Hello out there...

When John Prine was 16, he wrote Hello In There. He had an affinity for old people, but it was uncanny for a boy so young to write a song of such depth and nuance. How could he understand so well a life he hadn’t yet lived?

In interviews, Prine said, “It’s a song about trying to get through to somebody.” Like “hollering into a hollow log.”

That yearning—the desire to reach across vast physical and emotional distance and be heard—is what makes us human, regardless of our age. That’s why isolation is fraying our nerves, and why protests in the street will continue until systemic racism and inequity are finally obliterated.

I fell hard for John Prine when I was a writing student in Chicago. I first saw him play in 1978, at some hole-in-the-wall dive bar where the folkies hung out. He dialed in on pathos and humor better than Chekhov, and over time attracted a following. Last summer, I saw him at Red Rocks, where he played with the Colorado Symphony Orchestra. I had just turned 60 and I wept like a schoolgirl when he played that song.

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, "Hello in there, hello."

Less than a year later, Prine is dead from the coronavirus. I play his songs and try to write. I’m desperate for connection yet afraid to go out.

Which means—it’s time I buck it up and re-engage with the world.

So, I’ve bought myself a camper van. There’s a single-burner propane stove and a bed that sleeps just me. Room on the floor for the dog. I’ve hung mala beads from the rear-view mirror and placed a Buddha on the dash. It’s not a groovy VW bus, but it will do just fine.

Hello out there. It’s me.

I’m back.