That special story...

Reinvention

You know those books you return to again and again at different points in your life? The ones that sit on your bedside table ready to be re-opened when you need a new dose of dopamine or pearl of wisdom? For me, that story was Even Cowgirls Get the Blues.

I was fifteen years old when my mom loaned me her copy. It was an emotionally devastating time for me. We were about to embark on a cross-country move, leaving behind everything and everyone I’d ever known in New Jersey, the nucleus of my life. Somehow this book and its heroine Sissy Hankshaw’s hitchhiking journey to the Rubber Rose ranch became my source of salvation. I clung to Sissy and her colorful posse as if they were my own as I headed to a place where I had no knew no one. I read the book over and over, mining it for life wisdom.

Here’s just one pearl that I started quoting at fifteen, and in the decades since:

“Plans are one thing and fate another. When they coincide, success results. Yet success mustn’t be considered the absolute…success can eliminate as many options as failure.” (Please insert the sound of my mind being blown here).

Yes, failure closes doors…but so does success. Think of all the opportunities that don’t come your way if you stay at a “successful” job too long. Think of all you don’t learn from a success that you might have from a failure.

So, yeah, I treated Even Cowgirls Get the Blues like a bible, or a self-help book, or a hilarious companion willing to be worn ragged by my affection (i.e. photo above). And because I was heading into the faraway, strange land of Washington State, home of the book’s author Tom Robbins, it felt like only he understood my quest for understanding. Only he had the answer I was looking for. Maybe somehow I would meet him out there someday.

Fast forward to 1995… I’d left Washington State in 1983, after 18 months, to return to my beloved New Jersey where I would graduate high school. But in 1995, as a 20-something-year-old, I was back in the San Juan Islands with my then-boyfriend to visit some of his old college friends who were…I was delighted to learn…close friends of Tom Robbins! When they learned of my mini-obsession with the author, they insisted we call him so I could tell him directly what his book meant to me. I paced around their cabin rehearsing how to explain that Even Cowgirls Get the Blues became my life preserver during a turbulent time. How I’d never even finished the last page because I couldn’t bear for the story to end.

We dialed Tom Robbins’ number. It rang four times, then his answering machine picked up. Turns out he was out of town. Our friend asked him to call back if he got the message. I was crestfallen. To make me feel better our friend busted out her personal treasure trove of hilarious postcards from Tom Robbins through the years. We took turns doing dramatic readings from his travels, as we dove into the most satisfying dinner of Sockeye salmon and sauteed Swiss chard ever (I still fantasize about it!). We also drank a shitload of red wine. By midnight, I had lolled into a cozy delirium next to the roaring fire, under a furry blanket on the sofa.

That’s when Tom Robbins called back.