Fuzzy showed up at 9:30 on his portable car phone. It’s rare to see him without it, except when the signal drops on a bend or a bridge. During those times, he lets out a frustrated “dambdamb damnit!” He runs his entire taxi operation from his car he apologetically explains, “I’m the driver, dispatcher, and accountant for this whole taxi enterprise. But that also means I can do anything I want!” he said “I even pick up hitchhikers from time to time.” He parked under the shoe tree where, he insisted, the reception was best. Plugging one ear and closing his eyes, Fuzzy booked his next client before driving us into town.

Eureka Springs is certainly unique. Almost every store offers weddings—The Tattoo Parlor doubles as a marriage parlor, and The Cigar Shop wants to marry you and gift your new husband a free stogie. We walked by an “Old Time Photo” studio that, unsurprisingly, also functioned as a wedding parlor. Their window was full of framed photos —newlyweds dressed in 19th-century hooker and gangster garb sporting new rings and casual attitudes toward marriage. It seemed, in Eureka Springs, people were getting hitched just for the fun of it, or for the perks like a free sepia picture or cigar. Walking by the Tattoo/Marriage Parlor, I couldn’t help but point out the irony of permanent inkings juxtaposed against loosely tied knotings of matrimony. Ravenous, we looked around for a place to eat that wouldn’t unintentionally turn into a wedding ceremony.

A woman passing by stopped us. “My husband and I loved your show last night,” she said, beaming through thick glasses and a Southern accent. Suddenly, we were celebrities. People were coming up to us, complimenting our performance. “I heard your show last night was great,” said a man poking his head out from his barbershop. “I love your voice,” said a teenage girl walking by with her friends. And it struck Soucy and I at the same time —a thousand people in attendance at our gig the night before meant we’d played in front of more than ½ the population of Eureka Springs.

Just as we were about to give up on lunch, a small-hipped, wide-eyed brunett woman ushered us into her café, “Mud Street,” for a bite assuring us she wouldn’t marry us and insisting she feed us a free meal, She’d loved our show. Everyone stared and whispered as we walked in. Lisa sat us down and poured out two piping hot cups of coffee. The steam curled up in cat tail-like rings around our chins. Exaggeratedly, I widened my eyes at Chris so as not to be overheard and said, “Remind me to move to Eureka Springs for a week if I ever need to feel famous.”

Drunk on town people’s love, we wandered up the street after our free meal, to the arts fair. Face painters glued glitter on children’s bright eyes and cheeks, drum makers showcased their instruments, and dancers in mirrored Indian skirts spun to the drone of a a sea of didgeridoos. Bubbles floated through the crowds, dodging feet and children’s eager hands. Chefs in stained aprons flipped steaming meat which sizzled and hissed and surrounded us in plumes of sweet-smelling sausage and bell pepper. Astrologers offered tarro readings, and half the people who passed grabbed our arms to say, “We loved the show last night.” Eureka Springs felt like the backdrop of a fairytale. I could have swam in that velvety joyous environment all day but Chris and I had a show to prepare for.

We showed up punctually, guitars in hand at The Old Ballroom. But the sceen was chaotic. The stage manager hadn’t showed up, and the sound man, arriving late, admitted when he got there, “I’ve never worked with this sort of board before.” When we took the stage, he proceeded to send blood-curdling shrieks of feedback through the room and people clutched their ears and stared around at each other uncomfortably. After the third shriek, I pushed the mic stand away, unplugged my guitar, and addressed the obvious. “OK,” I said, “I came to sing for you, not to have equipment scream at you so If you don’t mind, let’s all bring our chairs up close to the stage. I’m gonna do this one acoustic.” From then on the night turned around. The sound man got drunk, and the audience, no longer in danger of being deafened, appreciated the rest of the show.

Back at the Land-O-Nod, Chris and I opted out of returning to town to see “Rice and Beans,” a band led by a pretty Asian keyboardist. Instead, we put on green mud masks, opened a bag of chips, a gourd of salsa, and a bottle of red wine. I unwrapped two plastic cups from the bathroom sink, and Soucy poured generous servings. We switched on Wild Discovery—something about tornadoes—and settled into our “honeymooner’s suite,” king-sized bed. Before long, the room was a mess. I kept dropping dollops of salsa on the colorful comforter, and Chris spilled a full cup of wine on the carpet. In a panic, he stripped down to his underwear and socks and danced around in circles doing a make shift chacha atop a wet towel in an attempt to remove the stain. I laughed until I choked because he looked so ridiculous in his cracking green clay mask, undies, and pulled-up black socks. He laughed too.

The next morning, Fuzzy brought us to the airport. He carried our luggage all the way to our gate, and hooked us up with free massages right there at the terminal (courtesy of a therapist who happened to be one of his drivers). But, though he was no doubt the best taxi driver we’d ever had, he refused to take our money. “I don’t need it,” he said, strutting away like a cowboy. He turned one last time on the descending escalator to wave and smile goodbye. See you next time, Fuzzy. See you next time, good buddy.

Wrapped in a green flannel Patagonia jacket, I futilely clenched my abdominal muscles against the cold. My front porch was quiet in the dark, chilly morning. To distract myself from the chattering of my teeth, I played a game, counting down how many seconds it would take Delucchi and Soucy to turn onto my street. Each of my prediction was wrong. I left my guitar on the porch and went inside to top off my coffee. Chris Soucy and I were booked to fly east alone to play the Ozark Folk Festival. No rhythm section, no Delucchi, and no clear idea of what to expect from Arkansas, aside from southern heat and fields of blond wheat. Our 6 a.m. flight out of Denver meant a 4 a.m. wake-up call. By the grace of God, Delucchi, the angel he is, volunteered to drive us to the airport Just as I was sure Delucchi had overslept and was dialing his number, I heard his voice call from outside, “Sally Taylor, Paging Sally Taylor, Please come to the white courtesy van.”

When we arrived in Arkansas, a skinny cat with a cardboard sign and a dirty chauffeur’s cap was waiting for us. He said his name was Fuzzy and he’d be our driver this week. Fuzzy was aptly named. His hair bunched and bucked like a rearing bronco trying to separate itself from his scalp. He wore blue jeans and a blue shirt and walked with bowed legs that looked like parentheses attached by a belt. I liked him immediately.

American Airlines had given me a hard time about carrying on my guitar and, as I’d feared, sent my poor instrument on a wild ride. The brown leather case was stripped like it had a run-in with a bear and the “fragile” sticker they assured me would protect my precious cargo, was mangled like something someone tried, unsuccessfully, to remove from the bottom of their shoe. Luckily, upon examination, the instrument itself was unharmed. Sarcastically, I peeled the fragile sticker off my guitar case and pasted it on my chest with a frown before jumping into Fuzzy’s rusty van.

We were booked at the Land-o-nod Inn and scheduled for a sound check at five but first, Fuzzy wanted to give us a tour of his town. Our first stop was The Shoe Tree on Highway 187. “Once a woman threw her husband out of the house and in a fit of anger he threw one of his shoes in the air and got it caught up in that tree.” Fuzzy had no doubt told the story a hundred times and gave it to us as though it was his first, “As time went on, more and more shoes showed up in the tree until it became a thing of pride for the town of Eureka Springs. Now, local kids take their old sneakers, draw their initials on them, tie the laces together, and try to heave them onto the highest branch for posterity.” But as often as shoes fall up, they fall down. “People, fallen on hard times, come to The Shoe Tree for their sneakers. They fall like ripe fruit from the branches and I do mean ripe!” He laughed.

He drove us through winding mountainous green roads into sunny Eureka Springs. The town was a color explosion. Rainbow murals met every view. Artists in tie-dyed shirts worked on tie-dyed easels off Main Street. “This town used to hold 20,000 people in the late 1800s. Now there’s only 1,900 folks living here,” he said, waving out the window to one of the 1,900. “People moved here around the turn of the century because the water was said to have magical healing properties, and there were all sorts of miraculous recoveries documented by those who bathed here. Turns out, the water they were soaking in was radioactive; still is today. But people with cancer and some other diseases were benefiting from the radiation,” he laughed. “After a fire burned the town down, most people left. Now it’s mostly a tourist town. A hippie tourist town,” he added, pointing and waving to the mayor, a man in his 40s ‘Beau,’ with a long mane of black hair tied back in an elastic who’d later insist on getting us stoned after the show.

I had no idea we were one of only three headlining acts for the festival until I was backstage checking out the merch. I was looking at the back of a shirt, squinting at the artists’ names in the fine print. “I guess we didn’t make the schwag,” I announced to Soucy, who in turn said, “What are you talking about? You’re the third name down there in huge bold print underneath Leon Russell and John McEuen from the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.” “What?!?!?!” I felt honored and humbled.

That night we opened for Leon, who put on a great and soulful show. He looked like a miniature snow-capped mountain. I must admit I felt a little nervous about playing by myself before the sold-out audience. But, as they say, “What doesn’t kill you”… and actually, once I got out there, the butterflies tucked themselves into cocoons and went to sleep. Soucy and I had a blast. The night was wet but it didn’t rain. Mist flies bounced off tin awnings and into the oncoming car headlights. After getting stoned with the town mayor, Fuzzy drove us back to the Land-o-nod.

Eric Erdman agreed to drive up from Mobile to snuggle me for a night in Tennessee. Did I mention the road gets lonely especially surrounded by bandmates who are also lonely? It’s a relief to wake up in Eric’s arms in a private room of my own and with a greatly improved mood, I call down to someone named Mark at room service to order “Seven continental breakfasts please.” I want to surprise the band with breakfast and bonus checks. While we wait for Mark, Eric and I sit around in bathrobes, singing in harmony to radio hits he strums on his Taylor guitar. When two carts of continental breakfasts arrive, Eric and I push them together through the 17th-floor hallway to the elevator. I don’t bother changing out of my oversized t-shirt and rainbow socks or removing the football-like black mascara from under my eyes. “We’re only going up 6 floors,” I retort when Eric suggests I put on some pants.

But apparently, you need a room key to access floors above floor 22 which I did not know and so instead of going up we’re redirected to the lobby. There, a suit-wearing businessman joins us. We smile. He scowels. I try, unsuccessfully, to hide my legs behind the white tablecloth. When he exits on the 22nd floor we follow him with our trays and I call Delucchi from the courtesy phone. “We’re stuck on the 22nd floor,” I whisper into the receiver while Eric cracks up behind his hands and people stare. When Delucchi fetches us he falls on the ground when doors open to reveal my vagabond ragged ponytail and rainbow socks. “Come on up,” he smiles compassionately.

The humidity is relentless when we arrive in Nashville. The hot, stagnant, air sinks into my bones as though I hadn’t any skin to protect me. We load in and meet the owners of 3rd and Lindsly who tell us the first 1/2 of our set will be broadcast live on a station called “Lightning 100” and that we should have a good show, as though it’s a demand, not an insight. We’re just glad it’s the last of the tour and I find my mind 1/2 way to Kansas already, as I try to engage in vague, detached conversations with people in the club.

We get food. Brian, who can’t, or just won’t, eat cheese and specifies this to the waiter, nonetheless, gets cheese on each and every course of his meal and frustratedly returns them for their proper preparation with a scoff.

My best friend from Boulder, Kate who now sadly, for me, lives in Nashville, shows up early and lifts our spirits bringing my mind back, temporarily, from Kansas for some much-needed girl chat in the walk-in/guitar closet/green room/hospitality the venue has provided. There’s a mirror on 2 of the three walls with some bald bulbs overhead that I constantly bump into while trying to change into a maroon top and black pants. Kate giggles and trys on my new Maybelline “Mauve Magic” lipstick.

There hasn’t been anywhere to shower since we left North Carolina 3 days ago and my hair is taking on a very dry, rat nest-like quality but the boys tell me I look all right (they’re the best) and we go on and straight into the radio show.

“No curse words,” they say, specifying…NO FUCK, SHIT, ASS or ASSHOLES but somehow I keep managing to fuck shit up and the radio DJ’s lips purse at each of my infringements. Nashville, what a place. It’s full of boots and business and tiny dogs with bandanas around their necks, and pancake make-up that looks like it would be painful to take off and might require a chisel. The air is seasoned with acoustic music with slide guitars and shooting stars and smoke filled bars with denim lights left on all night.

“I’m just assuming there’s no one in the record business out there in the audience,” I joke into the mic. Half the hands in the room go up. “Good,” I say “This next one is about people in the record industry. It’s called Strangest of Strangers.” The night flows with me poking fun at the audience, who eventually turn their crossed arms into hugs.

The rain holds out just in time to drench us at load out. I talk to a guy about a possible PBS special and a songwriter about touring logistics. I change back into jeans and sneakers in the mirrored closet and collect the measly $25 bucks the venue gives me for the gig. I leave out back door into oven-like, post-rain heat. Delucchi is hanging out of the back of the van rearangeing instruments to accommodate Brian’s departure in the morning to meet up with The Freedy Jones Band in Chicago to finish out their dates. He made good on his promise to me to prioritize my tour over theirs and though there were some gigs I had to cancel, I can’t overemphasize my gratitude he kept his commitment to finish this tour with me. I know most likely he’ll be moving on after this. I know it’s the last time we’ll crate “Fat Amy,” his red drum case, into Moby’s trunk and I pat the side of it with deliberate affection.

I’m not looking forward to finding a new drummer to replace Brian and recognize the moment as the end of a chapter. What better way to commemorate it than with him passing the torch? The last to drink the skunky Budweiser mascot “Skunk Buddy,” Brian needs to ritualistically pass it to me, the latest recipient. It is time for me to take the plunge and drink the hot, disgusting, cooler rat of a beer and I swallow hard.

Tiny flints of rain pass like ferries between us in the yellow street light. Delucchi films as Brian, holding the very angry beer, asks me to acknowledge I’ve made the biggest blunder this tour “I have,” I admit, and to accept the brown labeled award as my prize. “I do,” I say ceremonially. I take it, open it, smell it and swig. It tastes beer-ish but also like red meat and wound up fists. I drink it like a pro though and don’t spit it out the way those before me have (wimps).

Someone woke me up with a mommy’s touch. The subtle rubbing and gentle rocking of a loving hand was caressing my back and I lay silent, semi-conscious, floating a single layer above the surface of my dreams, enjoying the loving call to a new and glorious day.

Like most days, I had no idea where I was. Usually, when I wake up I go through a checklist:

1. “Am I alone?”
2. “Am I safe?”
3. “Where am I?” This is when I start a process of elimination. I consider all the places I could be until I settle on the most likely option (I am often wrong). Next, I move on to other, less important questions for example: “What time is it?” “What day?” “What’s the weather?” “Did I bookmark before I fell asleep?” etc.

Today, after confirming questions 1. Answer: No. and 2. Answer: Most likely Yes, I relinquished the rest of the list and gave into the possibility that I might be everywhere and nowhere and it didn’t even matter as long as the tender motherly back rub continued. Eventually, I cracked my eyes open and placed their blurred, sleepy gaze on some wildflowers in a vase, limply gesturing an innocent scent in my direction. Their pastel yellow, purple, and green blurred across the whiteness of an adjacent pillow cover. A mug of coffee sat on a nightstand. From its lip, steaming phantoms danced through the autumnal chill of the room. The back rubbing continued. Had my mommy flown out to visit me on the road? Excitedly I rolled over on my back to find Soucy was the source of my early morning massage. Soucy had brought me flowers, a coffee, and a motherly touch and in the childlike state I was in, I reached my arms up into the sky, where he appeared to be hovering, and I embraced him as the rest of the boys, in unison, shouted: “Kiss ass!”

I shucked peanuts and drank yerba mate tea on our ride from North Carolina to Atlanta. The Variety Playhouse was just as it had been on our last loop around the country 3 months ago. We were opening for Christine Lavin who couldn’t have been sweeter or funnier.

Someone named Karen who insisted she was a friend of Marji’s (from the Walden School) talked her way backstage. She’d been reading the Road Journals and showered us with “inside joke” gifts. She gave Soucy a teddy bear dressed up as a bee (for his Bee Dance back in Media, PA) and she gave me a stuffed skunk (Knowing that I’ll be the recipient of Skunk Buddy at the end of this tour.

The show was sort of unmemorable. We left at 10 to grab Mexican food up the block. The night was warm and windy. As we approached the restaurant, a painfully drunk man with a wig that read as road kill, stopped us.

“I’m trying to get to the next town over and now I… now I… I’m not asking for a ride, I’m not a hitchhiker,” he slurred, “I just need .68 cents. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t reallllly need it.”

Delucchi fished in his cargo shorts pocket and offered the man a buck before ushering us through the restaurant doors. The man was there as we came out and approached us again with the same appeal:

“I’m trying to get to the next town over and now I… now I… I’m not asking for a ride, I’m not a hitchhiker. I just need .68–”

“Hey man, we just gave you a buck an hour ago,” Delucchi said.
“Oh Oh Oh…was that you?” He secured the road kill wig with one hand and stumbled off apologizing.

His crazy energy added a new neon to the damp air and I felt overly aware of being a woman in a city. Conscious of the way my sweater gripped my breast and the grip with which I held my purse. With a shutter, I held myself in like a hermit crab sensing danger. There was something sad and empty and yet invigorating about Atlanta at night. As we strolled back to Moby, I watched a mother stick her young daughter’s hand under her armpit to light a cigarette. I saw a fat shirtless man wince inside a tattoo parlor whose doors stood open like a yawn to the night. I smelled asorbital and honey and hard liquor. I heard cats me-yowl like ghosts down alleys with flickering lights and overflowing trash bins. I’m not a city person. I’m just not.