I spent a good part of the morning collaborating with his brother Lee Frissell, Susie Frissell and her daughter Melody, his best friend Henry Landry, and his son Ben Frissell on my friend George’s obituary, which we hope appears in the Columbia Missourian within the next few days. It was my second experience with such writing, and it was again exquisitely painful. The finished piece, which was largely Lee’s handiwork, vividly, deeply, and accurately captured the essence of his brother.
Nicole and I launched our regular every-other-Sunday Zoom with my parents and brother and his gal. I am thankful for that technology.
Frankly, we were wiped out afterwards, and the rest of the day proceeded like a wide, deep, muddy, slow-flowing river. The West Texas zen in Jimmie Dale Gilmore’s songs and Dueto Dos Rosas’ blood-harmonies helped us cope with our loss, and they may still call TV the idiot box, but Cooked, Call The Midwife, and What We Do in the Shadows were redemptive of the day. I finally slept decently.
I admit to buckling slightly under the weight of two “dailies” at present. Neither are picnics
Streaming for Shut-Ins:
Mike Rayhill and I agree one should beware placing this record on the box in times of grief, but let’s live dangerously, shall we?