To Fred Roper and his midgets

Fred Roper and his midgets were in the business before it was a business. They traveled the country in a couple of old wagons pulled by mules and pushed by the wind. My God, I remember the first time I met Fred in the Jesse James Café in Northfield, Minnesota. Nickel and dime times that they were, dusty roads and dreams blowing around our feet like old rags. He was a class act or as Jesse James might have said, “A straight shooter.”

Fred mentored me through those early years of boxcars and brine. My dreams back then were clear as train smoke and soot but Fred encouraged me, cracked the whip when he had to and never gave up on me. See, in this business there are no sliver spoons; just rusty nails and tin pails full of rag water and the ghosts of those who’ve gone before.

I’ve written a new song, to the tune of “When the Saints Go Marching In,” in memory of Fred and I plan to debut it at the Cheyenne show next week. My God have mercy on Fred and may He have mercy on those who, like me, have traveled that path on the dust of Fred Roper’s heels.

Campfire Song (To Fred)

It’s getting late
The fire is cold
It’s getting late
The fire is cold

But our hearts are still a glow
With a song, a friend and a campfire
Our hearts are still a glow

Oh, baked beans and brine
Baked beans and brine
When the sun refuses to shine
Oh, I’ll still be at the campfire
With baked beans and a cup of brine

Our hearts will dance
Our souls will shine
With our beans and our brine
When the show is over and we’re lonely
Our hearts will dance and shine

So long my friend
So long my friend
May the circus never end
And I’ll see you in that big top in the sky
Beneath the spotlights dusty glow
And a twinkle in your eye.