John Prine, me, the Rev. Will and Kristofferson and Dylan and Funky Donnie Fritts

OK, so I'm standing outside the Belcourt Theatre on a sticky Nashville night.

It's about midnight and Hillsboro Village is quiet. "Sam Stone" plays in my head for a moment.

It's just me, the Rev. Will Campbell and John and Fiona Prine. I had met John before, but this was the first time we really "talked" as people.

Will was a close friend, who would call me frequently both at home and at the newspaper. He viewed me as "the last one left" who really loved the so-called "Outlaws," for whom he was the preacher and absolver and eulogist.

John and I talked about the concert we'd just seen. Our mutual friend -- all of ours -- Kris Kristofferson had just finished a 2-plus hour show.

I've seen Kris a score or more times over the years as well as had the chance to become the friend of him and his wife Lisa and their children. This was the very best show.

We all were waiting for Donnie Fritts, Billy Swan, Chris Gantry and the rest of the "inner-circle" to finish paying their respects before we would go into the theater to visit with him.

Will talked about the apartment house across from the Tally-Ho, where Kris lived above him and the floor was so thin, he could fall right through.

John talked about an album he was working on and suggested that maybe I could come and meet up with him sometime to do a story or a column about it. I knew his label's boss, Al Bunetta, pretty well, since my wife and I had "talked" al and his wife, Dawn, through the process of adopting a child from Eastern Europe. I had written about our experiences for the old Nashville Banner newspaper, and my tale inspired them. That's just an aside.

On that warm Nashville night, my friend Peter Cooper, who was on my staff after I helped him escape Spartanburg, S.C., was already back at 1100 Broadway, where there used to be a newspaper.  He was writing a review of Kris' show.

After spending the better part of an hour with Prine and Will outside the Belcourt and quickly ducking into the theater to talk to Kris' wife Lisa and their kids -- then pretty young -- I went back to the newspaper office to see if Peter needed an editor. Or a friend. Or company. We'd already had a drink.

When I told him about Prine's offer for in-person album talking, Peter said he really wanted to do that instead of me. I was a good boss and knew his affinity for Prine music, so I agreed.

Which he did, by the way. Probably better than mine would have been.

Anyway, this story isn't going anywhere today. I'm in my office working, keeping the virus at bay, and I just stopped to think about that precious hour with the Rev. Will, long-deceased now but he loved me, and John Prine. And Kris and Peter and Lisa and the kids.

Funky Donnie Fritts had something to do with it, too.

If there is a prayer left in you during this horrible time, please send one to John, who at last notice was clinging to life because of this fucking virus.

Shit, I wouldn't mind a prayer or two myself and I'm doing OK..

And I more than hope that Prine makes it.

Oh yeah, I forgot. There is more to this tale.  Prine and I had a very close mutual friend in Mac Wiseman, the Hall of Fame bluegrass and country legend, among Lester and Earl's first tier of genius sidemen long ago.

Both of us spent time with Mac and attended his birthday parties, although the last one was about two years ago now. Mac died more than a year ago. Or two. Hell, time flies when you are burying friends.

When I befriend people, I do it all the way. So when they are gone, it breaks my heart and shreds my soul.

I miss Will. And Mac. And pray for Prine. I'm saddened that another singer, Joe Diffie, who I did not know well, fell to this virus. And I worry about all the rest of us, even those who can't sing a song.

That's all I've got today. Feeling more than melancholy … or is that worse than melancholy?

I wish I could be as happy as I was that night standing beneath the marquee with the Prines and the Rev. Will.

Funky Donnie Fritts had a lot to do with it, too. Hey, I think I'll listen to Dylan's "Murder Most Foul." Sprawling obituary to my generation, perhaps? Not sure, but he's America's greatest writer and lyricist. But he never wrote about that hole in daddy's arm where all the money goes. But then he did remind us of a Murder Most Foul.