Where the highway meets the sky

Feb. 24, 2005

Dear Julie,

My friend Randy looked like he was taking a nap. Standing in the long line at the funeral home waiting to talk to his wife, Sally, and their sons, Jordan and Noah, the temptation was to try to nudge him awake. Randy was a sublime kidder. Couldn't he be playing possum?

The reality that he was gone was incomprehensible.

Friends knew about Randy's diabetes. A few years ago at the annual backyard musicians' jam called Tunes 'N' Tacos, Randy was so sick he could barely make an appearance at his own party. He thought he'd overdone it getting ready for the hundreds of people who always came.

That scared the rest of us. But nobody expected this, that Sunday he just wouldn't wake up. Not at 51. Not now.

Randy had been on a high since June, when his band, The Melroys, signed with a Boston record company. The band's CD has been playing on Americana radio stations all over the country and abroad. Jordan has joined the band, and they were preparing to record a new CD.

Getting his songs recorded had been Randy's dream since he was a teenager, when he first started talking about "making it" as a musician.

He worked on the railroad and later appraised houses, but his family and making music were the magic in his life. Jordan and Noah probably played guitars before they rode bicycles. In the late 1990s, when the boys were old enough, they formed a family band with Sally on drums. They called her Bongo Sally.

Whenever I drove down to Scott City to visit in the 1970s, Randy played me his newest song if I asked.

"It's just something I've been workin' on," he'd say. For years he sent those songs to record companies that paid little attention.

Randy had a fine voice, in the same league as Vince Gill's or Ricky Skaggs'. His self-deprecating sense of humor made everybody laugh. But his songs were artfully composed gems based on true emotions.

"There is a place where I can go/ To leave this pain behind/ Just straight ahead on up the road / Where the highway meets the sky"

Those who knew him and how talented he was never stopped rooting for him.

After the phone call came Sunday, it was an hour before I could call Randy's house. Talking with Jordan and Sally, my stony shock turned into a river.

I regretted all the times I was moved by Randy's music, by his soul, and neglected to say so.

Randy was my guide when the time came to buy my mid-life Stratocaster. They all sounded good, but then he made one snarl. That was the one. For a second at the funeral home I wished his soul would send me a touch of his musical mojo, but that belongs to Jordan and Noah.

Last Saturday, The Melroys had a rare night off. Randy went to his basement to record a new song. Back upstairs he told Sally he thought it was the best song he'd ever written.

Randy made it all right. Ask anyone who knew him.

There's a hole in my life now where he used to stand playing the guitar and singing. The comfort is knowing I'm anything but alone in feeling that way.

Love, Sam

Sam Blackwell is managing editor of the Southeast Missouri.