Tell Me, How Does Your Light Shine?

I cruise through the different radio stations at least 64,000 times as I make my thrice-weekly commute to the big city. Lots of people get me to where I need to go and I reminded why I love them.

I forget how much I love Three Dog Night until "Shambala" comes on. And I forget John Denver is gone until I hit seek and find "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." Elton and "Philadelphia Freedom," Garth Brooks and "Friends in Low Places." There isn't much better.

I've been rocking out to The Outfield (you know I like my girls a little bit older), UB40 (red, red wine), and The Cure.

Of course, we all hear songs and are reminded of something: something important, something sweet, something terribly sad and lonely. Today, I heard a song that took me back to the 3rd grade.

We used to sing an old country and western song, "Daddy's Hands," in elementary school choir, but some older kids changed the words, and it caught on, and pretty soon all you heard amid the playground monkey bars and merry-go-rounds was this:

Daddy's pants were soft and kind when I was cryin'
Daddy's pants were hard as steel when I done wrong.
Daddy's pants weren't always gentle,
but I have to understand,
there was always love in in Daddy's pants.

Goddamn, do you ever miss being the smartass you were when you were 10?