts
Won’t you give your heart to me?
Can’t you see?
I love you, valentine
Won’t you be my Valentine?
And won’t you share your space with mine
And be my Valentine?
Candy heart
If anyone could, you could have a candy heart
You’re the sweetest of all sweethearts
Won’t you give your heart to me?
Can’t you see?
I love you, valentine
Won’t you be my Valentine?
And introduce your heart to mine
And be my Valentine?
DEAR SANTA,
Out of neglect, I may have missed a few years of writing my annual letter to you, but it wasn’t because I don’t believe in you. You’ve always been good to me, so I’m not giving up on you—not by a long shot. It’s been more than eighty years since I wrote my first letter to you. I said I’d been a good boy, which wasn’t entirely true, and I asked for a very special gift, which you, in your wondrous ways, managed to fulfill.
Christmas was always a special time of year for me and for Sister Bobbie. We used to hang stockings on the mantel, and you made sure there was a present in each one on Christmas morning.
Mama used to take Sister and me to Fort Worth at Christmastime, and I’d see you ringing a bell. Our financial status probably could have put us on the receiving end of Santa’s donation kettle, but Mama didn’t see it that way, and we were always proud to drop in something for those less fortunate than us. Doing that made me happy, and it still does. The first thing you taught me was that the greatest joy is the joy of helping others.
When we were in Fort Worth, I’d see a man who had no legs, who sat on the ground and sang a song as he sold pencils and stationery to Christmas shoppers. I didn’t know his name, but I never forgot him. Years later, I wrote a song about him called “Pretty Paper.”
After I grew up and had kids, I started playing Santa at our house. I liked putting on the red suit and the white beard. When my beard started getting white, I only had to put on the suit. Annie’s and my son Lukas was born on Christmas Day, and he and his brother Micah gave me more years of filling your big Santa shoes.
All my Santa practice paid off when I got to play a mysterious old gent named Nick in the movie Angels Sing. My Nick character—who looked a lot like Saint Nick—had a pretty good take on Christmas traditions when he said that Christmas is what holds families together, across generations and across the distances that separate so many of us these days.
We all know Christmas is the celebration of Christ’s birth and is rooted in the messages of love that Christ brought to us. But Christmas and good old Santy Claus have taken on a special meaning of joy, goodness, and giving for people of all faiths, all over the world.
My wish for this Christmas is for everyone to receive some love and to give some love. There’s plenty of love to go around. Thanks for helping us share it.
Yours ever so truly,
Nick, I mean Willie
PRETTY PAPER
by Willie Nelson
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write, “I love you”
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Crowded street, busy feet hustle by him
Downtown shoppers, Christmas is nigh
There he sits all alone on the sidewalk
Hoping that you won’t pass him by
Should you stop? Better not, much too busy
You’re in a hurry, my how time does fly
In the distance the ringing of laughter
And in the midst of the laughter he cries
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
Wrap your presents to your darling from you
Pretty pencils to write, “I love you”
Pretty paper, pretty ribbons of blue
BAND OF BROTHERS
I’m not sure I ever had good management the first twenty years of my career. Paul could make sure I got paid for my shows, but the record companies would screw you on paper. You could sell a million records and still owe them money after your promotion tour. Waylon said he had a manager who could fix all that, and things got better for a while. Bu
t then they got worse.
Lucky for me, there was a smart and dedicated young guy named Mark working for my manager. How dedicated? He took a bum rap and went to jail to protect his boss. That told me he was 100 percent reliable, the opposite of his boss. I heard the warden was a Willie Nelson fan, so I called him up and offered to do a show at the prison. That was a great show for all of us, and while I was there, I mentioned to the warden that Mark was indispensable to my career and tour. Soon after that, they let him go, and Mark Rothbaum became my new manager. We didn’t have a contract, and we still don’t. Hell, he’d worked for Miles Davis and Waylon Jennings. I figured keeping things moving forward for me would be easy in comparison.
That was over forty years ago, and I can’t begin to list all the good things that have happened because of that decision. Sure, sometimes we fight like an old married couple, but it’s all good. One time I didn’t seem to notice something great Mark had put together for me. “You could say thank you,” he told me.
He had a good point because it can be damn hard to remember to say those magic words. So I said, “Thank you.” Then we hugged it out. For good measure, the next morning I called him and thanked him again. Then I called him the next day and the next. After a week of that, Mark said, “I got it. You never have to thank me again.”
I never have any doubt about whether he’s on my side, so I guess I owe Mark a quick note too.
HEY MARK,
I’m thinking forty years together must be some kind of record. Since we’ve made it this long, I hope you’ll be stuck with me for another forty. Some negative thinkers might assume I won’t make it another four decades, but my advice is to not bet against me or Keith Richards. They say every time someone smokes a cigarette, it adds another year to Keith Richards’s life. So maybe every time someone fires up a hand-rolled torpedo, it adds another day or week to mine. That means everyone’s welcome to burn one for me!