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#honkytonklife

May 17th 2025; Saturday Night: You know what’s great about The Rose? It’s the people—a whole glorious mix of them. All ages, all walks of life, all somehow ending up on the same dance floor like fate accidentally double-booked a high school reunion and a retirement party. I’m 73, and believe it or not, I’m not even the oldest one there. That title belongs to Roland, who’s 93 and still shows up like clockwork. He sticks to his trusty slow two-step, moving like a man who knows better than to rush a good thing. But he’s out, he’s social, and let’s be honest—that’s a big deal.

Me? I’ve got a home life that’s basically gardens, chickens, and a border collie with an inflated sense of importance. I break that up with some volunteer work and the occasional night spent up on some high, lonely ridge—just me and the dog searching out solitude like it's a prayer that's only meant for the stars.

But you make do with what you’ve got. And I can tell you right now, it doesn’t bother me one bit that I’m dancing with women who were probably in diapers when I first stepped foot in The Rose, and now think vintage is 2010, and that landlines are a myth. It’s a thrill—especially when a fast song comes on and we both end up gasping like we’ve just run a marathon we didn’t train for. That’s the beauty of it. You take whatever you’ve got left in the tank and you spin it into joy. Days, weeks, years—they’re still rich. You just have to show up and dance.

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