The following is part three of a mostly true historical fiction recollection of Willie Nelson’s 1975 Fourth of July Picnic in Liberty Hill. To start from the beginning, click here.
Riders on the storm
We arranged our tarp into a small tent. With our backs against the ice chest, the tarp came over our heads and gave us coverage down to our feet. We were dry and relatively comfortable and could still see out to watch the crowd celebrating the rain and the drop in temperature.
“Man, if you had asked me this morning what the chances of rain were, I would have given it less chance than a Republican being elected governor,” I said. “This is great. We’re dry, cool, and we can watch this crazy crowd.”
The crowd had indeed come to life a bit. Some people were out in the rain with their arms outstretched, letting the water stream down their faces and bodies. Others had taken their shirts off and were swooping around enjoying the coolness. The trails and thoroughfares through our community were becoming increasingly muddy as people trekked around the festival grounds.
“Too bad you were out running around with the sheriff during Doug Sahm’s set. It was really good,” I said to Mike. “Have you ever seen him live? You missed that Thanksgiving show at the Armadillo with Jerry Garcia, didn’t you?”
“I wasn’t available,” Mike curtly replied.
“It was the best concert ever. Let me tell you about it,” I said as I quickly warmed to the subject.
“You have … many times,” Mike intoned.
“But it’s a story worth repeating,” I insisted.
“I do not want to hear that story again,” Mike said, his face beginning to redden.
“You’re just angry because you had to go downtown that night. What was it you were detained for? Suspicion of possession? Just because you had a bad experience that evening doesn’t mean you can’t celebrate my good fortune. Listen to the story,” I said. “You’ll enjoy it and begin the healing process.”
“I am going for a walk in the rain,” Mike said as he got up and left me in my nostalgia.
His departure was advantageous for me in many ways. Most immediately, I had more room, and I stretched out and turned my attention back to the crowd. That’s when I noticed a pretty girl gingerly picking her way along the muddy trail in front of me. She seemed a bit out of sorts and did not appear to be enjoying the mud or the rain.
“Would you like to shelter with me?” I gallantly offered.
She stopped and looked directly at me, assessing the dryness of my shelter and its size. I could tell she was struggling with the pros and cons of my offer. The shelter was dry, and we had pillows from excess clothing, so it would be comfortable. However, it was small, and we would inevitably touch. I think what finally won her over to accepting my offer was the ice chest and the bags of snacks.
To alleviate the awkwardness of touching a stranger in cramped quarters, I introduced myself. “I’m J. Scott,” I said. “Would you like a beer?”
“My name is Fran,” she replied. “What else do you have?” She paused and considered her response before apologizing. “I’m sorry. That is very kind of you, but I’ve had enough beer today.”
“No problem,” I replied. “Being a Boy Scout, I am always prepared. I have bottled water, watermelon, and many snacks.”
“I would love a water,” she said, and then added, “Have you been enjoying the festival?”
“I sure have, and I think it’s just going to get better as the sun goes down. I am really anxious to see the Pointer Sisters again. They are one of my favorite groups,” I said.
“I love the Pointer Sisters too!” she exclaimed. “I think ‘Fairytale’ is the best country song ever written.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “What about ‘Western Union Wire’? ‘In pieces on the runway, I love you ….stop,’” I began to croon.
“That’s the saddest song, and you just made it sadder with your singing. Don’t ever do that again,” she commanded.
“I think the saddest song has to go to ‘The Letter that Johnny Walker Read,’” I said as I cleared my throat.
“Don’t you start singing again,” she said. “Besides, neither of those bands are here today, and here come our girls.”
While we had chatted, the rain had stopped, the sun was setting, the stage had been dried, and the Pointer Sisters were coming on.
Their energy level was high, and the pace was fast. The crowd was reinvigorated by the break and the coolness of the rain. As expected, they included their famous “Fairytale,” and the crowd showed their appreciation appropriately. By the time they finished, it was fully dark, and it seemed the concert was just getting started. Although on paper it was scheduled to end within the hour, the featured bands had not yet appeared.
“That was really good! Thank you for making room for me and helping me get out of the rain. I better head out and connect with my friends before they leave me here,” Fran said. She leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and pressed a paper into my hand before darting out into the crowd.
I unfolded the paper to see her name and phone number neatly printed on the page as Mike came ambling up.
“Who was that?” Mike asked, time and curiosity seemingly alleviating his former irritation.
“I think she’s going to be my Fran,” I mused.
“Does your friend have a sister?” Mike pursued.
“Hell, I don’t know, but if she did she would probably be bad news for you, so forget about it,” I cautioned. “This show is really heating up and the crowd is thinning out. Let’s eat and have a beer while they’re changing sets, then we can head down closer to the stage to get a better view. I think Kris Kristofferson is coming on soon.”
