I think we can all agree, we’re no strangers to love and heartache. The dizzying rush of emotions in those first intimate encounters. The intensity at which we fall for those who stoke the flames of our desires in all the right ways. The allure of a distant lover and how physical distance can spark new lust despite your differences. Falling into the familiar arms of someone we ultimately know is wrong for us, but we do so for those few moments of intimacy and belonging.
Cheryl’s experience was no different than our own despite the generations between us. She had her fair share of whirlwind romances that left severe battle scars from heartbreak. The ease at which she fell in love is a reflection of the delicacy of her heart. Cheryl is as passionate as they come, but it’s difficult to foster deep connections when you’re life is wildly nomadic. And this isn’t limited to love. All relationships—friendships included—require time and attention. One of the greatest challenges in being nomadic is navigating where to invest your energy when it’s being pulled in so many different ways. One day Cheryl would be in New York, the next she’s on the road for an assignment. With so many uncertainties in life, her romances seemed to be both spontaneous and shortlived.
One of the most—or least—surprising love interests she had was with Willie Nelson. While their chemistry was unquestionable, their connection was as precious as they come. Willie played such an integral role in Cheryl’s life and career, it’s no wonder he and his family meant so much to her. She went on the road with him several times, which meant navigating the intimacy and proximity of being crammed on tour together. Not only did she write several articles about him, but he had a direct hand in helping her bring Streetwise to the screen. The ease of their creative collaboration obviously sparked joy in her life, but alas—not all love stories have happy endings.
August 18, 1972 | Grass Valley
The situation stands like this: Phil has been living with Jennifer but they are (and were) planning on splitting up in three weeks (or so Phil says). Phil and I met and I was cursorily interested at first. We got drunk together at Relief Hill. Nothing was consummated at that point due to drunkenness, fatigue, and doubt I imagine. I don’t really know because I was too drunk to remember.
Russell and I came down to the school Monday night and the sparks and incredible tension have been present ever since.
It’s the sort of intense enamoration that allows only fleeting glances, much-feigned interest in anything but the object of affection, and a lot of talking to each other through the poor souls around or through music.
It’s been rough for Phil, Jennifer, and I—it’s obvious in our faces and all the guilt floating around. Phil and I at least have pursued some respite by inducing a five-day alcoholic dope daze. Jennifer—perhaps the bravest (but the other woman always has martyrdom on her side) of we three—has remained unaltered in her consciousness. I suspect she is hurting a lot even though she was planning on leaving.
Things and loves always seem more precious when they’re gone or about to depart.
All of us caught in a transitory period in our lives and this falling in love hasn’t helped any of us. I still don’t know why I’m so fucking wasted over all this. Phil really has some incredible hold on me that allows no other thoughts but of him. I feel like a fucking high school girl with a mad, unbearable crush on a distant Boy Adonnis.
What has happened to freedom and liberation and being your own complete person? Can falling in love wipe all that out?
Ever since this began six days ago, I seem to have wavered on just about everything which I was stone certain last week and the weeks before. Plans are up for grabs and a self-possessed liberation has deserted me.
JM: I’m uncertain but I believe that is Phil on the far right as it is Suzan in the middle and Don (Russell) in the hat. The timing seems to match up.
August 18, 1972 | Continued
I don’t know whether it’s only a strong case of lust (because that is certainly there), the thrill of new love, the challenge of the chase, or his eyes, his slow, shy smile or his loping walk. His incredible inner toughness and integrity behind an easy-going façade.
Enough, enough.
It boils down to this, McCall is in love and has temporarily flipped out.
JM: Mom was 23 when she wrote this. I couldn’t stop my lips from curling up at their edges while I sipped my hot toddy and drowned out the ambient noise of the Friday happy hour crowd that was beginning to funnel into the bar. I grinned widely while pouring over her words that felt so relatable to my early 20s. I spent so much of my life, as a child naturally does, regarding her as my caregiver. Now, in bustling bars in my late twenties, I begin to absorb all the little happenings and love affairs that shaped her and intrinsically shaped me, in some way. I hear friends often say, “Ugh, I think I’m turning into my mother!” Maybe the truth is we’ve always been our mothers and our fathers, and as we unravel who they were, we find out more and more how we are so alike at our cores. Because we are humans and genetics and science and magic and it doesn’t always have to make sense.
Sidenote: I don’t know who the guy is in the photo above, though she’s pictured with him often at Relief Hill and the photograph felt like a good pairing.
August 25, 1972
One week later, I am able to wince and grimace at that last passage. The mad ravings of a girl in love.
Since then Philip and I have become lovers, each night retiring to the treehouse to make love, sleep, and make love again. The atmosphere is not half as tense anymore, and Jennifer is accepting our affair with some degree of grace.
The engine is still not together and won’t be for a few more days. We are to begin marking timber on Monday, and that pressure has been felt around here but to no avail. Lots of details are hanging us up.
This is fine for Philip and me, allowing us more time with each other to talk and learn the details of our lives. We’ve had some good days together.
Susan and Norm have been down twice and then returned to Relief Hill. Indian, Dick, Labo, and Christine visited last night during the pig roast and Gary Snyder poetry reading. I can’t really enjoy Snyder’s poetry, and I do wonder why people think he is good. It seems to me that he relies on his reputation as a Beat and friend of Kerouac’s to put his poetry across. Walter aptly said last night that since Snyder has no form, he listened for content and found nothing there either. Perhaps we’re just two illiterate and ignorant to appreciate his work.
JM: I was recently reading bits of Gary Snyder’s new book with Danny (a close friend and big fan of his work) on Christmas. The house was buzzing with people and noise while Danny read aloud a passage about Snyder’s wife’s death. His words fell with such beautiful detail and insight that I was almost moved to tears. Needless to say, 23-year-old mom and I have differing opinions on Snyder.
October 16, 1972 | Detroit
The trip through Montana and South Dakota was depressing. I can’t imagine how people can live (and be happy) in such barren, desolate places, devoid of all vitality. I can’t imagine what it feels like to be young in those towns. I can’t imagine why anyone stays. Why does anyone stay in Detroit for that matter? Inertia is a pretty powerful force in the universe I guess.
Cyndi and Molly both had shocks for me upon my return. Both are three months pregnant and having the kids as well as buying houses and settling down. I feel slightly deserted and betrayed by my “sisters in the struggle” because of these developments. Perhaps I have betrayed them too by constantly deserting them for my wandering. I suppose most women depend on a man for the stability in their lives rather than other women.
I don’t have one person in particular that provides me with a stable base, but I do have my friends, Russell especially, when I need something like that.
JM: This entry is all too relatable. I find that my life on the road, though stable in its own right, separates me from my friends who have steady lives in Portland. Those in partnerships are making plans together to move, buy houses, and are forming regular habits. They have all been gracious to me when I am home and readily include me. Nonetheless, my vagabond ways keep me from being any kind of true dependable constant in their lives. I have my very own “Russell”—he is a friend I can always count on to be on my page. Perhaps because we are both single or because we have similar careers and lifestyles? I think at the end of the day we do gravitate for support and camaraderie towards those whose interests and way of life are like our own.
October 21, 1972 | Cambridge
I’ve been here since Wednesday after the car fell through and all my tools were stolen by another desperate Detroit junkie. I had to get out of that town and shelled out $54 to American Airlines for the privilege to escape.
Philip was not here but Jed Horne, his friend, was and that was fine. Even Phillip’s absence could not mar the joy of being out of Detroit. Philip did arrive Thursday afternoon, and things have gone fairly well between us. We still distrust each other, test each other, and won’t make any commitments. I won’t because my plans to travel come first and I know myself well enough not to pretend things won’t change. He won’t because he isn’t ready and is covering his bases.
Each of us feels like the 100th lover in a long procession and continue to measure ourselves against past lovers, real and imaginary. The worst part is that we both know some of the former lovers.
In spite of these ghosts, we’ve managed to make some mighty fine love in the last few days. It’s good to be in his arms again, but I’m suppressing any rising emotional attachments. I guess I’m covering my bases too.
December 19, 1972 | New York City
So I’m feeling a little down and out today after not sleeping all night, waiting for Taylor to come home from Laura’s. He finally did around 11 a.m. this morning. So why should I care? I haven’t been especially loving towards him when it’s obvious he needs/wants something like that now. My mind and heart have been preoccupied with others as of late, taking Tom for granted I suppose.
I saw this coming—although Tom denied he had any intentions towards Laura—as soon as I met her and watched her look at Tom. My instincts never fail in these matters. And the masochist that I am, I stepped back at every opportunity to let them get together. I knew if I didn’t go to Laura’s house last night that Tom wouldn’t be back. Who am I kidding? In a way, I wanted them to get together because I sort of like her and I think Tom needs someone to love right now.
But still, I laid awake telling myself I didn’t care when it was obvious to me that I did. It’s jealousy and not love that prompts these feelings. Ah yes, lovers are so much more precious when they’re gone. I told Jennifer that and now I’m eating those words. At least I’m not being a pain in the ass the way she was and hope I won’t become one. That’s a little consolation.
I only wish that he had waited until I was gone but I didn’t wait until Jennifer was gone. I moved right in. The cosmos certainly pick the right people to be its instruments of cosmic justice. I’m getting mine in the end.
JM: What has been left out while describing the love affair with Philip is the ongoing friends-with-benefits relationship mom had with Tom. I left this out because I know Tom. I grew up with Tom. I’m reaching that point in this project where I’m faced with the dilemma of posting people’s business that are currently in my life. I figure that all of this stuff happened over 40 years ago, and while I’ll be sensitive to topics that require it, I find posts like this one important to include. Here mom realizes how life can come full circle. She spent many of the months she was with Philip wavering interest in Tom, stringing him along, only connecting romantically when she felt like it. She was not always fair and she knew it.
July 22, 1981 | Houston, TX
I’ve been thinking about Neuwirth a lot today but with more distance and less pain. I keep remembering the closeness between us as we sat on my balcony two nights in a row, just talking and watching the New Jersey shoreline turn a deep purple and then blue as dawn broke over Manhattan—with Miles playing in the background. His talk about junkies and his days in Time Square and when he was on the road with Janis or Dylan or Kris. Then picking up his guitar (which was Janis Joplin’s) and playing me songs he’d written while I lay on the couch. Deliberately and purposely wooing me and charming me. Then the fun, tenderness, and love in bed. Was that all in my imagination or does it just not matter? My pride will not let me be the first to call or contact him, either in New York or L.A.—and I doubt that the urge or idea to contact me would even occur to him.
I guess this is the end.
June 1, 1983 | Evergreen Colorado
This whole Willie Nelson story has been like a vacation. This is my third night in Willie and Connie’s guesthouse, and I’m stoned from Willie’s joints. I’ve had a really good time and laughed a lot. I love Amy and Paula and their imitations of Valley Girls and The Whiners. Willie and I have been playing chess quite a bit, and he won once, we had a draw, and I won once.
When I flew down to Richmond on Saturday, I ended up at the hotel for three hours and then went to the show. Afterward, I talked to John Prine and got his autograph for Tom and Katie, and that was a big thrill of the evening. Then we rode the bus instead of Willie’s Lear for Charleston, W.Va and had a grand old time telling jokes smoking weed and drinking beer. I slept all day until about 5 p.m. in the hotel and then ate with BC and then went to the show. It was pouring rain and lightning, but Willie and Family went on and did themselves proud. I had interviewed Willie earlier for about an hour, and he seemed very tired and remote. I thought it was going to be a terrible evening, but it turned out OK because Willie really got into the music. His mood afterward was great. He gave me a big hug on stage when he finished, and then he played chess with Paul until 5:30 a.m. on the bus as we rolled to Cincinnati. Then we got on his Lear and flew to Austin and then drove to the ranch. We did lots of shots there in the blazing sun and then flew onto Denver that night. Real jet-setters.
June 1, 1983 | Continued
My only problem here is how much I love Willie. We really get along great and are both so Taurean. It’s the same kind of attraction that I have for Rick Downing and I’m sure it will pass once I’m away from him because it always has before. He feels something too because we have those awkward moments when we’re alone and our eyes don’t meet and we kind of stammer and make small talk. Playing chess is the only way we can communicate unless we’re in a crowd. This has been going on for years and I’m not about to face the matter because of my liking for Connie and I would hate to cause her any pain nor would I do that to David. At least that’s how I feel now, I’m too stoned to write any more of this gibberish.
June 5, 1983 | New York City
I just got back from Nashville a few hours ago and quickly unpacked, did a load of laundry, paid bills, and ironed a few things. I’m really glad I went to Nashville. I fell in love with David all over again, and I’m totally reassured that he loves me too. I soon forgot about Willie on the personal level but did think about the story I have to write. I keep thinking that this is too easy and that I must’ve fucked up somewhere or didn’t ask enough questions or something. I’m sure the actual writing will make me suffer enough to feel I’ve earned my fee.
Any case, David and I had a warm, intimate time together and stayed in motel rooms. He played Friday and Saturday night at the Smyrna Country Club in a pickup band with Lee, a drummer and a slide guitar player/singer named Mary Ann.
JM: Full discretion; I have no idea who this is in this picture or who David is yet. Regardless, it’s a great photo. Many of the images I’ve found lack any details, no date, no article, very few hints to help me along.
November 9, 1983 | New York City
I had dinner with Gaines but hardly ate and mostly cried about David. Then Stolley came over, and I cried and cried as I talked about David and the film. I find it ironic it was RBS who was in the position of comforting me because a man dumped me. There was some sort of karma at work there, and he suffered a little realizing how hurt I was.
He told me that I’ll never change. I’ll always throw my heart and soul into everything and that he admires me and envies that because he always holds back. He stayed the night just to hold me and comfort me. If he had any plans for sex those were soon dismissed when I woke up a few hours later vomiting up red wine.
JM: From what I gather this David fellow and mom dated for a year or so long distance. He was a younger man and was often touring with Bobby Bare and towards the end of the relationship became very distant and began to blow her off, failing to write or call when he said he would. Entries would jump from anger to hurt to his dismissal to confusion up until her ultimate feeling of betrayal when he left her for another woman he’d been seeing for months behind her back.
Mom and I share this thing Stolley talks about when he says, “You throw your heart and soul into everything.” While I’ve dredged on and on over the various men who have come and gone while in the moment totally destroyed, I too have had friends share the same sentiment that they envy my ability to be so vulnerable—at which point I usually roll my eyes because that vulnerability often leads to heartache.
I never really knew my mother with men. She dated very few people during my childhood, always keeping them very private. I had no idea we shared so much in our romantic dealings until I started reading these journals. Our experiences and ways we’ve dealt with heartache aren’t identical, but they’re similar enough that the connectedness and often bizarre parallels comfort me in the way her motherly advice might had she given it to me herself.
May 5, 1985 | Austin, TX
Willie and I got along really well together. I hated to leave today. This morning we drove out to the country club to see the set there and his new cabin. I sat on that front porch and never wanted to leave. I had the feeling that he didn’t want me to either. Whenever we’re together, without Connie, there’s a real male-female attraction that we both sense and ignore, or at least don’t ever mention. If we were ever to touch it, there’s no telling what would happen. We do hug and kiss a lot, but only as hellos and farewells. But he sure packs a lot of feeling in those, and I tend to draw back, panicked a bit. I don’t think we’ll ever get together in this lifetime because of my friendship with Connie and the vast differences in our lives. But I guess that’s why I always feel sad when I leave him. But I also know that the feeling passes because I’ve been there before.
JM: I am so much of my mother. Though she never showed me these types of curious and somewhat mischievous thoughts, I can flip back through countless journal entries of my own that share identical sentiments. Human nature?
Reasons I'm Angry At Pete
1. Ruined Christmas, which only comes once a year.
2. Ruined New Year’s Eve, which only comes once a year.
3. Did not call or come to see me.
4. Never asked if I’d like to go to the Super Bowl after I took him to New Orleans.
5. Took Jeannie to New Orleans.
6. Took Jeannie to Ft. Lauderdale.
7. Gave me a stupid Christmas present.
8. Haven’t had sex since August.
9. Has never met my friends or spent time with them but I’ve been dragged to every bar in the city to meet his.
10. Couldn’t ever go to a movie or play because he couldn’t go that long without a drink.
11. Was rotten and mean to me while recuperating from his ulcer.
12. Just laughs at my justified anger.
13. Hates Lulu.
14. Is so self-centered that only his problems are important and mine don’t matter.
15. Cowardly chickenshit.
Losing Pete
My friend and old lover, Pete Axthelm, died yesterday at the young age of 47. It was liver failure. No surprise, I guess, but a shock nonetheless. I rather expected Pete would die but I didn’t expect to feel so bad.
It all hit me last night, a wave of grief I didn’t know was coming. I remember his kindness to a fledgling reporter at the 1976 Olympics in Montreal. Our two different affairs almost a decade apart, and the enduring friendship that somehow survived the disappointments.
His last message on my machine was only a little more than two weeks ago, while I was in Texas. He said simply, “This is Ax, I got your lovely Christmas card. I love you.” And I never called back.
I figured he was caught up in the Super Bowl and I’d talk to him later.
Editor’s Note: This one was a bit out of context for us, but with a simple Google search we discovered Pete Axthelm was a famed sportswriter and columnist. He passed away on February 2, 1991. Both images were taken from The Trading Card Database and uploaded in 2008.
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