By Robin Wheeler
I’ve been thinking about what to write all day. Nothing will be enough. Or it’ll all be way too much. But today, on the 100th birthday of Woody Guthrie’s birth, I can’t not at least articulate why the arrival of an infant a century ago means so much to me.
Lately I feel like I have to tell people that I’m not obsessed with Woody. I’m not. And no one’s accused me as such. This project has taken me into a deeper focus than any writing project I’ve ever done. I’m not completely sure why. Maybe I’ll know by the time I finish. Even though my Guthrie travels and research mean that my friends and family have been neglected (I’m sorry), I haven’t picked up my knitting in over a month, I’ve only read five books so far in 2012 (I’m usually up to 15 by now), my house is a mess, I can’t remember the last time I cooked a meal for my family, and it’s been well over a month since I’ve taken on any paying freelance work … okay, in that perspective, maybe I am obsessed. But I think I need to be right now. Not just in a fangirl way, but because learning about Woody has taught me things about myself that I don’t think I would have learned otherwise.