The Importance of Being Human

Woodmont Christian Church 

October 10, 1999

Good morning. I have stood in this pulpit on two other occasions so I was gratified when Doug Lofton called me last month and asked if I would consider delivering the sermon on this date while he was attending the National Assembly of the Disciples of Christ Church in Cincinnati, Ohio. He mentioned that several members of the congregation had been inquiring of him when I would be preaching again. The word 'several' is significant in that, although it is a vague term, it generally suggests more than two. So, other than my wife Sarah and I there is at least one other member of this church who wanted to hear me preach again or wanted to know when I was preaching again so as to plan to be out of town. Regardless the circumstances I thank Doug and I thank all of you for allowing me these few moments to share some thoughts, to ask some questions. Will you bow your heads and pray with me, please?

Gracious and Eternal God: As we worship in this, Your sanctuary and we read together this, Your Word may Your Spirit open our ears, our eyes and our hearts and bring us together for Your Purpose. In the name of Your Son Jesus, we pray. Amen.

I want to speak on a topic this morning about which I know nothing. Don't worry, I'm very good at this; I do it all the time. I want to talk about the importance of being human. I'd like you to consider those extraordinary moments in life when the opportunities present themselves for us to be altogether human, awkwardly human, painfully, wonderfully and truly human.

I say I know nothing about this subject because I know that I've turned my back on most of these opportunities. I have closed my windows and locked my doors; I have stayed within my familiar and sturdy walls; I have stubbornly and fearfully chosen to not expose myself to the uncertainty of a deepe!r experience of being human. It's easier that way. It's safer that way. It is also quite regrettable.

The word human is fascinating. It is one of those words that has a palpable meaning; the word stirs a sensation within us; we can feel it conjure up clear pictures in our minds. "I'm only human," we say defending our frailties and our shortcomings. "It's human nature," we say discounting our responsibility for a spiteful word or a greedy act. "If it's humanly possible," we say promising to do something we know we'll never do. "To err is human," rolls forever off our tongues as if to define our perpetual state of incompetence. We belong to the human race, we mourn the human condition and we long for human kindness. We are human beings but, are we being human, are we being as human as we can be?

If your house is anything like mine before you arrived here this morning you may have had to take out the garbage or run to Kroger's for milk. Perhaps you had to search through every drawer in every room to find a pair of black socks that sort of matched or perhaps you had to physically remove a teenage boy from his bed. You may have had a showdown with a younger child about brushing her teeth or thought ill of whomever it was that tossed your Tennessean into the only puddle in Nashville.

After church today someone in your family will want to go out for lunch while another will want to hurry to a ball game. Another will want to meet some friends at the mall, another will want to take a walk at Radnor Lake and still another will want to lay on the couch and get some work done.

Tomorrow morning you may be faced with boarding another airplane or changing a flat tire. By the afternoon you may be informed that your child is falling behind in algebra or that your company wants you to transfer to Houston.

Sometime this month you may speak harshly to a stranger who has called during the dinner hour to inform you of the special they are running on venetian blinds or you may lose your patience with your kids or you may sit astonished at the amount of money you go through or you may learn of a loved one in a far away city that has become seriously ill.

One by one, moment by moment we are afforded both mundane and monumental chances to respond to life's circumstances by digging a little deeper; by trying a little harder; by opening up a little more, by being a little more available; by finding a gentler spirit, offering a kinder word and going beyond the comfort of our own reality. And, what do we do with those chances?

Well, if your heart is anything like mine, you may go numb from time to time; you may find a little-inhabited corner of your house and sit in pale light attempting to escape into nothingness in an effort to keep at bay these endless and exhausting demands of life; to avoid making a decision when there are no acceptable answers in sight; to stop the maddening cycle of stuff and things and places and people and promises; to somehow fashion, by your own devices, a peaceful valley, a quiet meadow, a safe haven. But, nothingness doesn't exist. For those of us who are truly human there is no such thing as nothing. There is always something. Thank God there is always something.

That something keeps gnawing at us. That something keeps picking us back up and pushing us back into the fray. That something keeps calling us forth into the light, pale as it may be. That something will not allow us to stay where we are and be as we are. In the midst of our nothing comes something. And I believe that something is the never-ending invitation from God to "Taste and see," to become whole, to become truly human.

As with all other subjects our Lord is the authority on all things human. This, perhaps, is His best subject. In creating us He has numbered every hair on our heads and every desire of our hearts. In becoming us He showed us the blueprint for human perfection. And in His Word, with stories and poems and parables and people, He makes it abundantly clear that He is pursuing us, that He knows what is best for us, that He understands us and that until we come to Him with arms open wide we will fall short of realizing the glory of being truly human.

So then, here we are, knowing in our minds that we are called to a deeper experience, sensing in our souls that we can do better and be better and longing in our spirits to change those things within us that seem to forever hold us back and isolate us from the rest of the world. But, try as we may, we can't change a thing about ourselves, can we? At our best we are well-groomed, well-intentioned, responsible people living decent lives while walking around this world with inexpressible fears, short fuses, unresolved anger, bitter resentments, hidden shame, paralyzing guilt and deep regrets. To our credit we invest a great amount of effort, time and money trying desperately to break free from these chains. Then, when we are frustrated enough by our lack of progress, we invest an even greater amount of effort, time and money on anything at all that will temporarily keep our minds off those fears, fuses and regrets. But, we discover that we can't read them away, write them away, eat them or drink them away. We can't earn them away, buy them away or vacation them away. We can't work them away, exercise them away or even Sunday School or church them away. And so they persist. They twist and turn and continue to quietly tie us up inside.

Well, we are not alone in this struggle nor is it unique to our generation as some would have us believe. Other than the words of Christ Himself the Apostle Paul gave us the most profound instruction in the New Testament. I think it reasonable to conclude that this struggle is one of his major themes. In the 7th chapter of Romans Paul wrote graphically about this torment. Beginning in the 15th verse he writes, "I do not understand what I do; for I don't do what I want to do, but instead I do what I hate...I know that good does not live in me - that is, in my human nature. For even though the desire to do good is in me, I am not able to do it...Oh wretched man," he goes on to proclaim, "Who will rescue me from this body of death?" In the 5th chapter of Galatians Paul brings it up again: "...For what our human nature wants is opposed to what the Spirit wants and what the Spirit wants is opposed to what our human nature wants. These two are enemies and this means that you cannot do what you want to do..."

Would the God of the Universe create us, pursue us and save us by the blood of His own Son and then be content to have us grope through life in an unlifting fog of frustration and fear? Certainly not! Yes, indeed, He has wooed us with the message of salvation through His Son. But, His call goes infinitely deeper. He is calling us forth to experience more of His glory, more of His mercy, more of His love. He is urging us to discover the peace that passes all understanding. He is beckoning us to a place we cannot find ourselves but He has sent us His Spirit to guide us. Do you have your own dark corners? Is there anything in your life about which you can say, "I can do better than this; I must do better than this?" Are you stubborn, are you hurt, are you cynical, are you frustrated? Are you angry, are you tired, are you sad, are you afraid? Do these issues cause you to be poor in spirit? Do they cause you to mourn your condition? Have you reached the point where you hunger and thirst to make things right? Then, "Blessed are you," says Jesus. Do you have, first, the desire and then the courage to open these dark corners and expose them to the Jonly true Light? If so, the invitation is lovely and clear: "Ho, every one who is thirsty, come ye to the waters, and he that has no money; come ye, buy and eat; yea come, buy wine and milk without money and without price...Incline your ear, and come unto me: hear, and your soul shall live...For as the rain comes down and the snow from heaven and returns not, but waters the earth and makes it bring forth and bud that it may give seed to the sower and bread to the eater: So shall my word be that goes forth out of my mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I please...For ye shall go out with joy and be led forth with peace: the mountains and hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands." That's what it's like to be human. Amen.

Songwriter/Publisher Day

Opening Remarks: Leadership Music 

Friday, November 13, 1998

The King James Version of the Bible is full of rich imagery and flowery language that is often difficult to interpret. For instance, a passage from the Gospel of Matthew reads: "It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God." Simply translated it means that heaven will be full of songwriters. A rough calculation would lead to the conclusion that fewer than 10% of those people who have determined to call themselves songwriters will succeed in earning even a modest living from their work in that field. On the other hand, a chosen few will be rewarded handsomely for their pursuits. The gulf that separates these two groups is full of tens of thousands of songs that are too long, too short, too country, too pop, too complicated, too ordinary, too hard to sing, too much like another song, not quite right, too good, too sad, indistinct, unnecessary, ill-conceived and probably lost forever. And, back to the scriptures for one last tortured image: Why is it then that "many are called, but few chosen?" Well, I think there are three reasons: Timing, talent and tenacity. The talent, however, is the key.

Great songwriters, I believe, have remarkable gifts. Clearly there is a fundamental understanding of and instinct for melody and harmony, rhythm, chord progression and other musical components that fit together to create the popular song. And, although I will say little more about these musical components, I suspect that most folks are initially drawn into a song because of its melody or beat or the instrumentation in which it was set or because of a particularly stunning vocal performance. Song structure, that is the verse, the channel, the bridge, the chorus, etc. is easily studied and learned. For me it is in the story-telling that the cream rises to the top. Great songwriters look at the world through two eyes: One is the eye of a prophet, one is the eye of a child. They listen to the world with two ears: One is the ear of a poet, one is the ear of a spy. Great songwriters seem to be, at the same time, standing right in the middle of everything and yet somehow just outside. They are preoccupied with the subtle twists and turns of language. They thrive on irony, consider pathos their own, fertile field, elevate the simple to the sublime, depend a great deal on the word blue and regret that there are fewer than a half-dozen pure rhymes for love. The work itself is tedious requiring equal amounts of spontaneity and patience. I would call it something like mystical labor. Most writers will tell you that they had very little to do with the best songs that they produced other than having the wisdom to stay out of their way. Then again, they'll also tell you that you've never heard the best songs they've ever written because they haven't been recorded and likely will never be. Great writers write 8 hours a day, 40 hours a week. Others write only when they are inspired. Some succeed because they are diligent craftsmen. Others have such deep resources that great songs seem to just roll out of them. They draw from their own experiences, reflect on the experiences of others and they also make shit up. They have earned money from masterpieces and they have earned money from tripe. They are not messengers, they are not ministers, they are not counselors; they are songwriters. And, great songwriters, I believe, have remarkable gifts.

Harlan Howard, Bob McDill, Dave Loggins, Hugh Prestwood, Tony Arata, Don Schlitz, Bobby Braddock, Dennis Linde, Gary Burr - these are not the best songwriters in Nashville; they are the best in the world. I use their names for several reasons. In the 22 years that I have walked the streets of Music Row these gentlemen have been the most consistent, most diligent, most commercial, most profound, most enduring, most studied, most appreciated and most successful of them all. There are more, many more but, these men have climbed the mountain, they have found their own voices and those voices are distinct. And, guess how they found their own voices? They worked alone. Somehow the collective wisdom of Music Row has determined that if we put two or three or even four songwriters together in a room the result will be a song that is two or three or four times better when, in reality, the creative process is diluted, the focus blurred and the result is an innocuous little ditty that has all the right parts and then some unrecognizable 24 year old kid from Oklahoma will record it, a promotion team will run it up the charts, someone, somewhere will hear it on their car radio and think to themselves, "That sounds just like the last song they played," and then the song will win a BMI Award, the songwriters and publishers will make money and so the publishers will encourage the writers to write more of these ditties, the promotion team will urge the A&R department to get the kid from Oklahoma to record more of these kinds of songs because they can run them up the charts, the guy in the car will start listening to the Top 40 station because, "He just can't stand this shit anymore," the head of the sales department will tell the label head, "That kid from Oklahoma may be having hits but, he's not selling records," the kid will be dropped, staffers at the label will be let go, the songwriters' option will not be picked up, stand-up comedians will make jokes about country music and, eventually, we will all die. This, in my opinion, is the unnecessary result of co-writing.

Finally, let me say this about Garth Brooks. There is much spoken and written about his remarkable accomplishments but, our opinions of him, positive or otherwise, are irrelevant. The people have voted. He has reached them. He did it with shrewd, global marketing, with an astonishingly exciting live show and with a very vital, world-wide partnership with his record label. When it is all counted up, factored out, studied and analyzed, may it be remembered that he also did this:

And now I'm glad I didn't know 
the way it all would end 
the way it all would go 
Our lives are better left to chance 
I could've missed the pain 
but, I'd have had to miss The Dance

Of all the wonderful opportunities that have been afforded me in this town, in this business, it fills me with the greatest joy and satisfaction to be able to say that I am a songwriter. Thank you for letting me share these first few moments of your morning with you.

Leadership & Community

SOLID Town Meeting

I have a certain sadness, a sense of mourning, that seems to be constantly with me. Something is gone, something has died; something that won't be recovered. It's as if the house in which I was raised has burned to the ground; the family photo albums are lost, the home movies destroyed, the old furniture smoldering in a heap. I can no longer smell my dad's pipe tobacco or my mom's pot roast in the air. It's as if I were living in one of those dreams where you are in a place that you know but, something is different, something is wrong, something is not quite as it should be and you can't seem to do anything about it. I have a certain sadness, a sense of mourning, that seems to be constantly with me -with me on Music Row.

For several decades Nashville has provided a livable, nurturing and sane environment for those driven by the desire to test their creative mettle in the business of music. It has been the choice of many musicians, songwriters and singers as well as those pursuing careers as publishers, publicists, managers, agents and mail room clerks; a choice they have made over New York, Los Angeles, London, Dublin, Chicago, Austin, TX, Muscle Shoals, AL and many other smaller music centers in this country and beyond. Part of the beauty of the Nashville music community has been its geographic compactness; everything nestled in to this 3 X 5 block rectangle in the heart of the city. Another part of the package was the short drive and easy access to and from nice neighborhoods in the suburbs. Add to that the success of the country music industry, the advent and growth of the Christian music industry, the continued sophistication of the recording facilities, the new management and legal offices opening up all over the Row, the bodies of higher education that offer degrees in music business, the new label and publishing edifices sprouting up every other month, 15 new record labels, more jobs, more opinions, more arrogance, more isolation, more demand, more intensity and, "Voile!" Welcome to LA.

The real essence of the beauty and allure of Nashville as a destination for those seeking a career in the business of music was its sense of community. People talked to one another. People encouraged one another. People rooted for one another. They shared information, collaborated on songs, worked for the communal good, housed, clothed, advised, taught, nurtured, spoke well of, loaned money to and bought beer for one another. It was widespread. It was contagious. It was part of the deal and it was sincere.

Now, do these things still happen? Yes, certainly they do but, they seem to occur in isolated circumstances. I am no longer aware of a pervasive feeling of community and it would seem that I am not alone. Enough people were concerned about the deterioration of our Music Row culture that they got together and created a program to preserve it. That's why we're here this evening. Hallelujah!

Some of you in this room know that I have spoken these words before, a couple of times, actually, at the beginning of the Mentoring Program co-sponsored by NARAS and Leadership Music. I am flattered that two of your members heard these thoughts and wanted me to deliver them to this gathering this evening and perhaps further expand upon them. Ironically, I doubt there is a person in this room that needed to hear these whiny little thoughts of mine. The fact that you are here, the fact that you have been working on the concept of this organization for a couple of years now, the fact that you have a name and a purpose and a focus and a newsletter, the fact that you have corporately identified the value of community and the fact that you have decided to put it into action is a testament to the fact that my words already ring hollow. I sensed something and wrote a speech about it; you sensed something and stood up and challenged it. Soon, and very soon, Music Row, the larger music community and the rest of world will feel the consequences of your leadership. I can think of no healthier circumstance.

Once again it seems the chilly winds are blowing down 16th Avenue. We are caving in upon ourselves. This is not a new or isolated scenario; it has happened before and it will likely happen again. This time, however, you are preparing yourselves and this business will begin the process of falling into better and capable hands: Your hands. So, I salute you for your energy, your enthusiasm, your insight and your progress.

In closing, if you will indulge me a few more moments, I'd like to pass on several humble bits of advice based on a variety of situations I've observed while finding my way in this business since I wound up here in January of 1978:

1. Remember why you're doing this: I hope it's because you love music. Don't lose touch with that. It's easy to do.

2. There's a good chance the public does not share your tastes: but, don't let that dictate all your decisions. At this point in time our music sounds like it's trying to please too many people. At the same time don't think too little of the public. They can only respond to what they hear and they only hear what a promotion guy tells a label head he can get a program director to play and the program director is only going to play what he thinks will make his radio station sound hipper and younger and more exciting so the local car dealership will want to advertise on that station and that will make the station manager happy and he will get a big bonus at the end of the year and be able to take his wife and kids to Hawaii for Christmas and the station owner will be able to buy more stations and soon the whole country will be listening to that easy-to-dance-to little number that promotion guy said he could get played.

3. Never forget what you do best: If we're honest with ourselves we know there are certain things for which we are well-suited. There's nothing wrong with stretching but, stay close to the things you do well; they will serve you and this community the best.

4. Just because a door opens doesn't mean you have to go through it: Chances are many of you will be given wonderful opportunities during your careers in Nashville. Think those opportunities through before you accept them. Peace of mind and time to live a balanced life is priceless.

5. Know one really knows: This town is brimming with great songwriters, musicians, publicists, producers and marketers. Not one of them is certain about anything they do. Believing in something is noble. Guaranteeing its success or failure is ignorant and arrogant.

6. Question things: Unlike our music, all of our institutions are suffering from too much tradition. If you find yourself on the board of the CMA or the CMF or NARAS or AFTRA or any other Music Row related organization ask questions; challenge things.

7. No is an acceptable answer: From time to time you will be tempted to avoid a phone call or a meeting or you will wander around in a perpetual state of dread expecting any minute a chance encounter with someone whose been trying to get an answer out of you regarding a really shitty act or song they pitched. If you have yet to experience this let me tell you it is very unpleasant; it is also unnecessary. Choosing to tell someone nothing instead of finding a decent and direct way of saying, "No," may seem humane; it is anything but.

8. Stay on the street: Every time I walk into a record label building I feel that armed guards with crossbows are posted in turrets watching every move I make. I feel like great secrets are being hidden from me as if The Dead Sea Scrolls or The Shroud of Turin are being examined within those walls. And, when I worked in one of those buildings I remember gazing out of the little window in my cell at people like you running around freely, talking, sharing, making plans. Wherever you end up, whatever your pursuit, stay close to the street; that is where everything happens, especially the music.

9. Continue to serve each other: Competition and vindictiveness are very present dangers in this town. This is carried on by people who have no talent. Soon enough they will destroy each other and it will be safe to go out in the streets again. Continue to believe in what you have started here. It works.

I wish you well. I thank you for allowing me to be a part of this event. Peace.

Old Poetry

My wife and I recently bought a new home and moved. In the midst of packing and unpacking hundreds of boxes I happened upon an old cardboard box that I have been carrying around with me since my mother sold the house in which I was raised after my father died in 1969. Among the many items stashed away in that delightful and embarrassing box was a folder full of poetry from my teenage years including my freshman year in college. Well, I was an idiot. I was a stupid idiot. It is amazing that I am still alive. Someone should have shot me or beaten me to death for writing these self indulgent and pathetic thoughts down on paper. After I encountered this nonsense I didn't leave my new house for two days. I was humiliated. I was certain someone else was aware that I had just reread all of this crap and they were watching my every move to ensure that I didn't try to harm myself. It is further humiliating to me that I saved it. Why, in the name of all that doesn't rhyme, did I save it?

The themes of these poems were death, hopelessness, war, man's inhumanity to man, my parents, God (dog spelled backwards) and, you know, love. All of these poems sucked and as I was reading them I was trying hard to forget how, immediately after writing one, I would run to a friend or call someone and share my ponderous, new, world-cleansing tome with them and how they would always tell me how incredible they were and that I should write more. Those were the people who should have shot me or beaten me to death and here they were encouraging me to create more of this crap. Well, they were idiots, too. So, my dad died when I was 16 and my mom was a helpless mess and I was planning to be a minister and this was all during the Vietnam War and my high school sweetheart went off to college and found some rich fraternity guy and these were the only themes that really were resonating with me at the time, I guess.

I think it is reasonable that a 14 or 15 year old kid be forgiven for writing an awkward love sonnet or a beatnik-like haiku about the government. But, a 20 year old should be bound and buggered for conceiving, writing and preserving the thoughts that I was encountering on these pages. They were so ignorant and arrogant that, as I was reading, I could feel myself cringe and wince from the emotional pain I was experiencing. And yet, I was mesmerized. It was much like the feeling I had when I was clicking through the television channels late one night and came across a woman hot-gluing various sized buttons onto an empty can of Campbell's Tomato Soup that she had just finished covering with a piece of leftover, plaid, cabinet shelf paper to make a replacement Yahtzee shaker. I couldn't stop watching that woman. I just couldn't believe that somebody would do this. It was entirely too bizarre. So it was with these poems. I couldn't believe that someone would do this. I imagined all of those poor, innocent people who were exposed to this drivel still talking about what an asshole I was with that weird, bullshit poetry that I used to write and how I was such a pain in the ass to have to encounter because I always made people look at something new I had created and never really gave a shit about anybody else's life. What a prick. What a dick. What a slick, dick prick.

In the weeks since I opened the box and uncovered this horrible bit of my history I have had to come face to face with the fact that I am not nearly as cool as I believed myself to be. At least there was a time I was not so cool; that time when I thought those thoughts and wrote those poems. And I had this startling thought about those startling thoughts: I had no idea just how terribly out of touch and hideous these self-indulgent pieces of tripe were. I perceived myself to be T. S. Elliott and Carl Sandburg; e. e. cummings and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. No; better than they. I was hipper, younger and all-knowing. I was brilliant, coy and majestic. I was tragic, brave and sensitive. I was an idiot. I was stupid and I was an idiot. But, this is what fills me with dread: I still am.

Why, for instance, have I not taken that folder full of bad poetry and shredded it to pieces or burned it to black dust? Well, I suppose that somewhere in the unspoken crevices of this immature mind I remain secretly convinced that someone will encounter these unfortunate phrases long after I'm gone and proclaim me to have been the personification of all things sensitive and profound. And people will honor me and research me and write essays about me and they will turn my various homes into museums and they will give scholarships in my name and they will read my works at colleges and universities and publish volume after volume of my undiscovered genius. They will analyze me, build a statue of me in the center of my hometown, name the new English department at my old high school after me and finally, after all this time, they will disgrace the name of John Childress, the son-of-a-bitch who failed me in the poetry component of the mandatory freshman humanities class for writing, "...such insipid tripe." Yes, he will suffer; not quite as much as he did when he read my poetry but, he will suffer. He will suffer because he told the truth. Poetic justice.

NARAS/Leadership Music Mentoring Program: Opening Remarks

Friday, October 2, 1998

I have a certain sadness, a sense of mourning, that seems to be constantly with me. Something is gone, something has died; something that won't be recovered. It's as if the house in which I was raised has burned to the ground; the family photo albums are lost, the home movies destroyed, the old furniture smoldering in a heap. I can no longer smell my dad's pipe tobacco or my mom's pot roast in the air. It's as if I were living in one of those dreams where you are in a place that you know but, something is different, something is wrong, something is not quite as it should be and you can't seem to do anything about it. I have a certain sadness, a sense of mourning, that seems to be constantly with me with me on Music Row.

For several decades Nashville has provided a livable, nurturing and sane environment for those driven by the desire to test their creative mettle in the business of music. It has been the choice of many musicians, songwriters and singers as well as those pursuing careers as publishers, publicists, managers, agents and mail room clerks; a choice they have made over New York, Los Angeles, London, Dublin, Chicago, Austin, TX, Muscle Shoals, AL and many other smaller music centers in this country and beyond. Part of the beauty of the Nashville music community has been its geographic compactness; everything nestled in to this 3 X 5 block rectangle in the heart of the city. Another part of the package was the short drive and easy access to and from nice neighborhoods in the suburbs. Add to that the success of the country music industry, the advent and growth of the Christian music industry, the continued sophistication of the recording facilities, the new management and legal offices opening up all over the Row, the bodies of higher education that offer degrees in music business, the new label and publishing edifices sprouting up every other month, 15 new record labels, more jobs, more opinions, more arrogance, more isolation, more demand, more intensity and, "Voile!" Welcome to LA.

The real essence of the beauty and allure of Nashville as a destination for those seeking a career in the business of music was its sense of community. People talked to one another. People encouraged one another. People rooted for one another. They shared information, collaborated on songs, worked for the communal good, housed, clothed, advised, taught, nurtured, spoke well of, loaned money to and bought beer for one another. It was widespread. It was contagious. It was part of the deal and it was sincere.

Now, do these things still happen? Yes, certainly they do but, they seem to occur in isolated circumstances. I am no longer aware of a pervasive feeling of community and it would seem that I am not alone. Enough people were concerned about the deterioration of our Music Row culture that they got together and created a program to preserve it. That's why we're here this morning. Hallelujah!

So, forgive me for doing what every other speaker does when they can't think of a decent transition to the next portion of their speech: I am going to tell you how the dictionary defines Mentor. I was surprised when I found it capitalized. Mentor was actually a mythological figure. (As I look around the room this makes sense to me.) Mentor was the teacher or counselor to Odysseus. And, the uncapitalized version means a wise counselor or teacher. So, by definition, you who have been designated as mentors have big, mythological shoes to fill. And, I know you will.

Drawing on my own experience it is difficult to distinguish between a mentor and a friend, a good and devoted friend. A friend will be there for you at all costs, jump your battery when you're stranded at the mall, watch your kids, loan you money, help you move, laugh at your jokes, tell you when your zipper's down and paint your house. A mentor may do some of these things but, don't count on it. A mentor will point you in the right direction, shed light on confusing issues, take a keen interest in your career path, clarify the subtleties of doing business on Music Row, turn you away from the wrong people, introduce you to the best and, perhaps most importantly, believe in you and, in the words of Tim Hardin, give you a reason to believe in yourself.

For the sake of this moment I have made myself distinguish between my friends and my mentors. If the truth be known all my mentors became my friends. I was blessed with the consistent advice of many good people over the course of my twenty-two years in Nashville. Among my mentors I include my first publisher, Jim Malloy, a veteran recording engineer, producer and publisher who took me and my young family under his wing, entertained me with Music Row war stories, introduced me to Jack Clement, Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash, insisted that I play golf at least 3 times a week, asked nothing from me except that I write songs, sat behind the console as I did my earliest song demos, gave me the money to purchase a 1977 red Ford Granada and got me a 3-year advance from BMI. I include Even Stevens, a funny, diminutive and energized songwriter who etched it upon my soul that I was, indeed, the songwriter that I hoped I was and who taught me to pour everything into that gift with little regard for anything else and who spent months and months introducing me to musicians, singers and producers, buying me lunch and talking me out of co-writing. I include Wayland Holyfield and Layng Martine who demonstrated to me, in elegant and profound ways, that a guy could give himself over to this business and maintain an abundant family life. I include Norro Wilson who made me laugh and allowed me to witness, first-hand, how an understanding and appreciation of the sheer joy of music can energize and pull the very best out of a roomful of great musicians. And, perhaps the most princely of all mentors is Harlan Howard, the wise poet, the troubled soul, the original Highwayman, the teller of tales, the man who holds the mirror for all of us who loves to sit and talk about songs, about rhymes and stories, about hooks and twists that move him to tears; who wants to share his experience and give advice; who loves to fascinate you with his memories of Kristoferson and Willie and Roger Miller and Lefty Frizell; who wants you to write a great song and will congratulate you when he thinks you have. Finally, if I had to identify just one individual who served as a mentor to me, it would be, without question, Roger Sovine. I suppose what distinguished Roger from the others is that he didn't only respond to my questions, he initiated the dialogue; he called me with opportunities; he involved me in organizations; he volunteered information; he made certain I was present in situations that he deemed important; he pushed me outside my boundaries of comfort and, from time to time, he chided me for making bad decisions and telling dirty jokes in mixed company.

So, that was my good fortune; these folks were my angels, my mentors on Music Row. I am not privy to the exact mechanisms that have been established for this Mentoring Program on which you all are about to embark. But, I will say this: I think it is awesome that half of the people in this room have volunteered to be available to share their time, their wisdom, their insights and their friendship as mentors in this program. I think it is awesome that these two sponsoring organizations heard the call and understood the timeliness of this program and responded to it. But, I'll tell you honestly, I think it is most profound that half of the people in this room made it perfectly clear that they want to learn, they want to grow, they want to be guided, they have questions and they don't know it all. It is a very refreshing attitude in an era when we want so much to be instantly gratified; when we can write one hit and demand a six-figure advance; when we can produce one successful album and get our own label; when we pay no homage to the past and are terribly uncertain about the future. It is unfortunate that, what was once a natural occurrence, is now a "program." However, I commend all of you for your efforts in making it natural, again. Good luck.

Laying Hollie Down

Hollie had been walking around in circles for about a year. At some arbitrary moment, and for reasons that only made sense to her, she would suddenly stop the mesmerizing merry-go-round and flop heavily to the floor. She appeared to be dead. I would whisper/shout, 'Hollie! Hollie! Hollie!' She awoke lazily and looked around trying to identify the source and direction of the sound. What she couldn't see was my face 3 inches away. Then came the shallow and rapid breathing. Her tongue hung from her mouth like an old, pink flag in the dusk of a day that had no wind. Her breath was foul. When I worked at my desk upstairs she maneuvered herself underneath the open center section to the left or right of my legs with her snout almost pressed to the wall staring straight ahead into the darkness. She stayed there until I got up and left. Her eyes were whitish-gray and her gaze was distant. She smelled like death and she started peeing in the house. My dog was dying. My dog was dying.

We had avoided the subject for too long. Hollie's few remaining joys were laying on the soft bed of our front yard grass in the hot sun, eating the heaps of dry food set in front of her every evening smothered with scraps of fat and the 10:30 PM walks in the cool of the night when she would sniff other dog's urine and I would sneak a couple cigarettes. This is what remained in a life full of joy and pain.

In 1984, on a chilly and gray Saturday morning just after Thanksgiving, Sarah and I loaded our two kids into our station wagon and took a 45 minute drive to a farm in Lebanon, Tennessee. Roy, our 3 year old son, wanted to call her 'Bob' until we finally convinced him that 'Bob' wasn't really a good girl-dog name. Tallu, our 5 year old daughter, had dug in her heels for 'Princess' which made Roy mad although he couldn't really articulate his concerns; he simply said, "No! No! No! Bob! I want her to be Bob!" Sarah patiently intervened and suggested we all wait until we see her and we'll probably know then what her name should be. So, with open minds we made the last few turns through the country and arrived at our destination.

We were greeted by the friendly proprietor and his wife and their two sweet dogs. They were expecting us and walked us excitedly to the barn 50 yards away. Of the half dozen 8-week old puppies wandering in the hay all of our eyes and hearts were drawn to one. We wrote a check for $75, thanked the farmer and his wife and got back into the car arguing about who would be holding the puppy. She was placed in a cardboard box in the back which made Roy mad although he couldn't really articulate his concerns; he simply said, "I want to hold her! I want to hold Bob!"

I don't recall the details of the negotiations that led us, eventually, to the decision to give her the name we did. I think it had alot to do with the season and her breed. Christmas was approaching and she was a pure-bred, Tricolor Collie with a deep black coat, white underbelly and beige colorings. And so she became Hollie; 'Hollie the Collie.' And so she would be for 15 years.

I'd like to think that Hollie had a pleasant life. Sarah and I had both been raised in homes that owned and loved dogs so we understood pet basics. We knew that dogs had to be walked and groomed and fed and watered. They also needed to learn to control their behavior which meant no biting, no leg-humping and, by all means, no crapping in the house. In recent years animals have gained a level of respect in our society that, among other things, has tried to dictate a gentle approach to behavioral training. For instance, when I was a kid we got a new puppy and when she did what she had to do on the carpet my dad rolled up a newspaper, rubbed her nose in the nastiness, slapped the newspaper on her butt and threw her out onto the back porch. Within a day or two that little puppy would cry and whine and yelp and scratch at the kitchen door when that sensation overtook her. If someone from the Humane Society or Precious Pups saw my dad do that today he would probably have to go to prison. So, I modified my dad's approach mostly because we didn't get the local newspaper because it was an awful newspaper and we also didn't have a back porch. The result, however, was the same.

Hollie spent the first half of her life in the front yard of our home on a quiet street in south Nashville. She was treated to a very long walk early every morning with Sarah, several mandatory walks with our kids during the day and another long walk every night with me. We didn't have a fence around our one-acre lot and I wasn't about to spend the money on one of those invisible devices or tie her to a rope so, at some point we just started opening the door and allowing Hollie to roam unattended. It was common practice in our neighborhood. Hollie ended up tagging along with every person that walked by and people from blocks away whom we didn't know would call us, send us cards and knock on our door just to tell us that Hollie was the sweetest dog they'd ever met. They carried bones and leftover pieces of beef wrapped in tin foil and dropped them off in our front yard. Strangers walked along and talked to her as if she were a sibling or a high school friend. Eight years after we brought Hollie home we put our house up for sale and men and women from the neighborhood stopped by with tears in their eyes wondering if we were taking Hollie with us. Of course we were. They all loved her...

...except the garbage men and anyone else who had to drive into our driveway in a truck. There was something in and around the front, driver's side tire of a truck that made Hollie crazy. She had to kill it. I always supposed it was the pitch of the whine of the rubber on the road or some imperceptible rattling of the lug nuts. Whether a truck was slowing down or speeding up Hollie was there in perfect stride trying to rid the world of the dark spirit that lived up under that fender or inside that black rubber. She couldn't control the urge to get after it and all the rolled up newspapers in the world couldn't convince her otherwise. Four times in her fifteen years Hollie suffered life-threatening injuries because of these epic battles. The first blow was delivered by the left front fender of an S-10 Ford pick-up owned and driven by one of those neighbors who cried on our porch when we moved. Hollie walked with him everyday and he loved her and his truck hit her right in front of our house and he came hysterically to our door saying, "I'm so sorry...I'm so sorry...I think Hollie's dead...she's not moving...I'm so sorry...she ran out in front of me...oh God, she's not moving...I'm so sorry" and I got Sarah to take care of that poor, sweet guy and I walked slowly and cautiously up the front lawn and noticed a few people starting to gather and then I saw her poor body laying lifelessly on the street and I became mesmerized and my mind went blank and I started whispering, "Hollie? Sweetie? Hollie? Come on girl...come on Hollie. Sweetie? Hollie?" And there was blood on her face under a gash by her eye and one of her legs looked really bad and someone said, "She got hit pretty hard, Tom...she ran right out in front of that poor guy..." and then Hollie wiggled and shook a little and she tried to pick her head up and laid it back down and then tried again and sat up on her haunches and then got onto her feet and fell over and got up again and started walking kind of sideways like she had just had two quarts of doggie Four Roses and flopped down again, back up, sideways, straight, sideways, down, up and out to the backyard under a tree. I had some hope that she could make it and I went and got a blanket to wrap her up and get her to the vet but, frankly, I was afraid that she might go nuts on me when I tried to pick her up so I proceeded very cautiously and finally managed to get her into the car and over to Dr. Greene. She came home with her body shaved and a big collar around her neck that looked like a lamp shade that kept her from licking her wounds. She was clearly embarassed.

Two years later the same guy hit her again and a year after that, when we were on vacation and a young friend was house and dog-sitting, she disappeared. Upon arriving home our young friend was distraught. Hollie had been gone for 5 days. A veterinarian's nurse called us two days later and explained that Hollie had been brought into their office that morning by a stranger who found her nursing some cuts and broken bones in the woods behind his house. She had a broken hip and leg and a pretty bad cut on her mid-section but she was going to be all right. We should come and pick her up. When I arrived Hollie was waiting for me with a shaved body and another one of those lamp shades. She wouldn't look me in the eye. I figured she was either embarassed again or giving me the silent treatment because I was too cheap to pay the $1,200 for the invisible fence. That would have been a bargain. The vet's bill was $2,500.

So, Hollie's body was pretty roughed up but, she proved to be a tough and resilient girl and when she got hit again outside our new house and the woman weeping at our front door started her hysterical blabber about hitting our dog I got her a glass of water, sat her down in our living room and assured her that everything was okay and I walked out across our front lawn toward Hollie's body and stood over her and she got up and did her drunk walk back to the house. Another truck; another lampshade.

Despite all of this I'd like to think that Hollie had a pleasant life. We loved her. She slept on kids' beds, shag rugs and even a white couch when we were out of the house. She ate hot dogs right off the grille, Kibbles 'n Bits with gravy and even a birthday cake lovingly baked, carved and frosted to look like Kermit the Frog. She was Queen of Hemingway Drive, visiting royalty in the forest of western Pennsylvania and the good looking stranger on the marshy coast of Georgia. She was gentle with children, great with a Frisbee and a pawful for any other dog who mistakenly tried to leave something behind in our yard. She was also a great protector. One winter after a notorious Tennessee ice storm some hungover plumber was giving me a rash of shit in my basement about some broken pipes. It was about to get out of hand and I was glancing around looking for something I could use to protect myself. I called her name and she was there in 10 seconds. The plumber decided I was right. Hollie was front and center in many of our Christmas card pictures and many of our friends and family members included her name on envelopes addressed to us. And now she was dying. My sweet dog was dying.

Ten days before Christmas in 1999, 15 years after we first saw her in the hay in Lebanon, we all gathered with Hollie on the floor of our living room in front of the tree. Tallu loaded her camera and we preserved some final memories. The following morning I called Mary, our nextdoor neighbor at our first house, and asked if I could stop by and park in her driveway for 10 minutes while I walked Hollie around the old stomping grounds one last time. I started to cry and I couldn't finish any sentences when Mary said, "Sweetie, you and Hollie come by and stay as long as you want," because she could tell from my broken phrases what was happening and so I picked Hollie up and put her in the passenger's seat of my car with my tears falling on her graying coat and drove over to Hemingway Drive and parked at Mary's house because I didn't really feel like talking to the people who bought our house eight years earlier. I took Hollie out of the car, clicked her leash onto her collar and we took our walk. One more walk. She looked like a puppy, again. There was a bounce in her step. Her head was high. She peed every 5 steps and made those stubborn stops where she sniffed and sniffed and then, as if she had suddenly thought to herself, "What the hell am I doing? I've just put my nose in someone else's shit," she sneezed violently and we moved on. Although it was 10 in the morning we followed the route we had taken every night for all those years.

I waved to Mary through the window and drove the two miles to Dr. Greene's office. As always Hollie resisted entering the building. They were awaiting our arrival. "Mr. Schuyler, are you sure you want to go in there? You don't have to. It's up to you." "No, I want to be in there."

They allowed Hollie to lay in my arms on the floor until whatever was in that needle they stuck into her forearm completed its task. She went limp and it was peaceful. Then they took her from me and laid her gently on the floor. The nurse looked at me with tears rolling down her face and said, "Hollie's gone now. She was a brave girl. She's okay."

KING DAVID

A YOUNG MAN NAMED DAVID WROTE A SONG. HE DIDN'T MAKE A DEMO. HE HAD NO PUBLISHER. THERE WAS NO YOUNG PUNK TO TELL DAVID THAT HIS SONG SUCKED AND NO A&R PERSON TO PUT HIS SONG ON HOLD FOR 18 MONTHS. THERE WERE NO LAWYERS INVOLVED; NO ARTISTS. JUST THIS SONG. IT WAS COMPOSED FOR THE PURPOSE OF SOOTHING DAVID'S OWN SOUL AND IN SO DOING IT ALSO SOOTHED THE SOUL OF ANOTHER. I HAVE NEVER HEARD THE ORIGINAL MELODY TO THIS SONG; I SUSPECT IT WAS A BALLAD. BUT, I HAVE HEARD THE WORDS, AND SO HAVE YOU. IT BEGINS LIKE THIS:

'THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD; I SHALL NOT WANT.'

THE OTHER MAN WHO WAS MOVED BY THIS SONG WAS NAMED SAUL...MEAN, MOODY, ENVIOUS, ANGRY, INSECURE, BLOATED, ALMOST CRAZY. BUT, HEARING THIS SONG AND OTHERS LIKE IT MADE SAUL FEEL BETTER. SO, SAUL MADE A DEAL WITH DAVID: DAVID WOULD WRITE AND PERFORM HIS BEAUTIFUL SONGS EXCLUSIVELY FOR SAUL IN EXCHANGE FOR THE BASIC COMPENSATION OF FOOD, LODGING AND PROTECTION. SAUL REFERRED TO THIS AS AN ADVANCE. IT WAS A GOOD DEAL FOR A GOOD WHILE. BUT, SOON THE SONGS LOST THEIR MAGIC AND SAUL GREW DESPONDENT AND JEALOUS OF DAVID'S POPULARITY AND SAUL BANISHED DAVID FROM HIS COURT, HUNTED HIM LIKE AN ANIMAL AND TRIED, IN VAIN, TO KILL HIM. THIS SONG AND A COLLECTION OF OTHER SONGS OF DAVID WERE COMPILED IN A BOOK THAT, TO DATE, HAS SOLD BILLIONS OF COPIES AND DAVID BECAME KNOWN, ETERNALLY, AS 'A MAN AFTER GOD'S OWN HEART.' SAUL, ON THE OTHER HAND, BEGAN CONSORTING WITH WITCHES AND DIED A TRAGIC DEATH AT HIS OWN SWORD. ON HIS GRAVE MARKER IT SAYS SIMPLY: 'SAUL: KING OF ISRAEL, MUSIC PUBLISHER.'

YOUNG MAN NAMED STEPHEN WROTE A SONG. HE SOLD ALL HIS RIGHTS TO THAT SONG AND MANY OTHER SONGS TO A LOCAL MUSIC PUBLISHER FOR $100. BECAUSE OF STEPHEN'S PERSONAL RELATIONSHIP WITH A TOURING VOCAL GROUP KNOWN AS THE CHRISTY MINSTRELS THE SONG BECAME A NATIONAL HIT. 2 DOZEN OTHER MUSIC PUBLISHERS MARKETED THEIR OWN VERSION OF THE SONG WITH NO COMPENSATION TO STEPHEN. THEY MADE HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS. STEPHEN WROTE MORE SONGS, 100'S IN FACT, AND MANY MORE WERE PUBLISHED AND SUCCESSFUL. I KNOW THE LYRICS TO MANY OF THOSE SONGS; AND THE MELODIES, TOO. SO DO YOU. 'WAY DOWN UPON THE SWANEE RIVER,' 'DE CAMPTOWN RACES,' 'MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME,' 'I DREAM OF JEANIE,' 'IN THE MERRY, MERRY MONTH OF MAY,' 'BEAUTIFULK DREAMER' AND, THAT FIRST SONG OF WHICH I SPOKE, 'OH SUSANNAH.' STEPHEN FOSTER DIED AT THE AGE OF 37 WITH 38 CENTS IN HIS POCKET AND A SCRIBBLED NOTE THAT SAID, 'TO DEAR FRIENDS AND GENTLE HEARTS.' HE WAS AMERICA'S FIRST PROFESSIONAL SONGWRITER AND HIS STORY OF FLEETING GLORY AND PERPETUAL ANGUISH WAS A CRY IN THE WILDERNESS BRINGING JUSTICE AND STRUCTURE INTO A NEW INDUSTRY. THAT BRINGS US TO THIS MOMENT...

MANY OTHER YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN HAVE WRITTEN SONGS FOR A VARIETY OF REASONS. THROUGHOUT THE PAST 35 YEARS 144 OF THEM HAVE BEEN HONORED FOR THEIR WORK BY INDUCTION INTO THE NASHVILLE SONGWRITERS HALL OF FAME. 
THEY ARE SMILEY AND SONNY... AND SONNY 
SOME ARE BLACK, RED, WHITEY AND LEFTY 
OTHERS ARE CURLY, DILL, HAGGARD AND HANDY 
THEY INCLUDE HOAGEY, HUDDY AND A HANDFUL OF HANKS; DILLON AND DYLAN; WAYLON AND WAYLAND; ROY AND TROY, DALLAS, DOODLE AND DOLLY

THERE'S A BERRY, A BOND, A BUDDY, A CHESTNUT, A COOK, A COWBOY, A GIBSON, A HILL, A KING, A MOON, A PAYNE, A RABBITT, A ROSE, A TUBB, SEVERAL WALKERS, A WHEELER AND A WEBB.

THERE'S ALSO A BREWER, 3 MILLERS AND A SCHLITZ.

THIS EVENING, THE HONOR OF INDUCTION INTO THIS ILLUSTRIOUS GROUP WILL BE GIVEN TO SEVERAL OTHERS. AS IN PRIOR YEARS OUR FOUNDATION HAS CONDUCTED THESE ELECTIONS AND, WITH SIGNIFICANT HELP FROM THE NSAI, PRESENTED THIS ANNUAL DINNER AND CEREMONY. YOUR GENEROUS AND INCREASING SUPPORT OF THIS EVENT HAS BEEN EVIDENCED OVER THE YEARS AND THIS YEAR WE WERE FACED WITH THE FRUSTRATING DILEMMA OF HAVING TO TURN PEOPLE AWAY. AS I CLOSE LET ME SUGGEST THAT THE GROWING POPULARITY OF THIS DINNER IS DIRECTLY RELATED TrO THE PURITY OF WHAT IS HONORED HERE AND THE RESPECT WE ATTEMPT TO EXPRESS TO OUR INDUSTRY'S MOST PRECIOUS RESOURCES: ENDURING SONGS AND THOSE WHO WRITE THEM.

WE ARE ENGAGED IN A LARGE UNDERTAKING THAT WILL FINALLY REALIZE THE FOUNDATION'S MANDATE: TO BUILD A PHYSICAL SITE FOR THE NASHVILLE SONGWRITERS HALL OF FAME. TO BE SURE, THIS IS AN UNFORTUNATE TIME TO BE RAISING MONEY. BUT, WE BELIEVE THAT A PERMANENT CELEBRATION OF THIS MOST ELEGANT PROFESSION IS PROFOUNDLY NECESSARY AND CAN ONLY HAPPEN IN ONE PLACE ON THIS EARTH: NASHVILLE, TN. IF YOU GET A CALL FROM ME IN THE NEXT 12 MONTHS YOU MAY WANT TO RECONSIDER RETURNING IT (WHICH WILL BE NOTHING NEW FOR MANY OF YOU:) I'LL PROBABLY BE ASKING FOR MONEY. LIKE THAT YOUNG MAN NAMED DAVID, IT WILL BE AN OPPORTUNITY TO REACH INTO YOUR POUCH, PICK OUT A SMOOTH STONE AND STRIKE A BLOW FOR ALL THAT IS GOOD IN OUR INDUSTRY.

Cookin' At The Bluebird

(Reflections by Thom Schuyler)

I recollect that the Greeks and the Romans first conceived and perfected the notion of a performance "In the Round." Several thousand years later, in 1985 to be exact, my friends Fred "Apollo" Knobloch and Don "Augustus" Schlitz came to the sober conclusion that this style of presentation needed to be resurrected in Nashville, the Athens of the South. The following Friday night at 9:30 P.M. I found myself sitting in a chair in the middle of the floor of the Bluebird Cafe with a microphone in front of me, facing south, looking directly at Paul Overstreet who was staring directly back at me while Don sat to my right and Fred to my left. We were about to embark on a strange, dramatic and very funny musical journey. That journey continues.

The idea of several songwriters sitting around in a circle singing their songs and telling the stories of how and why those songs came to be is, to me at least, a hideous one. The setting is ripe with opportunity for indulgence, false sentiment, wimpy anecdotes, humiliation, vulgar pathos, drunken displays of sour grapes and really bad music performed by songwriters who really wanted to be artists but couldn't sing or play all that well. I have witnessed and participated in enough of these "and then I wrote" parades to testify to the fact that my assessment has some merit. However, I have had the great pleasure and good fortune to sit in that circle, almost exclusively, with Fred and Don. Their talent, humor, reliability, resilience, spontaneity and sense of respect for those wonderful people who continue (15 years later) to come and see us do this bit of unshow business has made the whole experience a watershed in my life.

So, the rebirth of the circular audience has now found its way around the world, again. Amy Kurland has sent ITR missionaries to festivals, conferences, gatherings and Wal-Mart openings from Quebec to Japan. They've been created for Presidents, religious leaders, huge corporations, elementary schools and Cub Scout fund-raisers. The VH-1 "Unplugged" series is traced directly to this little, 120 seat club in Green Hills. The format is utilized all over Los Angeles and London. New York City's infamous "Words and Music" series at the Uptown Y even borrows from it. We recreated our living rooms, drank for free and charged people five bucks to watch us have a great time. It's all Greek to me.

Suggested Recipe: Greek Salad

Health Care

Can I help you?

Yes. A prescription for Solinsky. Rose Solinsky.

Spell it.

S-O-L-I...

What? S what?

S-O-L-I-N...

M?

N. S-O-L-I-N-S-K-Y. Rose Solinsky. It's from Dr. Craig.

When did they call it in?

Well, I'm not sure. Probably within the last 30 minutes or so.

Hold on. Shirley, did you get an order from Dr. Craig's office in the last hour?

Uh, hold on. I don't know. Let me check. Yeah. Uh, it'll be a few minutes.

It'll be a few minutes. Next. Can I help you?

Well wait, I need to get that medicine.

I understand, sir. It's not ready, yet. Just have a seat and...do you have your insurance card with you?

Yes. You have all our information on file. We've been filling our prescriptions here for 18 years.

Well, I need to see your card and a photo I.D.

I don't understand. Nothing has changed. Where's Bonnie?

Bonnie?

Yeah. The girl who worked here all the time.

Oh. They sent her over to a store out by the mall. Hold on, sir.

Yes, can I help you? Toothpaste? Aisle 4.

Can I see your insurance card, please? We can get the paper work done and check for generics while you're waiting.

Dr. Craig doesn't want Rose using the generic. Actually, I don't think there is a generic.

Shirley, is there a generic on the Craig order?

Hold on.

Now. Date of birth?

What?

Date of birth?

Why do you need to know that?

Sir, please just tell me when you were born.

April 2, 1922.

Place of employment?

You have all this.

We're supposed to update our records.

I'm retired. 15 years.

Phone number?

515-7525.

This is your medical card. I need to see your pha!rmacy card and a photo I. D.

It's the same company.

Yes, I know sir but, I have to have the information from the pharmacy card. This card doesn't tell me whether you are covered for pharmaceuticals.

Well, I don't seem to have it.

Yes, can I help you? Nicorette is just to your right. I'm sorry. This register isn't working. Please take it up front.

I can't give you this...hold on. Good afternoon, pharmacy. Hold on. Shirley, it's your son.

I can't give you this prescription without your other card.

Listen. My wife needs this medicine. She's very sick. Look, let me take it home to her and I'll bring the card back right away.

Sir, I can't do that.

Well then, I'm gonna have to go and come back, dammit.

. . . .

No. There's no generic. Actually, we don't have any of that medicine.

My Mother’s Hands

My life has been blessed with three sweet, funny and loving siblings (all much older than I.) I am including here a lovely piece that my sister wrote some years ago recounting an afternoon she spent with our dear Mom.

.        .        .        .        .        

Mr. Schuyler,
 
Your order for My Mother's Hands is attached.  Sorry for the delay in sending the requested material.  Our warehouse is in a state of disarray and we have recently completed redecorating our showrooms.  Thank you for your order.  I hope it will be a blessing to your readers.  
 
Regards,
Hulsizer Publishing Co.

A few years ago, when my mother was visiting, she asked me to go shopping with her because she needed a new dress. I don’t normally like to go shopping with other people, and I’m not a patient person, but we set off for the mall together nonetheless.

We visited nearly every store that carried ladies’ dresses, and my mother tried on dress after dress, rejecting them all. As the day wore on, I grew weary and my mother grew frustrated.

Finally, at our last stop, my mother tried on a lovely blue three-piece dress. The blouse had a bow at the neckline, and as I stood in the dressing room with her, I watched as she tried, with much difficulty, to tie the bow. Her hands were so badly crippled from arthritis that she couldn’t do it. Immediately, my impatience gave way to a wave of compassion for her. I turned away to try and hide the tears that welled up involuntarily. Regaining my composure, I turned back to tie the bow for her. The dress was beautiful, and she bought it. Our shopping trip was over, but the event was etched indelibly in my memory.

For the rest of the day my mind kept returning to that moment in the dressing room and to the vision of my mother’s hands trying to tie that bow. Those loving hands that had fed me, bathed me, dressed me, caressed and comforted me, and, most of all, prayed for me, were now touching me in a most remarkable manner.

Later in the evening, I went to my mother’s room took her hands in mine, kissed them, and much to her surprise, told her that to me they were the most beautiful hands in the world.

I’m so grateful that God let me see with new eyes what a precious, priceless gift a loving, self-sacrificing mother is. I can only pray that some day my hands, and my heart, will have earned such a beauty of their own.