Earlier this week, I was sowing my fall garden when the eyes and nose of my childhood friend and current neighbor Sherwood Day appeared over the fence.

"Is the Better Part Over?" he asked.

We've known each other for so long that an out of context question is not surprising. Perhaps I was too engrossed in planting my chard seeds one-half inch into the soil and 18 inches apart, but I had no idea what this painfully present figure in my life was talking about.

"It's a Willie Nelson song," he said with impatience.

I don't listen to Willie Nelson's music. I rarely listen to music at all. If pressed on musical preference I suppose I will admit to tapping a foot to the phrasings of Jeffrey Osborne now and again. Beyond that, I prefer silence or the chaotic hum of nature.

"Listen to it sometime," he chided.

And then he disappeared behind the fence.

Why must I endure such insanity? Can I not garden in peace without the disruption of a crazy person impressing upon me the need to track down the song of a singer, beloved by some, but wholly unknown by me?

Perhaps I will slip down to Melodies later this afternoon and purchase a Willie Nelson LP. If for nothing else but to keep Sherwood Day from chastising me once more on this issue.

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