Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama - To That Land/A Letter To A Mother's Son

Last night my Fitbit swore I slept like a tranquilized koala, but wearable tech is basically that coworker who confidently gives advice about things they know nothing about. It’s not my body — it’s just a tiny wrist narc collecting data and making bold assumptions about how I “should” feel.

Reality check: I woke up more than an hour before the coffee timer even thought about doing its job. I stayed in bed, grabbed a few extra minutes of actual human sleep, and when the coffee finally kicked off, I got up and got dressed. Cooper looked at me like, “Dude… it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. Seek help.”

But off we went, hitting the sidewalks like two fugitives from the Land of Insomnia. I had Underground Garage on Sirius in my headphones because Coast to Coast AM was deep into one of those topics that makes you question whether the callers have ever interacted with a real human being.

As we walked, my brain tried to drag me down the Negative Nellie Trail — the roof situation, the ultrasonic record cleaner deciding to reenact a Greek tragedy (new parts tomorrow), the washing machine still down with the repair place shrugging like, “Parts? Who knows.” My mind was basically auditioning for the role of “Guy Who Catastrophizes Before Sunrise.”

And then I saw him — a man riding a bicycle way too small for him, balancing a giant trash bag full of clothes on his way to the laundromat. I’ve been to the laundromat recently more times than I want to count, sure, but I went in a car. I know each wash is six bucks. He’s probably spending twenty, then pedaling home like a pack mule.

And suddenly my complaints evaporated. I have shelter. Food. A working dryer. A life full of material comforts and blessings. The roof will get replaced. The machines will get fixed. The chaos will settle. These trials aren’t punishments — they’re reminders. GOD is telling me to trust Him, and I do.

Now, onto today’s musical sermon: The Dixieland Blind Boys of Mobile, Alabama — if you believe the cogs of dis chaos — released only three records, and this one, “To That Land / A Letter To A Mother’s Son,” is the only one under that exact name. The other two came out with slight name variations, and their first record was on Ascot, of all labels — pre‑Manfred Mann era, back when Ascot was still figuring out what it wanted to be when it grew up. And yes, I know this sleeve doesn’t belong with the Peacock 45, but honestly? It looks biblically cool, so it stays.