Etta was like a second mother to me. No one spoke my name like she did: with a combination of love and maternal confidence, in a way only someone who has known you since birth could say your name. I can still hear her say, 'RosANNE', just before she told me a story from the past, about my parents, or about something that happened when I was a child. She was a light and a safe place, and she knew all the secrets. She was the keeper of the memories. I wrote a song for her and Marshall, 'Etta's Tune'. She told me that every morning of their lives they woke and said to each other, 'What's the temperature, darling?' I can see her standing at the door, waiting for Marshall to come home from a million miles on the road, so they could wake up together and ask each other that simple question.
This is probably the only time he waited for her, but she finally made it home.
Randy, I'm sending you and your family so much love, and my deepest sympathy.
Godspeed, Etta.
Rosanne
Etta's Tune
What's the temperature, darling?
A hundred or more
horses pawing at the dust,
violets wilting by the door
but you pour your strongest coffee
and I'll take the battered wheel
We'll drive straight down the river road
and spread a blanket on the hill
What's the temperature, darling?
now don't stare into the past
there was nothing we could change or fix
it was never going to last
don't stare into those photos
don't analyze my eyes
we're just a mile or two from Memphis
and the rhythm of our lives
A mile or two from Memphis
and I must go away
I tore up all the highways
now there's nothing left to say
A mile or two from Memphis
and we finally made it home
There were days you paced the kitchen
there were nights that felt like jail
when the phone rang in the dead of night
you would always throw my bail
no, you never touched the whiskey
and you never took the pills
I traveled for a million miles
while you were standing still
What's the temperature, darling?
as the daylight fades away
I'll make one last rehearsal
with one foot in the grave
we kept the house on old Nakomis
we kept the polished bass guitar
we kept the tickets and the reels of tape
to remember who we are
A mile or two from Memphis
and I must go away
I tore up all the highways
now there's nothing left to say
A mile or two from Memphis
and I finally made it home.