The Ring

This Week's Song - Proud Mary by Tina Turner - We danced in the living room, then Shelby said, "Do it again, Daddy."

I walked into Diftler’s Jewelers in downtown Knoxville on a cold December day in 1991. Nathan Diflter had sold my father a great many pieces of jewelry over the years. He was so kind to me, patient and proud of his role in the traditions and ceremonies of love. Cheryl and I were graduating from college, and I’d been in his shop previously with her so she could show me the “type” of ring she liked. You know, in the event I decided to marry her one day. She showed me the "type" of ring in several jewelry stores. She liked things done her way. However, on this occasion, I was by myself and on a mission. I didn’t have any money, or at least not much of it. I was about to go to law school. I wasn’t going without her. 

She wanted a small stone with something called baguettes on both sides of the diamond. She was willing to skimp on the size of the main stone for additional diamonds that bookended them. She didn’t want flashy. She didn't want expensive. Instead, she gravitated toward classy and understated, which was the perfect description of the girl and then the woman. She was and would always be specific on the way things had to be - the temperature in the car, the blinds in our house, the “schedule” of grandparents visiting on Christmas day, and the way we had to put Shelby into the specific Graco car seat she hand picked. Our registries - wedding and then baby - were so precise and strategically planned they reminded me of my calculus course in college. It wasn’t control so much as meticulous organization. A plan. Nothing left to chance or my silly whims. I put a downpayment on the ring and its companion wedding band (they had to be a matched set), signed an agreement for installments, and walked out onto a leaf-covered sidewalk, the ring in my pocket and my breath rising like smoke into the air. I was never so happy to be broke. I knew she would say yes, but I was thrilled to make her plan work. Perhaps that is the essence of love. 

Cheryl, Shelby & The Ring

It was a Christmas engagement and a July wedding - just as she wanted. It was perfect, as was the wedding and years that followed - Law degree, house purchase, jobs, birth of Shelby and Andy, two cars, picket fence, and the ring always exactly where it was meant to be. Tea Parties and dancing to Proud Mary in the living room, slow at first, and then fast when Tina hit the tempo. We were rolling. We were on track and playing by the play book, following Cheryl's blueprint. Right up until October of 2000.

In the emergency department that day, after doctors told us what we knew but did not understand, Melissa, our dear friend, implored me to take the engagement ring from her hand. “You have to save it for Shelby.” It seemed so ridiculous to even consider. All of it was ridiculous - the doctors, the nurses, the lines, the beeping machines. She was 31. We'd been hosting friends just minutes before. My initial instinct was a simple "no." It was Cheryl’s prize. She did not covet material things in her life. She coveted the ring. Against my instinct and at the instruction of people who love me, my last act in her presence was to take her prized possession from her. Shelby was only 4 years old and at home waiting for us, waiting for her. There were tickets for the three of us to see Tina Turner in a couple of hours. What was a 4-year-old going to do with a ring? It felt disrespectful, an act so final as I sat with her for the final moments, issuing promises while the last vestiges of false hope lingered with the smell of her shampoo and the warmth of her hand. I walked out through the sliding doors of the ER alone. It was the end of a warm fall day and of the life Shelby, Andy, and I had known. I stood on the sidewalk with the ring, once again, in my pocket.

It has rested in a jewelry case for nearly 22 years. I don't have much jewelry. It is where I keep a watch or two, a pledge pin and my own wedding band, the one she slipped on my hand that long-gone July day. There is also a bracelet, a regretful purchase from my junior year in high school. For some reason I can’t let that one go. I’ll save it for another column. During the years the ring has been at rest, I have found love, a beautiful love I could not have imagined, and together we have raised our children - hers and mine. They call Nancy "Mom," and mean it. We are a happy lot. Like the woman, Cheryl's memory is stubborn and relentless. She is with us, all of us, a warm and sweet whisper. Her name is on our lips, and she is a welcome friend in our home, often appearing in an unspoken admonition, a happy encouragement, or, most commonly, embodied in the little girl who is yet to see Tina Turner sing Proud Mary. Shelby has grown to a beautiful, confident and amazing woman. She is the perfect combination of the loving, independent mother who raised her and the one who delivered her into this world with poise and class embedded in her DNA. 

My suspicions were raised when Stuart asked if he could take me to breakfast. He was visiting with Shelby from Washington for the Georgia game and had heard so much about Pete’s, my favorite downtown diner. We took our seats as Stormy and Tecia, my friends and favorite waitresses, milled around behind the counter cutting sideways glances. Joey and his father, Pete, looked on between the shelves in the kitchen. Like my usual, blueberry pancakes, I knew what was about to happen. It was a moment. Our family has loved Stuart since Shelby met him, but one thing we particularly love about him is his sense of history - Shelby’s history. He knew about the ring and humbly asked what I thought about him presenting Cheryl’s prized possession to her little girl when he asked her to marry him. I insisted. Permission was given. We shook hands and hugged, sealing our secret among good people and the smell of bacon and black coffee.

The Ring  

When they left to return to Washington two days later, I walked out onto the sidewalk with the ring in my pocket one last time.  I slipped it to Stuart with a note. I was proud and hopeful. More than that, I was happy that Shelby's plan was working out, for I've known there was a blueprint.

On the weekend before Christmas, at the top of a snow-covered mountain range in Central Washington, near the camp where they met, a good young man removed Cheryl's ring from his pocket and placed it on our baby's finger, completing the circle and bringing a promised light from the dark. It was exactly where it was meant to be. A rainbow appeared and quickly slipped away as she said yes. I have the pictures to prove it.  

Stuart, Shelby, and a Rainbow

There will be a July wedding. I stand in awe as Shelby plans with such exacting detail. You cannot begin to imagine the things we inherit. I’ll walk her down the aisle just as she and I giggled about at tea parties with stuffed animals in our small house on Belleaire Drive at the peak of our innocence. To a father, his little girl is always 4 years old, dancing in the living room, serving tea and talking to stuffed animals. That is where the tears at the top of the aisle will come from.

We cannot comprehend it, but in our darkest time there is a flicker of light we cannot see. May you find the light in whatever darkness you encounter.

John Prine

This Week's Song - Six O'Clock News - John Prine. It was the live version that came on when I hit shuffle this morning. I was walking to the office and thinking about the good friend I never met.

I hate graveyards and old pawn shops
For they always bring me tears
I can't forgive the way they robbed me  
of my childhood Souvenirs

The Man

I don't believe I will ever forgive this virus.

It started by delaying a trial that I'd been preparing for. An inconvenience. Then, it slowly began impeding our freedoms. Did it make sense to cancel school? Was it a hoax? What about the flu? Then, more confinement. I began to worry about clients, my business, and my employees. This escalated to spending nights contemplating my parents' health and the safety of my baby girl out in Washington. Ultimately, I began to wonder about our American way of life. Nothing makes you appreciate something like its absence. We shake hands, we hug, we lean against each other and dance at music venues, and high five at football games. We are an affectionate and friendly culture. It is a great place to live. Six feet my ass.  It is a lot to ask. It is a lot to get used to.

Gay Street is quiet. Store fronts are dark. "Closed" signs are in the windows. I worry about things like Jocelyn and Ryan's business. They own Tern Club, a bar across the street from me in the 100 block of Gay Street. They are from Portland and traveled the country looking for the place to open their dream business. I met them at a "Block Party" just before they opened. I don't even know their last name, but when you live downtown you come to know everyone. When they unlocked the doors and welcomed people this past December, their bar was an instant hit. On the nights before the advance of the pandemic, the windows fogged from the warmth of bodies and jovial spirit inside, while people lined the sidewalk outside, waiting in the cold, just to get a taste of the famous Mai Tai. The windows were dark this past Saturday evening, as they were for most of our beloved town and Market Square. The decorated roofs of Scruffy City Hall and Preservation Pub were alight, but not a soul looked down onto the Square and the silence of the spring night was deafening. The Square, a living breathing thing, patiently slumbers, awaiting the declining side of scientific graphs and charts. There's no Farmer's Market, no hula hoops or dogs. The music that daily spills out onto the streets has been silenced. No violins or Caribbean Steel Drums. The old man who plays a 1940 Martin, the girl who plays a keyboard in business doorways, and the fellow who plays a saw - yes, a saw - have taken up "Safer at Home." This is a place where Tyler Childers once busked for the money to spend at "Pres Pub." Scott Miller and Drew Holcomb began their careers in its late-night shine and excitement. Then, just a block away, the doors are locked at Kilwins. It is the secret to my very own existence.  I must go on without their ice cream and my beloved lemon drops until this thing is over. I cannot believe the Governor failed to include it as "essential business." Damn the Covid.

Then there is the real problem - the human tragedy. It has set upon the frail and the firm alike. Patrick Dalton, a healthy 24-year-old, is on a ventilator while his new wife and sweet and loving parents are prevented from visiting. Tony, his father, is a fellow member of the Knoxville Bar Association, a fine lawyer and a friend. Once upon a time, we sat in bleachers and worked concessions together while our boys played sports and grew up. His two boys and my four kids attended the same small high school. It hits home when you know someone who has Covid 19, but it becomes almost paralyzing when you are able to identify, to actually visualize yourself and your family in its grips. I am Tony. Patrick is Andy. The Pryors are the Daltons. I think about them throughout the day, praying for Patrick's deliverance from illness.

Then, last night, it stole John Prine. I first met John when Jake Reeves and I were sharing a bottle of Early Times at Lake Terrace Apartments on the campus of the University of Tennessee. It was 1990. I was approaching graduation and marriage. Jake sang along to the words coming from the speakers. The room was full of our buddies, but Mr. Prine's finger picking style and lyrics covered me up like a blanket, and I knew immediately that I must own everything he recorded. John didn't know it when he took his last breath, but he has been my friend since I was 21 years of age. Though we never met, I've listened to him when the sun was setting out on the Gulf and while sitting on my back porch with Nancy. His music has been there - on the golf course, in the car, by the pool and in the office. The rhythm of his acoustic guitar and the stories in his lyrics have accompanied and comforted me in some of the darkest and brightest days of my life. He's never failed me. To this day, this very moment really, his words bleed into the room when I write and work. And, his music seems to speak to me more as I age. Living can do that, help you to see the wisdom in the words of poets. I can imagine John had a lot of unknown friends like me. Why? Because he was genuine. He was humble, never truly understanding his talent or the secret to his success, and seemingly uninterested in its origin. He was almost apologetic for his greatness. He just always seemed like a friend talking to you, delivering his craft with a unique playing style that I've spent a number of years worshiping and trying to emulate.

Everyone has their favorite John Prine song. If you have children that have grown and moved out, just try to listen to Hello In There and not cry. If you ever fell out of love with someone, Far From Me captures it all in 3 minutes. Couples get a kick out of In Spite of Ourselves ("I caught him once sniffing my undies"). I can make a case for about 15 others, but my personal favorite is Souvenirs. I learned to play it on my Martin acoustic. Nancy has heard its intro so many times that it is burned into her soul. When I first executed it, I felt as though Superman stopped by to let me borrow his cape. It's my "go to" riff whenever I pick up a guitar and want to know how the instrument sounds. 

Today is my youngest child's twenty-first birthday. Just the immediate family will gather to celebrate. There will be no bars open to have a beer. I wish I could take him across the street to the Tern Club. Instead, we'll sit on the porch. We'll talk of the Daltons and our concern for the family. His mother and I will stress the importance of washing hands. Then, although he has heard plenty of John Prine while growing up in my house, I'll take the time to offer unsolicited advice. It is one of my stronger qualities. I'll tell him to pay a little more attention to John Prine. It is important to know who your friends are.

Rest in Peace Mr. Prine. Thank you for the Souvenirs. 

Santa, Sex and the Easter Bunny

This Week's Song - Rockin Around the Christmas Tree - By Brenda Lee. The music of my youth. Best there ever was. Merry Christmas to all!

Santa Claus was taken off life support for good on a South Florida beach in the summer of 1980. With kids over the age of 10 Santa's popularity had been fading, but I just couldn't give up on him until I received verification. It came on what remains one of the most memorable days of my life.

The original 5 - Christmas 2018

We were on a family beach trip. My father called me and my brother down from the condo to sit with him in the sand. I am the oldest of 3 and my radar was immediately up and operational. Poor John, who was but 9 years of age, was clueless and ill-equipped for what was to come. I've struggled for 38 years to grasp why my wonderful father chose the manner in which he delivered the news. Maybe he needed something interesting to go with the bad news. Perhaps it was because he had boys who were a mere 3 years apart. Maybe he just wanted to knock out two of the hardest parts of parenting in one quick strike. Whatever the reason, the wonderful man decided that on that day, in one sitting, he would set out to reveal to his boys two life-changing bits of information - the fact that Santa did not exist and the reality of the "Birds and the Bees." Why? Why?

He asked us to sit in the sand. I stared into the Atlantic, not knowing why we were there but knowing a moment of great import was at hand. My brother dawdled in the sand and played with an action figure. Santa died quickly. "Boys, I have good news and bad news." I braced myself. Had someone died? Was Mom leaving him? Had our baby sister, Amy, been kidnapped? "The bad news first - There is no Santa." What served as confirmation to me must have been shocking to my brother, but due to the straight-forward delivery we both sat quietly, heads down, stunned. The boys at school were right. Dammit. In the previous two Christmases my inquisitive mind required me to stage an investigation - Dad left on Christmas Eve to pick up the gifts at the Smither's house. I'd stayed up, heard the engine of our station wagon fire up and timed his departure and return. The Smithers lived in our neighborhood. It was the only answer. A father's duty is painful. He'd just ripped the bandaid off.  In his kindness, his attempt to soften the blow, he said that we should all still act like Santa exists for the benefit of my sister. I was blessed to have a sister who was 7 years younger. "It's very important for you to keep Santa alive for her," he said. Once he said that, I took a deep breath and went back to believing. I had to. It was required. For Amy. I exhaled and checked in on John, who was obviously in profound shock and deep thought. He had a look on his face like a 3 year old with a Rubik's Cube. What could be the "good news?" I wondered. I didn't have to wait long.

Santa and the Easter Bunny

"Now I want to tell you the good news. I'm going to talk to you about Sex." My heart stopped. Wow, what a swing! Just as there were rumors of Santa at school, there was talk of a great mystery emerging in the halls of Farragut Middle School for 12 year olds like me. The talk coincided with the development of lumps beneath girls sweaters and hair showing up under the arms of boys. The talk at school was scandalous and fascinating. Where Santa's execution had been swift and taken but a few seconds, my brother and I were introduced to the "good news" for the better part of the next hour. John kept playing in the sand, eventually drifting off into the mind of the 9 year old he was, the traumatic suppression of the event already setting in. I was fascinated and horrified. I wanted off of the rollercoaster, to climb into the fetal position and tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas. With the patience of a saint and the precision and detail of an engineer at Ferrari, my father went to work. He detailed the male and female anatomy and its purposes in great detail. He used the sand to diagram all manner of things, and I couldn't avoid the vision of cavemen using the same method thousands of years before. He spoke words I'd never heard and explained the function of each body part. He spoke of function and biology and, then, of pleasure and romance. In some aspects of the subject he jumped from the basic course to upper level advanced courses. It was overwhelming. I'd not brought along enough legal pads. He certainly wanted to knock it all out at once. It is the first use of shock and awe. Five minutes in, I'd long forgotten about the disappointment of Santa as he both confirmed and expanded on the things I'd been hearing from those boys in the dangerous halls of Farragut Middle. Neither John nor I uttered a word. I don't know that I breathed during the presentation. Years later I would be glad that Power Point wasn't available. I wanted it to stop while at the same time formulating a great many questions and a desire for more information until he reached a point where, I have no doubt, the look on our faces let him know that we were just incapable of absorbing or processing any more information on the subject. We were exhausted. He paused. "Do you have any questions?" he said, and I was horrified. I immediately looked at John and with my eyes said, "If you ask a question I will kill you in your sleep," but John's never taken well to my cues. "I have one," said the youngest of the two traumatized boys. My father braced himself and nodded his head. I closed my eyes and prayed for a comet to land on me.

"So... I guess this means there is no Easter Bunny?"

Merry Christmas!

10,000 Steps - A Tribute to a Friend

This Week's Song - Midnight by The Black Lillies. Check it out. It was written about a good man with a big heart who slept beneath the Knoxville sky. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU0Aj3M2QSI

Long before I met him, I would see him carrying flowers and doing card tricks downtown. One evening, he yelled out the name “Donnie!” It took me awhile to realize he was yelling out to me, running me down from behind. I told him my name was Robbie, and kept on moving, not wanting to be hit up for money. As I walked away, he said, “I’m truly sorry, friend. I swear there’s someone out there that looks just like you. His name is Donnie.” He smiled, his neglected teeth shining in the Gay Street lamps, his piercing eyes revealing he understood my initial measure of him. He was accustomed to the response. He didn’t ask for anything. I ducked into my building, knowing I’d met someone who would come back around. I was fascinated. 

Rodney Fuson

Three or four weeks into my downtown residency, I set out one night for the office, primarily because I needed to hit my step goal on my Fitbit - Yes, I’ve become “That Guy.” As I approached my building I saw him near the entrance and prepared myself to meet the card man. My watch suddenly erupted with vibration and a showering of lights indicating that I’d crossed over 10,000 steps for the day. I pushed in all my chips and thrust myself into the interaction. “Hey, man! I need a card trick!” I said. He was a bit startled. He’d put his cards up and was heading to wherever he put his head down at night. He might not have been use to someone running him down, but he clicked to the “On” position in the blink of an eye. “I called you Donnie one day, didn’t I?” Again, the smile. “But your name’s Robbie, isn’t it?” he said. I was amazed he remembered.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Rodney,” he said, then he turned to a script he’d repeated a million times. “Here you go, Robbie. I’m gonna lay one on you, cause I know you’re gonna lay something nice on me.” 

Rodney

His voice was distinctive - something like Ernest T. Bass from Andy Griffith, true southern and tinged with a lisp. He was diminutive, flat-faced, a beggar who didn’t beg. He was a showman. He pulled the cards from his pocket. They were weathered and bent. He shuffled and the trick was on. It came with hand gestures, voice inflections, challenges and a touch of magic. I got my money’s worth. Rodney was my friend. Instantly. I asked him where he learned his card tricks, and he regaled me with stories from his youth and how some were learned from others and some he taught himself. In his performance he had a vaudevillian flair and made you to feel as though you might have stumbled into a carnival, but his act came with something special - he was interested in the audience. He looked me in the eye, moving in close, and told me he liked me. He said “you don’t judge or look down on people,” and went on to suggest that showing respect to one another is the most important thing we can do. I agreed. I gave him a ten and walked inside, ashamed I’d ever tried to avoid him. With my first show I signaled to Rodney that I was happy to talk to him anytime, but that it wasn’t my intention to pay him every time. Otherwise, I’d be broke. He processed the message. It never stopped him from talking to me. I’ve seen him at least twice a week since. He never asked for money. He would simply ask if he could show me a card trick.

I ran into him before the Florida game this year and told him my daughter was coming to visit. I told him I wanted him to do a card trick for her while she was here, and the pride was palpable. He remembered, and when I saw him after she’d returned to Washington, he asked me about her and expressed sorrow that he hadn’t met her. Every time thereafter he asked me about her. When I saw him two weeks ago, I was with my wife. I introduced her to Rodney, and told him that since he’d missed Shelby I wanted him to do a card trick for Nancy. I asked him to do his big one, the one he loved the most, the one that was the centerpiece to a story of disrespect a man had shown him one night in front of Suttree’s.  “There’s one in every group,” he said. “They run you down, call you a bum, and shoo you away like you was nothing but trash.” He did the trick and enjoyed telling how he’d won a bunch of money off the man who had disrespected him. He was proud. He walked on after the trick, promising he would save a new one for my birthday that was approaching. It was the last time I saw him. 

Rodney died Monday. When I heard the news, I was stunned and heartbroken, knowing that a little bright spot in my downtown life was gone. I felt I’d discovered a downtown treat, and that it had been stolen. I searched for an obituary, knowing full well that I’d probably never discover the man’s full name, much less his obituary. I put a note in my elevator in an attempt to gather information about him. To my delight, when I pushed “enter” to my google search, my screen lit up. Facebook was full of tributes and stories. He’d been featured in numerous youtube videos. The Black Lillies and their lead singer, Cruz Contreras, had written a song about him. An article on Knoxnews - a fine tribute - ran as the result of the author’s relationship and the social media attention. The love and “Rodney stories” poured in. I was astonished. He hadn't been just my friend. He was a friend to many, a celebrity. I learned so many saw Rodney in the same light. There were many stories, including one where he wrote a letter to Judge Phillips, Federal District Court Judge, in support of Scott West, the key developer of Market Square, who was to be sentenced on federal drug charges. He asked for the Judge’s leniency given that Mr. West had always treated him, a homeless man, with respect.

A candle-light vigil is being planned for Rodney Fuson. I’ll be there. In these strange times it brings me great hope, and tremendous pride in my fellow Knoxvillians, that there are so many people who recognize the beauty and goodness in the homeless man with a deck of cards. I mourn with those who befriended him, regret he never met my Shelby, and embrace the warm feelings that will surely visit me every time my silly watch tells me I’ve traveled 10,000 steps on these city streets. Rest in peace my friend.

Credit Leslie Berez for the photos

Beneath the Interstate

This Week's Song - Will The Circle Be Unbroken - Many have recorded this gem, but I prefer any bluegrass version. The Johnny Cash/Nitty Gritty Dirt Band/Ricky Skaggs version is hard to beat. I sang it walking home from the underpass a couple of weeks ago. Its precious lyrics echo in my soul.

Sunset in my town

When the youngest of our four moved into the dorm at UT last month, Nancy and I became empty nesters. She wanted to try downtown living. So, we moved to Gay Street with our Golden Retriever. We love it. Sophie is still making up her mind.

I saw him for the first time in years. He was on Gay Street in late July. He was at a good distance, but I recognized him immediately.  The sight of his face revived great memories from my teenage years. His appearance, however, brought me great sadness. Charlie (not his real name) had been my friend.

The memories all led to a poker table at Jimmy Johnston's house in the early years of high school. Those memories always come complete with visions of dealing cards and throwing money in the pot, all of us joking and laughing, and watching football or Caddyshack on weekend nights. It was on one of those many nights in the mid-1980’s that I drank my first beer at Jimmy's house in the company of friends. Charlie was always there. We’d pass money back and forth and sip on Goebels Light, an absolutely terrible beer, acting as though we’d been drinking it for years. We were a group of walking hormones trying to find the pathway to cool.

Those great friends, many of which I still talk to regularly, would gather wherever we could freely pursue adulthood. It was usually in situations where parents were out of town and someone's older sibling could buy us alcohol.  We were growing up, a bunch of west-Knoxville kids doing our best to be good boys while pursuing manhood.  It was a great time and place to come of age. We saw the first video on MTV and wore Member's Only jackets. Our hair was worn in glorious mullets, our necks adorned with a single gold chain, and Madonna, in all of her “Like-a-Virgin” wonder, and older girls from school made their way into our dreams. We didn't have cell phones. If you wanted to talk to a girl, you had to call her from a phone attached to the wall or, heaven forbid, walk right up to her and talk face-to-face. Charlie’s shy nature and piercing eyes, the color of the Gulf of Mexico, made him popular among members of the fairer sex.  He loved to gamble and play golf and possessed a swing touched by angels. It was a swing that provided a ticket to college and could have led him even further. Charlie spoke very few words, but always made us laugh. He and I visited our first ATM together and joked about how the new invention wouldn’t last. I can place myself inside so many teenage memories and often find Charlie there - throwing cards, drinking a beer, laughing, making me laugh. He was a good friend.

I lost touch with him. I didn't know if he finished college, but I heard he joined the Army, and moved to Hawaii. He got married. Then, just like that, nothing. As I was marrying, going to law school and starting a family, I began to hear through friends that he had developed some mental problems - that he was perhaps bi-polar, even schizophrenic - and then, somewhere along the way, a rumor emerged that he was homeless. When I saw him on Gay Street at the end of July, I had my confirmation - Charlie was homeless, or at least it seemed so. He wore a dirty football jersey that was too big, pants that were too long and he was filthy. I knew I’d need to talk to him, but I didn’t know how. With me living downtown, my running into him would be inevitable. Would he know me? Would he ask for money? I just didn’t know. Why was I so uncomfortable? I think I was worried about embarrassing him. I was overcome with sadness and pity.

When Nancy told me we were going to McGhee Avenue to serve the homeless, I was hesitant. In our remarkable marriage I have learned when to lead and when to follow. I have expanded my horizons and enriched my life whenever I agreed to simply follow. However, I knew Charlie would likely show up. He did. When we arrived, he was already there - working.  The sweltering summer day was giving way to a pleasant evening beneath I-40. He was wearing the same clothes from a month earlier. I watched him, and to my surprise, he was helping to set up. I told Nancy that I was going to talk to him as soon as we received our volunteer assignments, putting the meeting off to the last possible moment. Charlie didn’t wait.

“Robbie,” he said. Just the simple tone of a voice long lost to the years can thrust nostalgia back into your life in a heartbeat. I jumped at the name that very few still call me. He stared right thru me with those eyes. I asked how he was doing. "Great," he replied without hesitation. We talked. He was animated and seemed happy. He discussed how he loved Wednesday nights, the food was always good and the coffee was great. "I help out down here," he said, as though the event wouldn't take place without him. He was proud. He loved to help. I’d watched him set up tables, carry clothes and unfold chairs. I asked if I could hug him. He tilted his head, as if to question whether I was serious, and extended his hand, a move I took as a rejection of any pity I was about to unload. He didn’t need it or want it. I had money in my pocket and would’ve handed it all to him, but he didn’t ask. I got the feeling that had I offered, the gesture would prove hurtful, even seem ridiculous to him. I thought I would feel broken-hearted, that my pity would be in abundance, and that I’d worry about my friend, but I got a different feeling altogether. He was in his element. He was in a place of comfort, a place where he fit in. He had a role and was comfortable playing it. I felt this despite what I’d heard of his rumored mental problems. He wasn't drunk nor did he seem to be influenced by drugs. He spoke clearly and with purpose. Perhaps he was sad and I missed it. But, just perhaps, the life he led was the simple life he needed or even desired. How could that be? I couldn't grasp it. It was supposed to be sad. Wasn't it? Anytime his name was brought up among my friends, they all used the same statement. "It's so sad." I didn't sense sadness in him.

The conversation ended quickly as duty called. He left me speechless, with an open invitation to have some coffee with him. I was left with more questions than answers. I watched as he continued to serve others. Instead of lining up early for free clothes, he went to the back of the line, allowing others to go before him, a gesture that ensured he would not get any new clothes since his sizes were the most popular and first to go. A woman who serves there every Wednesday said, "Boy, would I love to know his story." When I told her that he'd been one of my good friends at Farragut High, she almost fell down. She quizzed me and I filled in the blanks. Then, she went on to tell me that Charlie was always the hardest worker, that he was quiet, lacked presumption or self-pity, and that he always liked to get a book from the stack of donations. She suggested that my friend was the most selfless person under the interstate. Then, I stood back and simply watched.  

The servers and the served mingled, laughed, bumped fists, shook hands, hugged and broke bread together. I don’t know what I had expected, but it wasn't the sense of joy now overwhelming me. Money had no place, either on the lips or in the hands of those gathered. Any misperceptions, discomfort, pity, or fear that accompanied me down Broadway before I arrived melted away in the welcomed shade of elevated concrete as a sense of community took over. I continued to watch Charlie, and I was overwhelmed by a sense that I was encroaching, that I represented a life he never wanted, that I represented pity and judgment, and that until I got a proper hold of the real meaning of that place, I didn't need to be there. I felt shame for judging him, for judging any of those gathered in the summer-evening heat. Who was I to judge? What right did I have to offer pity? 

As I watched my old friend move among the homeless and the volunteers, a quiet peace settled beneath the sounds of cars traveling on the interstate above. The trappings of the busy world were stripped away so that things like a good cup of coffee and a used pair of jeans took on an elevated and rightful place among the simple joys of life. In that instance the previously invisible bond of humanity revealed itself, and I realized that inner peace, that thing sought by all of humanity - in Sunday church pews, among the pages of self-help manuscripts, or inside the walls of great temples and cathedrals - was perhaps something my old friend had tucked away in his oversized back pocket. I stood next to the railroad tracks and smiled, humbled by the moment and wondering why it was that Envy was upon me. 

She Shines

This Week's Song - Sparkle and Shine - by Steve Earle. Everything by Steve Earle. Love the man and his music. 

She crouched and moved to the side of the stage after her third costume change. She was playing a total of seven characters in Candide, Voltaire’s novella turned comedy in an auditorium in Columbia, South Carolina. It was the perfect platform for Cori to show off her French and her striking comedic gifts. To the man with the graying hair (me), sitting smack dab in the middle of the theatre, the laughter came with a few tears. When she jaunted onto the stage laughter was not far behind. She cried out her lines in flawless French as another character shot her with a musket. It took at least 6 shots to bring her down. She eventually succumbed on the stage beneath the lights, laughs, and adoring gaze of those assembled and then went for the next costume change. Her mother and I laughed. Prideful laughter feels good. Cori Crocker is twenty-two and poised to graduate this week from the University of South Carolina with a B.S. in Marine Science and a minor in French. She will graduate Summa Cum Laude and has made many lifelong and adoring friends. As I watched in the dimly lit auditorium a couple of weeks ago I couldn’t help traveling back 17 years to when she was a kindergartner and the moment I watched her on stage for the first and only other time. It was just a few weeks after I became her stepfather. 

Zoom

No one plans on becoming a step-parent. I never even considered the concept. Then Cheryl died. No one plans for divorce or expects their spouse to die at the age of 31. Life happens. You have to adjust. Easy to say. Not easy to do - when you are 31 or, especially, when you are 5. When I met her, Cori was 5 years old. Her brother, Cliff, was 8. I had two kids of my own when I fell hard for Cori’s mother, Nancy. Then I fell for Cori and Cliff. It took them a little longer to fall for me. When she announced she wanted to perform in the Bluegrass Elementary talent show, Cori and I were just getting to know each other. I already knew her to be a soft-hearted and sweet child who was always aware of the emotions in the room. She was accepting and sweet, but still wary of the man who’d entered her life and married her mother. A baby like her is allowed to worry about life and her place in it when her parents divorce and a stranger with two more kids is all of a sudden in her life every day. It is a lot to take in for little people. I knew it was, and I obsessed about how I could be a positive influence in her young life. I didn’t want to be her stepdad. I wanted to be her dad. But, she had a father, one who has continued to love and parent her to this very day. Regardless, I vowed to treat her as my own. I wanted to play a large role in seeing to it that she grew into a confident, independent and intelligent woman. I wanted to kick down doors and provide her with opportunities. I read about blended families and consulted with a family psychologist about all six of us moving in together. I wanted to do it right. Cori was an observer and paid attention to everything going on around her during those days. When Nancy and I were dating, Cori once pondered out loud to her mother whether I might be Osama Bin Laden. She had no filter. Still doesn’t. Within a few days of becoming a blended family of six, she announced her decision to enter the talent show. We were a bit shocked when she told us she wanted to perform the Star Spangled Banner. What 5-year-old child decides she wants to do that?

When I asked if she knew all the words to our national anthem, she confidently stated that she did. She wanted to prove it right there in our living room and began to sing. Cori’s version of the anthem was unrecognizable. After “O say can you see…” she butchered almost every line. I told her it was perfect. Indeed it was. Telling her otherwise would’ve likely embarrassed her and crushed her desire to enter the contest thereby depriving a bunch of people of the cutest performance ever given. Over the next several days we practiced. I never corrected the lyrics, but instilled in her as much confidence as I could by telling her how good she was and how everyone was going to love her.  Several nights later, in front of a packed gymnasium, she brought the house down. She sang the entire song (well, it had the right number of verses) without accompaniment, butchering every line in the most beautiful and perfect way. Just like we practiced. She delivered it with such confidence that you’d thought she was Whitney Houston at the 1991 Super Bowl. I remember laughing through some tears, proud that I’d been a part of it and amazed by my new life and her place in it. It remains one of my most treasured memories.

My Girls

She loves music - like me. She loves dogs - like me. I make her ice cream cones when she comes home from school. Her mother and I followed almost every soccer game. She played on 4 state championship finals teams, winning one. I nicknamed her "Zoom," and still call her by that name. She loves that I love her mother. She loves me and has never doubted how much I love her. She told me how important I am in her life in a Christmas letter a couple of years ago - I store it with my most treasured possessions. I still think daily about how I can continue to be a positive force in her life. I will always think of myself as a father. I cannot distinguish my love based on labels. And, though I continue to obsess over the role I play in the lives of all four of them, I have no doubt as to the impact Cori has had in my life - I simply cannot imagine life without her. In our seventeen years together she has affirmed every instinct I had when I asked her mother to marry me and assuaged every fear and insecurity I had about parenting a child not of my blood. She has brought me tremendous joy and pride. Watching her grow into this unbelievable woman has been one of the great honors of my life. Step-parenting - I recommend it. 

She will board a plane bound for Africa in July. She is going to teach Science to French-speaking children in Guinea for 2 years as a member of the Peace Corps despite trepidation and admonitions from all in her life. Are you kidding me? She is defiant and independent with so much talent, love, and grace. That’s my girl, and oh how she shines.

The Bench

This week's song - In The Blood - by John Mayer - Great song about the role of DNA in our lives. Take a listen.

September 2001

I believe in magic.

I've never been here alone. When I’ve frequented this beautiful park, it has generally been hand-in-hand with a child or a beautiful woman, but never on my own. Near the water, just next to the playground, you’ll find a bench. Parents sit and watch their children at play. Young people in love sit and talk about their future after walking along the path by the lake. Children get their photo taken. When a tornado recently visited the hallowed park, it uprooted trees, destroyed structures, and ripped apart playground equipment. After the storm did its worst, the bench remained. I knew that in order to find the words for this piece, I needed to drop by and take a seat on the bench. On an early fall Saturday in 2000, before the leaves changed and the heat relented, I visited the park, as I had on many occasions, with my wife and two young children. Shelby was 4, Andy a mere 18 months. Although I've been back many times, that was the last time with Cheryl. I am immediately confronted by the bitter-sweet memory of a day in 2001 when I had my photo taken here with Shelby and Andy. It was a day to celebrate their mother and the dedication of the bench in her honor. I’ve always enjoyed visiting the bench and hearing of others who have seen or used it. I’m proud to see my children’s little handprints preserved in concrete on the ground just in front of the bench. I place my hands on the prints and close my eyes, trying to remember when their hands were this size. They are now 21 and 18. I look up to the bench and see the marker that reads “In Memory of Cheryl W. Pryor - A Mother Who Loved This Park,”  and I delight in the fact so many see her name. There is still an element of disbelief. I hope people read it aloud, letting the sound of it carry into the air.

Jeremiah and Jackson on the Bench

I was drawn here on this day because of my trip to the great Pacific Northwest this past weekend where, on Sunday, I sat in a small Presbyterian church in Clarkston, Washington. It seemed like a million miles away. I sat in a pew near the back, bundled in winter clothes and listened to the pastor’s sermon. I shared the lord’s supper with seventy-five congregants which included my wife, Nancy, and my baby girl. It is Shelby’s church, her family so far from home. When the young pastor and his wife asked her to babysit months ago, they picked the right girl. Shelby is the conscientious and caring child I hoped she would be when Cheryl told me she was pregnant on a beautiful October day in 1995. She is my fair-haired servant of the Lord who follows her heart and his teachings. She’ll be the first exhibit of my closing argument to Saint Peter. I’m counting on her…heavily. She became a youth leader in the church.  Shelby has become a regular in the pastor's home.

We broke bread Sunday night with Pastor Dave Webster and his wife, Dawn, while their three children, Jeremiah, Jackson and Mary, ran through the house, the sound of running bare feet dominating the air. We spoke of Seahawks football, the terrible state of my football program and, of course, my Shelby. I thanked them for inviting her into their church, for inviting her into their home and for watching after her while she was so far from her father. It is hard to say these things. Saying them brings home the fact she is grown and far away. We talked about the unbelievable coincidence that their first church out of seminary was Concord Presbyterian, a beautiful church down by the lake just a couple of miles from where I live and grew up. We talked about Knoxville and people we both knew. We talked about the unbelievable coincidence that my daughter would find them and their church so many miles from home. It's a small world. And then, we talked about the bench. 

Dave and Dawn often frequented this park - The Cove - during their brief time in Knoxville. They know the park. They know the bench. In their scrapbooks, tucked on a shelf in Clarkston, Washington, so far from Knoxville, my daughter stumbled across the photos of Jeremiah and Jackson Webster taken in the sacred place we often frequented when she was a child. In the photos, two little happy faces smile from a bench dedicated to Shelby’s mother. Sometimes “It's a small world,” doesn’t really cut it. Sometimes we have to wonder what magic is at work in our world just beyond the conscious, patiently waiting to reveal itself. How much is there to be seen yet escapes our sight? When it does reveal itself, do we always take it in, hold it, and appreciate the magic? Probably not. But, on this fall day, as the sun shines and children play, I sit on the bench and take in the magic.

I love this park.

Ole Jack

This Week's Song - Fire Escape - Andrew McMahon - Just because.

I am a son of the suburbs, raised in the shade of shortleaf pines and sugar maples that cover power lines in a middle-class subdivision. I never rode a horse in my formative years. Instead, I mounted up a yellow Schwinn Scrambler with a black banana seat and trail tires and flew down Heritage Drive with my posse on a mission to buy baseball cards at the White Store. I played junior golf at the country club and learned to roller skate at Skatetown U.S.A. on Mondays after school. Odds were not good that I would ever own and tend to horses in my lifetime. But then again, I couldn’t know that Nancy would walk into my life.

Jack

In the fall of 2005, the beautiful and mysterious creature I married just three years earlier took me to "look" at a house and surrounding property in Lenoir City on one of those East-Tennessee afternoons at the peak of autumn when providence descends into the valley from the mountains and the colors leave no doubt of a loving God. I thought the house hunt was a phase, just my wife itching for a change - a "hey-let's-take-a-look-around" moment. Boy, was I wrong. The farm stood in the middle of a forest of exploding color and included a four-stall-red-roofed barn and fenced pasture. It wasn’t a fair fight. 

I’ve always hated change. It took my first wife’s death to bring me to fully understand that change was inevitable and something over which I exercised no control. Perhaps it was because I finally realized that life was not a series of paths forking in the wood. It wasn't a multiple choice test, but instead, maybe a roller coaster, the wheels of the car following a track designed by someone else. Once you strap yourself in there is nothing to do but hold on and see what's in store.

After I met her, I let go. I followed her way, her instinct. I still fight it but I stopped trying to control everything. This cloud, this whisper of a woman, so filled with mystery, magic, and beauty, after less than 4 minutes on the property, said "I want it," and I didn't think twice. She hadn't even been inside the house. Not only was a farm cast into my path, but something had to go in the barn, and that was her ultimate dream. Just like that, the boy on the Scrambler, educated inside the walls of a fine university and a first-class law school, a man who's hands were soft and void of callus, a man of letters and books and the law, a man who'd never maintained more than enough land to require a push mower, became a farm owner and, yes…a horseman.

His official papers from the American Quarter Horse Association revealed the name of Two Eyed Jack, III.  On May 30, 1985, when Nancy was graduating from high school, and my only cares in the world included varsity basketball and the girls roaming the halls of Farragut High School, Jack was born to his mare, Miss Snipfire, on a barn-stall floor in Bottineau, North Dakota. As he was struggling to raise himself onto his awkward rail-thin legs I was in my first year of driving, seated behind the wheel of a 1984 Camaro Berlinetta, a cocky 16-year-old blaring AC/DC, sporting a Members Only jacket and convinced that if I didn't already, I would soon own the world. Who could know or believe our paths would cross.

Jack's trip along the track was colored by tragedy. His first owner, a teenager, shot and killed his step-father after the man sold Jack without permission. Jack had been loved that much. There'd been other stops for Jack along the way, including years with a man who would drink until passing out on trail rides only to have Jack safely deliver him home. Then, after 22 years of finding his way to my family, our paths crossed on a day when the first snow threatened on our new farm. I handed a man an envelope with cash in it after he unloaded the horse into his new pasture. That evening, as darkness fell in unison with the temperature, Nancy and I went to the fence to feed him for the first time. As we walked to the fence, a red bucket in her hands and a bag of grain in mine, the snow began to fall. The flakes - first the size of dimes, then nickels and then quarters - were wet and of the kind that excite young children and the child still living in all of us. It was the kind of snow that somehow enhances silence. Nancy broke the silence by banging the bucket against the fence as instructed by the man who delivered him. We waited as the sound echoed in the trees. We couldn’t see him in the field. Out in the dark, he heard the bucket. Long before we ever saw him we heard him. He galloped toward us, the thundering of his hooves digging into the clay and the sound of his exhalations piercing the falling snow. We didn't know where he was coming from but the sound of him sliced through the night like a train without headlamps. She grabbed my hand. Suddenly, he emerged from the snow only a few feet from us, his breath rising like a cloud, his head bobbing back and forth to shed the flakes. When he plunged his face into the bucket we knew we would never forget what we’d just witnessed.

We tended to and loved Jack for nearly 10 years. The girls rode every now and then, but the majority of Jack's time spent with us was in the role of a large pet. Nancy often would feed him and sit with him in the barn. We would also go down together, engage in long talks about the kids and friends and family with Jack chomping on his grain and hay in the background. He was a constant in our life and not a day went by that I (or anyone that knew me) wasn't amazed by the fact that I owned a horse. But, kids grow up and move away. Priorities change. Seasons end. Two years ago, we returned not only to the suburbs, but to the very neighborhood where I grew up. As I write this, I look out the window of my home office upon the street where I rode my yellow Schwinn Scrambler. I sometimes see my 12-year-old self, curly dark hair, wearing my #89 Tennessee Jersey (Larry Seivers for those of you who don't love the Orange), trying to ride a wheelie up Heritage Drive with three packs of baseball cards in my pocket. Our beloved Jack is 32 years old and is barely hanging on. Yes, 32. He lives on the farm of a dear friend who loves him. Nancy and the girls visit every now and then. Nancy and Cori went by the other day to say goodbye. The word is that his health is failing. I don’t know what to believe about his health for Jack has always beaten the odds, but I know it won’t be much longer. None of us can stop the sun from setting.

The children in the photo above are now 24, 21, 21 and 18. There is so much we want for our children, but the thing I want most for them is to find someone who helps them lose their sense of self. I want each of them to find someone for a lifetime, not a season, to find someone who makes them see the world differently, who opens their mind to experience what life has to offer, and who convinces them everyday that they are the most fortunate person on the planet. The right person can make you into something you were meant to be or return you to yourself when you didn't realize you were lost. The power of the right person is beyond question. It comes early and often and screams at you when you need it...and even when you don't. It makes its presence known at the oddest times - perhaps every morning over coffee or with a hand on your knee in the bleachers at a basketball game. It can come in a whisper or when you cry together over a great loss. You are reminded when a foot kicks yours in the night or with a call or a text or a note or a sweet word, but make no mistake - its power will not be denied. It may come into view on the most beautiful day or when the chips are down and its 4th and long, but its beauty is most evident when it simply nudges you in the unexpected moments - like on a dark night, by a fence, listening to a horse thundering toward you through the snow.

A Shooting Star

This Week's Song - Please Come to Boston - by Dave Loggins - The 1974 classic has been recorded by many artists. It was Jacob's favorite. I kinda like it too.

Michael Young would take a second job in the two weeks leading up to the 4th of July. In those days, money for things like fireworks was scarce, but his children loved fireworks - especially Jacob. So, Michael worked at the fireworks stand, and Jacob got his fireworks.

When he was in first grade, Jacob was unable and unwilling to focus at school. He loved mischief and his red bicycle. He was always in motion, a kid and then a young man with a fire inside.  He lived and loved fast. He was whip smart and when he reached the right age he could weld anything that needed welding. Jacob Young was curious - about things and people. He could talk to a wall. He didn't have any quit in him, and he came by it honestly. But, I often don't meet someone until tragedy strikes.

Happy 4th!

I met Jacob on an overcast winter day in 2009. I stood beside his hospital bed which rested in his grandmother's house.  There was a table for his medicine, a lone chair, a television and another bed. I'd read his medical records, the long cold words on CT and MRI reports that translated to ruin. "Hi Jake, I'm your lawyer." His head was turned away, his hand drawn beneath his chin. Among the dark locks of hair was a severe depression in his skull. He cut his eyes at me and moaned, indicating disapproval. "Jake!" admonished his mother, Kelley, much in the same way she had when he was a little boy. On this day he apparently didn't want a lawyer in his room. Who does?  The vestiges of his youthful vitality, the fire of 24 years, smoldered beneath the bed-ridden and broken kid before me. His injury was profound. I expected hopelessness. I got something else. Looking back, I can't believe they even let me in the door. Jake would come to tolerate me. I'd come to love him and his remarkable family. 

"Jakie Boy," as his mom called him, had been a fun-loving, fiercely loyal friend. He was fearless in everything he did. His little brother, Josh, was in awe of Jacob. Jacob simply never met a stranger, regardless of age, race, gender or stature in life. He was protective of the weak. Ask Owen, the boy with Autism who went to school with him. Loyal and protective. Sometimes our best qualities end up hurting us. In the prime of his life, Kelley and Michael Young's beautiful baby boy suffered a traumatic brain injury that would've killed most men. He'd come to the defense of a friend in a dark parking lot. Things escalated. The result was the end of life as Jake had known it. It was the end of life as the Young family had known it. However, light finds its way into the dark places. The Youngs are pure light.

Michael Young looks like he just walked off the Appalachian Trail after five months of isolation. His thick black hair, peppered with streaks of gray, comes to his shoulders. A beard with the same colors is broad and hits him in the middle of his chest. He is soft-spoken and one of the kindest people I've ever known. He is a quiet man. "We were just too young," says Kelley when asked about her marriage to Michael. They'd been teenagers when Brandy came along and didn't give up on the marriage until after Jacob and then, finally, Josh arrived on the scene. People mature. People change, Marriages crumble, but as I continued to represent this family over the next few years, it became increasingly clear there was an obvious respect and love that existed between Michael and Kelley. They were married to other people, but the romantic love of youth transformed via mutual respect and a common interest in bringing up children the right way. Regardless of what you call it, there was no missing it. Jacob's accident seemed to strengthen that bond and, in fact, bring the entire family closer together. Pure light.

Jakie Boy

Kelley and Michael didn't care what the doctors thought once they got past those first weeks. Talk of nursing homes and eminent death didn't set well with Mama Bear. It didn't set well with anyone. They moved Jake to Mamaw's, and settled in to a new life letting love lead the way. For the next five years they split up the time and work it took to not only keep Jake alive, but to show him every minute of the day how he was loved. Kelley slept in the twin bed next to Jacob's when it was her night. Despite holding down a full-time job, she'd make the trip every Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, and every other Thursday night to her ex-husband's mother's home to sleep next to her son. "Mamaw" opened up her house, and they should've put in a revolving door. Only love walked in. With her ex-husband down the hall asleep with his wife, Renee, Kelley would rise every 2 hours to change her son's position in the bed to avoid bed sores like the one he got during his initial hospitalization. Once Jakie Boy got home from the hospital, something the doctors said he'd never do, his big sister, Brandy, quit her job to take care of him every single weekday. "Can't" isn't part of the Young vocabulary. Everyone grabbed an oar and started rowing. Renee, Michael's wife, and her son helped. Jacob's niece would lay in bed with him and signal to the family when she sensed a problem. Don't tell the Youngs Jake won't leave the hospital. Don't tell them he won't live a year. Don't tell them he belongs in a nursing home. Don't tell them he can't feel or communicate. When it wasn't Kelley's night, it was Michael's. Jacob didn't go two hours without touch or love. The care was around the clock. 24 hours a day. Seven days a week.

For 5 years.

Jacob Young was never alone. Never.  He never went a day without someone telling him they loved him. Kelley would lie in bed with him and pray, tell him he was so handsome, tell him what was going on in the rest of the family, and shave her baby's face. She joked that Michael had forgotten how to use a razor, so she shaved him. Brandy would manually exercise his legs and change her little brother's diapers. Brandy would tend to his daily living needs and watch television with him.
 During one of those long days of caring for her brother, Brandy came across the movie Cold Mountain, a love story, based on the beautifully written novel by Charles Frazier. The movie featured Jude Law and Nicole Kidman. In the heart-wrenching final scene, Brandy turned to see a solitary tear rolling down Jacob's face.

They took Jake to the beach. The logistics and planning would rival the operation known as Zero Dark Thirty. His toes were put in the sand. He smiled. It was worth it. It would be his last trip to the beach, but every one of the family members pitched in.

typical birthday

Time caught up to Jacob. Kelley was the last to arrive. Michael insisted on life saving measures and to withhold a 911 call until his mother arrived. As they stood by their boy Michael and Kelley professed their gratefulness to the other for parenting their children. The longest road had ended. Their hard work was done.

Kelley has a photo of Jake in the back window of her car so that she can see him in her rearview mirror and imagine he is riding along with her. If you sit on Mamaw's front porch you can see Jakie Boy's headstone in Hopewell Cemetery where a celebration seemingly takes place once a week. At night, when he feels the need, Michael can look out from the porch and see a solar powered angel light where his boy rests. If you pass by the Maryville cemetery on Jake's birthday, Christmas or any special occasion, especially the 4th of July, you will see a big group of family and friends milling around, laughing and sharing stories. You may hear fireworks and see balloons floating above the tree line. Kelley, Mike, Brandy and Josh are usually there, as are Renee, and Mike and Kelley's grandchildren, friends and anyone else who wants to celebrate. Don't tell them Jacob is dead. They'll smile knowing you are wrong. It is not only powerful to be loved. It is powerful to give it, and in the giving, it never ends. This week, the fireworks ignited by flame arced brilliantly into the night-time sky, exploding into a beautiful display of light. I'm miles away, but I thought of Jacob Young and his remarkable and loving family as lights ignited the sky above me.  Happy 4th!

Don't Stop Believin

This Week's Song - Don't Stop Believin - Journey. Steve Perry, Jonathan Cain, and Neil Schon wrote this anthem.

We all have dreams. Mine included NBA stardom and headlining a Rock N’ Roll tour. Those dreams died an early and predictable death. Pryor’s can’t jump and we have little, if any, musical talent. A shame, given my love of both basketball and music.

Piano Man

The first album I ever bought was Journey’s Escape. I knew I had to have it when I heard the keyboard intro on Casey Kasem’s American Top 40 in 1981. I was 12. I’d listen to “the countdown” from start to finish on Sundays. I was in love with two or three girls at the time, and I’d write down the name of love songs that I just had to have. After I purchased the album I’d sit in the floor and play Don’t Stop Believing over and over, wishing I knew how to play it on the piano. I fantasized of taking to the stage and my seat at the piano, adjusting the microphone, and starting into that beautiful intro. My voice would pierce the crowd and roll into the night, leaving my peers, and especially those girls, dumbfounded, starstruck and hopelessly in love. When I would jump into the second verse…”A singer in a smokey room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume..” something in them would break and unalterably change, making them forever mine.

Then, one night, near the end of middle school, I heard my friend playing the song on a piano. I immediately asked Bennett Millikan to teach me the introduction. He did. It is the only song I ever learned. I never took a lesson, only playing the Journey song over and over on our family's piano to the annoyance of my little brother and sister. The song became a staple of American Rock music. It still has a strong presence on radio and television, having enjoyed a revival with such shows as Glee. Journey was just inducted into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame. Whenever I hear the song, I smile, but I’ve long given up on living out my fantasy of becoming a rock star. I’m 48, can’t sing a lick, and know only the intro to the one song. The dream is dead... Or so I thought.

The breeze coming off of the bay creeps through the open doors of Rum Runners making the water-downed-overpriced liquor just fine and the average musical talent seem special. The bar was filled with people my age - some married, some not, and some not entirely sure. All come to drink, some to dance, and most to sing along with two guys playing adjacent pianos. The crowd includes tables of women on “girl’s trips” and bar stools occupied by men on "golf trips." The confines of that bar are a study of the middle-aged. At their core, they are all the same kids in the old rickety gym with the lights down low, waiting for the DJ to play the right song in the Spring of their 8th grade year. The place was packed the other night. I was one of the golf-trip guys on a bar stool as the two piano players were going back and forth playing SEC fight songs and racking up tips. Though the place was packed, there were only a few on the dance floor. I told my friends I’d had enough and was going home. I really didn’t want to go to the bar in the first place, but I was the golf trip host. Bennett Millikan, who'd been one of my best friends since Kindergarten, said “you still know that Journey song.” I told him that I would always be able to play it, mistakenly inflating my musical skills, certainly not thinking that he would approach the stage and offer up $100 to the tip jar to have me play a song for the crowd. I would later find out that it took more than $100. My friend told them I was Senator Eugene Pryor of the great state of Tennessee. I have creative friends.

When I heard them call for "Senator Pryor," fear shot through me like lightning. There were two reasons. First, I certainly know that I possess no musical or singing talent, but, second, and more importantly, I am also aware that I am genetically incapable of turning down an opportunity to perform regardless of the embarrassment that most certainly follows. It is a curse, but it sure makes me fun in a bar. I was scared to death as I approached the baby grand but displayed an outward false confidence all lawyers know from their early days in the courtroom. I was, after all, chasing a dream. One of the musicians got up and offered his seat to the young Senator. I leaned over to the gentleman who was seated at the occupied piano and whispered, "I only know the intro. You are gonna have to do the heavy lifting.” He smiled and asked what key I would be playing it in. “I have no idea what that means,” I said. He laughed and said, “Show me where you put your fingers.” I did. Then, I took my seat, adjusted the microphone and looked out over the expectant crowd. Suddenly, I was where I was born to be. I gave an eloquent introduction, mentioning my mini-Casio keyboard I got on my 13th birthday, 1981, and love. I filled the crowd with great anticipation with a final plea to "grab the guy or girl you've been making eye contact with all night and get on the dance floor." Talking is easy. Then, without a moment of hesitation (never hesitate - commit), I began to play. In public. The piano. To a packed house.

Author (far right) next to his piano teacher (Bennett Millikan)
Mrs. Iroff's Class 1973 (The great Barry Plumlee far left)

My first notes of the introduction were flawless and partially drowned out by the crowd exploding onto the dance floor. The introduction to that song produces a chemical reaction that is part nostalgia and part aphrodisiac in people of my vintage. The other piano player jumped in and the man who was supposed to be playing my piano took a seat at a drum set, and we were off to the races. I quickly realized the other guy on piano was pretty good. I was so focused on playing the song correctly and keeping up with him that I didn’t sing a lick of the first verse. He did the singing. It became clear I couldn’t keep up the pace of the song. By the time we reached the second verse I was barely playing the piano at all. My playing wasn’t good, but I realized something amazing - my playing was completely inconsequential. The sound created by the first piano and the drums completely masked my ineptness! I realized I could completely stop playing and it would not effect the song. Even better was the fact everyone thought I was playing! I was getting all to the credit without an ounce of contribution...well, I do have unbelievable stage presence. So, quite naturally, as the time for the second verse arrived, my confidence level was sky high! "We" sounded great!!! My time was at hand. I focused on appearing to play the piano and leaned into the microphone, winked at a cute girl on the front row with her hands raised high above her head, and belted out, “A singer in a smokey room, the smell of wine and cheap perfume…”

When the song ended, I ran my hands up and down the keys, Jerry Lee Lewis style, and walked off stage to a standing ovation. Bennett, my kindergarten sidekick and piano teacher, high-fived me. I smiled at the piano player, who was laughing, and made my way to the door, knowing both the exhilaration and adoration that keeps Mick Jagger coming back and the shameful lack of guilt that allowed Milli Vanilli to sleep peacefully during their fraudulent run. My life is now complete. Don’t Stop Believin’.