Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die: Musings From the Road (10 page)

Susie, Billy, Martha, and Lana

RAELYN NELSON

So, Annie told me she needs this yesterday; that gives me until tomorrow afternoon to ponder and write about Papa Willie memories and such. The earliest memory I have of Papa Willie (I’ve always called him Papa Willie until I shortened it to PW, then eventually to P-dub) is with my daddy. I remember just a flash, as early memories are for most of us, of my daddy, P-dub, and me singing a song. I know it was “Jingle Bells,” but only because I was told that was the song that they taught me. The other early memory I have is being in a crowded venue in my daddy’s arms and watching P-dub try to make his way through hundreds of screaming fans. I wanted to talk to Papa Willie and my daddy told me we’d see him after he was done working.

My daddy was wild, hence the nickname Wild Bill. Auntie says, “Papa Willie must’ve never tamed him.” That makes me smile. I remember my daddy always coming and going. When he was home with my mama and me, we’d play and have the best time. He left every few days, but he’d always come back ready to sing and play guitar to me and draw smiley faces. When he was gone, I always thought he was with P-dub, on the road. My daddy loved P-dub; I think he wanted to be just like him . . . but who doesn’t? It was hard being Willie Nelson Jr., I’m sure, and I’ll never have the opportunity to talk to my dad about his struggles and tribulations of that time, but I know he was proud of his daddy. We’d go to every Papa Willie show we could make.

Billy

I was seven years old and it was Christmas Day when my mama got a call from Aunt Lana; my daddy had been found dead in his cabin in Ridgetop. My mama told me and I saw her cry. She cried hard, wept while my stepdad tried to console her. She took me to his memorial viewing in Tennessee, because she wanted me to see that he was dead and didn’t just take off and hadn’t come back yet.

My mama took me to all of P-dub’s shows when he came through town, made sure I had all of his albums, had me call and write regularly, and did anything else she could to keep me connected with my daddy’s family. I remember he came to Grandparents’ Day at my elementary school in fifth grade and signed autographs for everybody’s grandparents for hours. I asked P-dub for a guitar when I was fourteen, and he bought me a brand-new Martin acoustic that I still play today. I learned some tunes, and the next time I saw him, I played and sang the best song I could play. He smiled and gave me a guitar lesson that I still hold as one of my most precious moments of life.

Whenever I see Papa Willie, there’s a sadness in his eyes that I recognize, and I’m sure he sees it in mine, too, because just like I remind him of my daddy, he reminds me of my daddy, and the pain of losing him from this life never goes away. There’s not a day that goes by that we don’t think about him. He’s still alive in our hearts and minds and I believe that he’s watching over us as a family angel . . . so don’t fuck with us.

Raelyn and Papa Willie

ANNIE NELSON

When I’m out on the road, most people ask how Willie and I met. I met Willie on a “movie of the week” filming in Tucson, Arizona. The film was a remake of John Ford’s classic
Stagecoach.
I actually met the rest of the highwaymen and their families before I met the guy who turned out to be my favorite—oh wait, my only—husband.

I was the head of the hair and makeup department for the film and had spent an inordinate amount of time going back and forth with the director and producer, who felt that Willie should cut his hair to play the part of John Henry “Doc” Holliday. I know what you’re thinking. Why? Because I was thinking the same thing myself. I agreed finally that I would go ahead and do it. So the first day he showed up, my job was to ask Willie Nelson if he would be willing to cut his lovely hair off to play the part of a character who, in truth, didn’t really have long hair. In any case, I introduced myself to him and said, “Mr. Nelson, the producers would like to know if you are willing to cut your hair off for this part.” He was sitting, so he looked up at me with an impish grin and said, “What do you think?” Now, honestly, I was willing to leave the show at that point because I had already spent a few days listening to the producer and director fighting via bullhorns across the desert Southwest over who had worked on the most John Wayne films. I was pretty done. So it was easy to say to him, “I think it is spectacularly unnecessary and ridiculous.” That’s when his impish grin grew to a fantastic smile and a twinkle in his eye, and he said, “Then let’s say no!” That’s the moment I saw my home in his eyes. Maybe it was just a shared moment of smart-assedness, but it’s been going strong for nearly twenty-seven years, so I guess there was something there after all.

After that, it was all just life happening, and working out how I was going to give up my career because whenever he was off on a tour, I was somewhere else on the planet working on a film, and something had to give for us to be together. Obviously we worked it out.

Maui