Page 62 of Where the Music Grows

“Do you like the classics?” she asks.

“I do. I like all of it. Started when I was a kid.”

“How long have you been writing your own songs?”

I shrug. “Forever. You know in school when they tell you to do free writing in school? Or essays in general?”

“Yeah.”

“I was writing songs back then, but they were more lyrics than songs.”

“Really?” she asks with a surprise.

“Back then, it was just a way to get stuff out of my head. Now it’s kind of all I think about. I have a notebook that is worse for wear. A couple notebooks, but the one I’m using now has the newer stuff. It’s my diary. My journal. If I have a bad day, I write about it. See something that inspires me, I write about.”

She nods like she understands completely. “That’s what good music is supposed to do, right? Say the things we can’t.”

“Exactly,” I say, surprised by how she gets it so easily. “What about you? You ever write anything?”

She laughs softly. “Oh, no. I mean, I tried once or twice when I was younger, but it always came out sounding like a bad Hallmark card. I’m better writing quips that require a hundred and forty characters or less.”

I laugh at that. “I think that’s harder. You have to say a lot with a little.”

We pull into the fairgrounds parking lot, a sprawling field already filling with cars. The carnival rides peek over the fence line.

“You really like fairs, don’t you?” I ask as I park the truck.

“Are you kidding? It’s like a big party where everyone’s invited.” She unbuckles her seatbelt and turns to me. “What about you? What did teenage Jack think of the county fair?”

I kill the engine and lean back. “Honestly? It was the one place I felt like I could be myself. Dad would let me go off on my own, and I’d find the music stage and just watch. For hours.”

“So that’s where it started?”

“Not exactly. Mom got me into music. She’d lose herself in it...” I trail off, surprised at how easily the words are coming. I rarely talk about Mom.

Jinnie waits, not pushing, just listening.

“There was this one fair when I was maybe six or seven. Some country band was playing, and the guitarist broke a string mid-song. Without missing a beat, he switched guitars with the rhythm player and finished with this amazing solo.” I shake my head at the memory. “I went home and begged for a guitar for Christmas.”

“And you got one?”

“Mom made it happen. Dad thought it was a waste of money.”

“And look at you now.” She smiles.

“All right, you ready to do this?” I ask.

“Absolutely!”

I quickly pay the entrance fee, and because I’ve been making pretty damn good money, I spring for the wristbands that allow us unlimited rides.

“Where first?” I ask, surveying the crowd and the many food and game options.

She looks pensive. “How about a snack? And then I love to look at the animals in the morning before they’re all worn out by the heat.”

“Perfect. It’s been a whole five minutes since I’ve seen a cow.”

She giggles and nudges my shoulder. “We’ll skip the cow barn, but I bet you could pick out the blue-ribbon winner before the judges.”