Imagine 50-100 ex-drunks and ex-druggies sitting around together here, getting along and sharing experience, strength, and hope. 

That first festival came around after I had seven months of sobriety under my belt. In those seven months between October 1980 and May 1981, I had become very used to getting in-town help from my 12-step friends, nightly and sometimes during the day as well. The prospect of going 5 or 6 days without a 12-step meeting scared me, somehow. And I told Rod Kennedy, producer and boss, that.

His response was simple and quick. He got into the solution instantly, saying, “Why not start having meetings here, during the festival?”

He suggested the shady area behind the festival office, which would also have made them behind outhouses in the same area. Convenient, as sometimes some necessities come upon us during meetings.

By then, there were volunteers coming onto the ranch, getting it ready for the upcoming Folk Festival. I asked some of them to paint signs, “Friends of Bill W. 1 p.m. daily behind office,” signs. They did, and posted them at the Kerrtry Store (sort of like a 7-11 only not as glamorous), and elsewhere around the grounds. Other volunteers sawed up tree trucks and placed them in a sort of conversation circle beneath the trees, then nailed on 2×6 to make benches.

A sign was put up backstage and Rod announced the meeting nightly during the festival.

There were five people at the first meeting. Five people in recovery from drugs or alcohol, who took solace in meeting each other and knowing they would have a face to find or a hug or handshake to help them through what could be tough times ahead.

That was May 1981, regardless of what the well-intentioned, wood-burned sign says out there now. “Serenity Square, Est. 1983.”  Uh-uh… 1981.

A sober couple from the town group came out every day, not for the meeting, but to bring me a home-cooked lunch. Glen drove it out, asking at the office door, “Jeet?” The first time I had to ask, “Huh?” and he smiled and slowed it down to “Did you eat?” Lillian was an incredible, old-fashioned type cook, the kind that smothered everything in gravy and lots of vine-ripened tomatoes on the side.

Signs like this are placed all around the campgrounds, backstage, and elsewhere where they can get the message out.

Once, as the 12-steppers gathered for the daily meeting, they found a performer sound asleep on a 2×6, his hands with green-painted fingernails supporting his head. He was quite surprised to be wakened like he was, and ducked out of there pretty quickly, saying he was only leaving because he was “thinking of others.”  Another time, I used the area for a “Good-bye, you-don’t-get-to-volunteer-here-any-longer” conversation with a couple of brothers who had used and gotten into a fight with each other. I stayed serene… And those two soon got clean of their drugs and joined the group at a future festival. They became good friends and essential staff volunteers.

Also, that first year, a recovering friend from Austin, Buddy, had become a great source of strength for me. I asked, he said yes. No, not to marriage, silly. He agreed to work the VIP check-in desk just outside the office door. That way, when I went coo coo from stress or even from getting so much love from so many people, someone would go get Buddy, and he’s settle me down, speaking in the language of Bill W.

One performer took the Serenity Square idea to a festival he regularly played in the Northwest, on the Pacific. Don’t know if that one is still going on or not. Would love to know. Other than that, I believe that “Friends of Bill W.” meetings at music festivals is unique to Kerrville Festivals.

Nowadays, there’s two meetings each day in Serenity Square, the first still at 1 p.m. and another when the concert is over, and multitudes more than five people at each one of them. Some newcomers, some oldtimers, some volunteers, some performers, some ticket-holders. One who attends regularly now was “in his cups” when he helped paint the signs, and wondered, he said later, just what in the Sam Hill “Friends of Bill W” was, anyway. He found out. Just took him a year or two longer.

Courtesy

(Not sure what I’m going to do about photos for these little blurbs, and I’m a great believer in artwork with every article. I’ll figure something out.)

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You might have guessed it — it was a musician, the man of my dreams (at the time), that got me started in it all. After divorcing and moving to El Paso, I met a musician, let’s call him B.F. for short, who was also a schoolteacher, as I was at the time. He had a great little band, all involved in the Redneck Rock/Progressive Country movement that took Texas by storm — the first incarnation of reinvention of Texas music since Bob Wills. B.F.. was also a big fan of the 60s folk musicians. At that time, I was just a big fan of not being married!

At that same time, the Chamizal National Park, one of only two national parks dedicated to the performing arts, hosted a yearly festival that included not only the new Texas music, but also Cajun, Celtic, Conjunto, blues, jazz, bluegrass, salsa. They brought it all. Tiny little glitch —they needed volunteers, thus the beginning of the El Paso Friends of Folk Music.  And the beginning of my volunteering at festivals.

Now, B.F.. was also a songwriter, and two of his songs got him into the Kerrville Festival’s New Folk Competition. I didn’t come with him that year — 1975 it was. He didn’t win it, but came back so excited about the festival in Kerrville, and with an invitation to play later at another one that year. I didn’t get left behind for that Kerrville concert.

The next year, B.F. and I were kinda on the fritz (we were on the kinda on the fritz most of the time we were together) … and I got away from El Paso by coming to Kerrville. Ticked him off, big time. It was his festival, he said. You gals know how guys can be.

Well, at the festival, which was only 5 days long then. I noticed some inconveniences… none of the public toilets flushed (I think they called them ‘crappers’), and cold-water showers were just not my thing. But, all in all, I was having fun.

Then, I developed a scorching sunburn, that kind that makes you peel all over, and someone sent me to first aid. Those volunteer paramedics, from a Gulf Coast ambulance service, showed me the joys of the free beer that volunteers got. All right! Slammin’ ‘em down was fun! Then, one of them (it’s OK if I tell this now — the statute of limitations has expired) showed me the backstage flush toilets and hot-water showers, only available to volunteers and musicians. Well, not even being able to sing a tune, it was quickly apparent I choice was to volunteer.

I did, for the very next festival, fall of 1976.

This series could go on for quite some time, and could quit any moment.

Little ol’ Mary Jane, 2014

It will be ‘blog’ style, and basically the story of my life in the music business. It’s kind of a ‘have to’ because of the flood of memories that swooshed around me as I drove to, arrived at, and remain at Quiet Valley Ranch in Kerrville, the home of the Kerrville Festivals. 

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Many people have one chance at life, some get two. I’ve had three.

Born the first time, belly button born.

Born the second time, Christ born.

Born the third time — life as I know it began the day I woke up lying in my vehicle, unfemininely covered in bodily fluids, leftovers from the night before. But also covered in some mysterious way, shrouded almost, with feelings of hope and peace and “I think I should, I think I can, I know I can.”

I went to my first 12-step meeting that night. Haven’t had to make another ‘first’ meeting since; decades later, I have never had to take another drink.

The next day I went back to work, only to find that I didn’t work there any more. My boss explained that to me my behavior, while drinking the night before, wasn’t exactly what they wanted of an employee.

I had been a part-time volunteer for several years at the Kerrville Festivals, and was scheduled to go on a Festival On The Road tour later that week, handling the logistics for boss Rod Kennedy.  So, I called him to explain to him that I was now in that 12-step program and if he didn’t want me around, either, I would understand. After all, that had already become normal for me… stop drinking, go to 12-step meeting, lose job.

Rod Kennedy surprised me, though. “Nonsense,” he said. “Come on, get on the bus— I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something anyway.” And that began my third beginning — working for Rod and the Kerrville Festivals.

Being here at the ranch and at Kerrville was 100% what I needed at the time… a safe place with safe people to be around, and lots of incredible recovery available to me.