Bret Calvert

I grew up in a tiny little town called Hunt, TX. (I’ve always imagined that it was called “Hunt” because there were only four things to do there and no one wanted to live in a town called “Drink”, “Fish” or “Screw.”)

 At the intersection created by one of the two stop signs in Hunt is a country store called “The Store.” It’s an adequate name as there are no other stores of any sort nearby to get it confused with. It is a emphatically brown building that wears its woodiness like a badge of honor.

It is the center of all things Hunt. There is a café, a place to pitch washers out back and on Thursday nights the entire town turns out for Steak Night.

…and I literally mean “the entire town”

…and I mean “literally” literally. (So sad that we have to explain that these days)

 

The café’s specialty was a dish called the Hunt Taco. Basically, a cheeseburger served in a tortilla instead of on a bun.

Now, I don’t claim to know many truths about the universe…but I do know this…to eat a Hunt Taco and drink an IBC root beer on a Sunday afternoon is to touch the face of God.

 

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Another constant feature of The Store is a couple of good-old boys sitting on the bench out front drinking beer. It’s not always the same two good-old boys, but there are always two of them there. Commenting on the world as it passes like a tipsy Statler and Waldorf of the Texas Hill Country.

 One of the only four songs I have ever written was about one of those men in front of the store. Not an actual one, mind you…I took the name of the guy who owned The Store at the time and made up a completely fictional story about one of the old buzzards from the front bench. 

Now that I’m here and trying to make an effort to share some of my writings, I’m gonna offer up these old lyrics, as well. It’s pretty obvious I’m no Shel Silverstein and I’m crapping my pants at the thought of sharing this with you…But I guess that’s the only way to progress as a writer…just keep your pants filled with metaphorical crap…or something like that. 

 

Anyway, here’s the song…

 

 

THE BALLAD OF OWEN GILBERT

 

At a little place just called The Store

On any given day

You can find an old man sittin’ out front

With nothing much to say

 

Owen Gilbert, his guitar

And their best friend Lone Star beer

Spend all day picking out the saddest tune

You would ever hope to hear

 

(chorus)

And he’ll drink all day

Until the sun dips below the trees

Then he’ll up and drive a-way

With three sheets in the breeze.

 

 

He’s been there nearly twenty years

Since they buried his poor Sue

He took to drinking and playing that song

‘Cause he didn’t know what else to do

 

Everyone’s offered to ride him around

And they tried to take his keys

But he’d ignore ‘em and keep on driving

With three sheets in the breeze

 

(chorus)

And he’ll drink all day

Until he’s seeing things in threes

Then he’ll up and drive a-way

With three sheets in the breeze

 

 

One day I went up and I asked him

Why he’s so reckless with his life

He said “It seems the Good Lord’s mad at me

And won’t let me see my wife.”

 

“The Book says that I can’t kill myself

And I guess I reckon why

If you want to sit at the Big Man’s table

You gotta let him pick how you die”

 

“And I know my Sue’s up in heaven

So I gotta play it straight

But ain’t nothing in that Book that says

I gotta sit around and wait”

 

“I once read that the biggest killers

Are drunk driving and heart disease

So I don’t eat nothing but bacon

And I drive around with three sheets in the breeze”

 

 

(Chorus)

And he’ll drink all day

Until he’s drunk as Cooter Brown’s dog’s fleas

Then he’ll up and drive a-way

With three sheets in the breeze

 

 

He’s still there to this very day

And as far as I can tell

The Lord still doesn’t want him

And he’s been to good for Hell

 

I know some day he won’t be at the Store

Picking that sad song

‘Cause even Jesus Christ can hold a grudge

For only just so long

 

(Chorus)

Until then he’ll spend every night

Just praying on his knees

“Lord forgive me for driving Sue around

With three sheets in the breeze.”