Catalina's Milky Way Dreams(c) Re- Written 2024 - By The Depressed Poet, Doc Dalton
Shooting Stars and fast moving CarsRumble through the roads of my mindTick-e-ty Tock, the old sounds of the clockSay's it's almost a quarter past nine
The moons surely rising, the stars are a glidingAnd Mr. Sandman is ready to roamHurry off to bed and put your pillow under your headHe might just be visiting you tonight at homeDrifting off to sleep is such a wonderful featAdventures you'll enjoy on your ownMaking new friends on a journey to no endA secrete life that is yours all aloneDon't be afraid of those gobble lee goo'sOr those pirates drifting to sea on their boatsThere's no need to worry there just in your dreamsLike rainbow clouds and cotton candy floatsOh that sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerPlease, don't take my Dreams a wayTo see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way DreamsWe could have so much funUnder an ice cream sun and laugh our time awaySing some M & M songs the whole day longUntil we awake to brand new day
Pluto say's hey kiddo don't get out of bedAs Snakel Puss laughs and says, ah it's OKKKKKKKKPopeye yell's, were gone in a minute after I eat me spinachPoo say's all aboard my Banana Split SleighOh that Sky's full of colors of make believe wondersExciting every step of the wayCan't you let me stay for just a little bit longerWorry not Catalina, we won't take your Dreams a way
To see this through a child's eyesOn the path to where stars brightly beamThrough a different world of twist and twirlsWon't you come to my Milky Way Dreams
Catalina say's, please come join me, on my Milky Way Dreams
Every morning, just after the sun climbed over the rooftops, a handful of old men would gather at the same little diner. They weren't there for the eggs. They weren't there for the coffee. They were there for each other.
And then there was Betsy the waitress and she knew their orders before they sat down. Black coffee for one. Cream and sugar for another. Toast burnt just a little because that's the way Phil liked it. There were no assigned seats, but somehow everyone ended up in the same place every morning. I was lucky enough to sit with them.
Some people would look over and see a bunch of old men making too much noise. I saw something different. I saw cowboys whose horses had long since been traded for pickup trucks. Soldiers who fought battles nobody knew about. Husbands who had buried wives. Fathers who had watched their children grow old themselves.
I called them the Old Dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails. Nobody knew where the name came from anymore. Some said it was an old trail out west where whiskey flowed easier than water and pie was about the only decent meal a man could find. Others swore it was because every one of those old boys liked a shot of whiskey and a piece of apple pie after supper. The truth was, nobody cared.
The stories were what mattered. One morning, Jack leaned back in his chair and said, "Boys, did I ever tell you about the woman who slapped me so hard I forgot my own name?" The whole table exploded with laughter. "Which one?" somebody asked. "That's the problem," Jack answered. "I can't remember." The coffee nearly came out of our noses.
Another morning, Hank talked about the war. He didn't say much. Just enough to remind everyone that some memories never get old and some never get easier. Nobody interrupted him. They just nodded. They understood.
Then there was Joe. Joe had been married fifty-eight years. His wife had been gone for almost five. Every morning he'd pull out her picture and smile. "Boys," he'd say, "I sure do miss that woman." Someone would hand him a napkin and another would pat him on the shoulder. Then someone else would tell a joke so bad it would make Hank laugh.
That's what the old dogs did. They wouldn't let one of their own sit in sadness for too long. Those men had seen hard times. Bank accounts that ran dry. Jobs that disappeared. Friends lowered into the ground. Children move away. Doctors with bad news. Bad knees. Bad backs. Bad luck. But somehow they still found reasons to laugh.
One cold winter morning, I asked them the secret. How had they survived all the things life had thrown at them? Old George stirred his coffee and looked around the table. "You want to know?" I nodded. He pointed at every man sitting there. "The secret is simple. Never quit." "Life's going to knock you down." "It'll break your heart." "It'll steal people you love." "It'll make you question God now and then." "But you get up tomorrow morning. "You find a friend." "You drink a cup of coffee." "You tell a story." "You laugh." "And if the day gets too hard..." He smiled. "...you have a little whiskey and a piece of pie." The whole table cheered.
As the years passed, chairs began to empty. One by one, the old dogs rode off down their own dusty trails. Besty well sadly she stopped bringing out as many cups. The laughter wasn't quite as loud. The stories became memories.
Sometimes I still go past into that diner. I can almost hear Jack lying about some woman who chased him halfway across the county. I can hear Hank telling us to appreciate freedom because it came with a price.
I can see Joe smiling at the picture of his sweetheart. I can hear George saying, "Never quit." I miss those old boys. I miss their laughter. I miss their wisdom. I miss sitting at that table where nobody had much money but everybody was rich with stories. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine they're all together again. Sitting beneath a sky filled with stars. A bottle of good whiskey on the table. A fresh pie cooling nearby. Telling stories that grow bigger with every telling. Laughing at old mistakes. Remembering old loves. Waiting for the rest of us to catch up. And I can almost hear them raising their glasses toward heaven. "Here's to another day, boys." The stars don't answer. They don't have to.
The Old Dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails are still out there somewhere. Their hearts are as wild as the midnight wind. Their scars have become their badges. Their stories have become their legacy. And as long as somebody remembers them... As long as somebody tells their tales over a cup of coffee or a glass of whiskey...
The old dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails will never really be gone. They'll just be riding a little farther down the trail, waiting for old friends to join them.
And then there was Betsy the waitress and she knew their orders before they sat down. Black coffee for one. Cream and sugar for another. Toast burnt just a little because that's the way Phil liked it. There were no assigned seats, but somehow everyone ended up in the same place every morning. I was lucky enough to sit with them.
Some people would look over and see a bunch of old men making too much noise. I saw something different. I saw cowboys whose horses had long since been traded for pickup trucks. Soldiers who fought battles nobody knew about. Husbands who had buried wives. Fathers who had watched their children grow old themselves.
I called them the Old Dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails. Nobody knew where the name came from anymore. Some said it was an old trail out west where whiskey flowed easier than water and pie was about the only decent meal a man could find. Others swore it was because every one of those old boys liked a shot of whiskey and a piece of apple pie after supper. The truth was, nobody cared.
The stories were what mattered. One morning, Jack leaned back in his chair and said, "Boys, did I ever tell you about the woman who slapped me so hard I forgot my own name?" The whole table exploded with laughter. "Which one?" somebody asked. "That's the problem," Jack answered. "I can't remember." The coffee nearly came out of our noses.
Another morning, Hank talked about the war. He didn't say much. Just enough to remind everyone that some memories never get old and some never get easier. Nobody interrupted him. They just nodded. They understood.
Then there was Joe. Joe had been married fifty-eight years. His wife had been gone for almost five. Every morning he'd pull out her picture and smile. "Boys," he'd say, "I sure do miss that woman." Someone would hand him a napkin and another would pat him on the shoulder. Then someone else would tell a joke so bad it would make Hank laugh.
That's what the old dogs did. They wouldn't let one of their own sit in sadness for too long. Those men had seen hard times. Bank accounts that ran dry. Jobs that disappeared. Friends lowered into the ground. Children move away. Doctors with bad news. Bad knees. Bad backs. Bad luck. But somehow they still found reasons to laugh.
One cold winter morning, I asked them the secret. How had they survived all the things life had thrown at them? Old George stirred his coffee and looked around the table. "You want to know?" I nodded. He pointed at every man sitting there. "The secret is simple. Never quit." "Life's going to knock you down." "It'll break your heart." "It'll steal people you love." "It'll make you question God now and then." "But you get up tomorrow morning. "You find a friend." "You drink a cup of coffee." "You tell a story." "You laugh." "And if the day gets too hard..." He smiled. "...you have a little whiskey and a piece of pie." The whole table cheered.
As the years passed, chairs began to empty. One by one, the old dogs rode off down their own dusty trails. Besty well sadly she stopped bringing out as many cups. The laughter wasn't quite as loud. The stories became memories.
Sometimes I still go past into that diner. I can almost hear Jack lying about some woman who chased him halfway across the county. I can hear Hank telling us to appreciate freedom because it came with a price.
I can see Joe smiling at the picture of his sweetheart. I can hear George saying, "Never quit." I miss those old boys. I miss their laughter. I miss their wisdom. I miss sitting at that table where nobody had much money but everybody was rich with stories. Sometimes, late at night, I imagine they're all together again. Sitting beneath a sky filled with stars. A bottle of good whiskey on the table. A fresh pie cooling nearby. Telling stories that grow bigger with every telling. Laughing at old mistakes. Remembering old loves. Waiting for the rest of us to catch up. And I can almost hear them raising their glasses toward heaven. "Here's to another day, boys." The stars don't answer. They don't have to.
The Old Dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails are still out there somewhere. Their hearts are as wild as the midnight wind. Their scars have become their badges. Their stories have become their legacy. And as long as somebody remembers them... As long as somebody tells their tales over a cup of coffee or a glass of whiskey...
The old dogs of the Whiskey Pie Trails will never really be gone. They'll just be riding a little farther down the trail, waiting for old friends to join them.
