Leaky Buckets

  Seeking wisdom after listening to Craigie           We were driving home the other night from a gig in Dillon. The interstate was ice and the headlights were fogged, so we drove slower than normal. After two days of shouting lyrics in bars and shooting pool until the wee hours of the morning, we needed some good laughs to stay focused on the road. We turned to our old friend John Craigie, folk singer extraordinaire and his live album Opening for Steinbeck. We have listened to this masterpiece of sad songs and bashful wit easily a hundred times and each time, like all masterpieces, I gleaned something new out of it. In the passenger seat of the Honda Fit, munching on Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips, I heard the tale of the leaky bucket for the umpteenth time and this time, it struck a new chord. Before I go further, this is the tale of the leaky bucket, paraphrased by me, myself paraphrasing John Craigie, who heard the story from a stranger on the park bench in Portland, who himself read