How to Find Good Bluegrass Music in N.C.

        We just got back from a long stretch of play.  I’m recharged and ready to be Doc.

       This go round I realized I know the secret on how to find good bluegrass in N.C.  The answer, like all truth, is simple.  Follow Mr. Harold.

        You can’t miss Mr. Harold.  He is the middle aged gentleman the Carhartt overalls.  His eyes are a soft brown.  They look you right in the eye you when you speak to him.  His beard is flecked with gray.  He stand 6′3″ tall.  His day job is as a farmer.  He knows how to make sorghum molasses from cane sugar. I went out to his farm to watch him once.  His hands are callused and his handshake is firm but somehow not too much so.  He always smiles.

        I don’t know if he always smiles ’cause of a long happy marriage, lots of bluegrass music, or that homemade peach ice cream he makes and sells at festivals.  It might be all three.  But he always smiles.  Whenever I see him he’ll say how was your week, Doc?”

         I might say, “I don’t know, Mr. Harold.  It was a tough one.”

         He’ll smile and say, “Well now, Doc.  No one here is sick, and you’re gonna be around music all day.  Everything’ll be all right.  Care for some ice cream?  Just what the Doctor ordered.  It’s on the house.”

       I fish out my wallet.  “Oh, I couldn’t let you do that Mr. Harold.  They don’t let you rent this booth for free, you know.”

        He hands me my 1,000th cup of homemade peach ice cream and a flier.  “You need to come to the Coot Williams Festival on Sept 12th.  Blue Highway’ll be there.  So are Darin and Brooke.”

        “Thanks.  Believe I will.”

        Oh, I promised I’d tell you how to get to the best bluegrass festivals in N.C.  Go to Mr. Harold’s farm and sit at the end of his driveway.  Make like a detective with sunglasses and your hat pulled low.  Smoke a cigarette (don’t inhale) and wait.  I wouldn’t try to drive up the road.  It is a dirt with deep ruts and pot holes.  There are several twists and turns and you could get lost.

       In time, you will see a silver and gray truck crest the hill.  A trail of dust will be kicking up behind it.  It will be Mr. Harold.  When he pulls out of the driveway follow him.  A couple times out of ten you might wind up at the Post Office or the Piggly Wiggly, but most of the time he will lead you to the best bluegrass in N.C.

        When you meet him, ask him for some of that ice cream.  The peach is my favorite.  Tell him Dr. B sent you.  He’d be your friend anyway, but it won’t hurt you any with him, ’cause me and Mr. Harold go back a long way.

Dr. B

Humor and Jokes

        Often on vacation we’ll watch DVDs of old comedy people like George and Gracie or Jack Benny.  Even though they were stars they conveyed so much about being human.  Part of it was because they came up tough in vaudeville, and didn’t forget what it was like to be broke.  And too, I think it was because they believed in humor rather than jokes.

        Somewhere I read that humor is a way for people to forget their troubles if but for a moment.  It allows a chucke at the impossible circumstances we all face at times.

        On the other hand, a joke is something funny that is sometimes told at someone’s expense.  (as in to play a joke on someone)  A joke can be humorous, but humor is never a joke.  Or something like that. 

        As a Doc I see a lot of bad things, and most it ain’t very funny.  I try to write with some humor, otherwise I’d don’t know how I’d get through it all.

        On the other hand, if I ever write a joke and make fun of anyone, I hope you guys will call my hand on it.  I want to avoid that if at all possible.

       Hope y’all have a fine 4th of July. I’m gonna go watch some George Burns.  “Say good night, Gracie.”  Or perhaps that should be thanks for the grace, Gracie, you were a princess.

Dr. B

What I did on Summer Vacation

        Corporate is putting in a new computer system in July, and we are running on a limited schedule.  (Sick only, minimal routine physicals etc)  As a result, I have nine days off this month; more days than I have taken in a month in my whole career.  I have gone plum wild.  Here are my vacation plans:

        Cajun peanuts and black coffee for breakfast.  My Marfar in a Betty Boop shirt, bathing suit, and flip flops.  (How this skinny country boy ever snagged the prettiest girl in Harvey County is beyond me)  ‘When You’re Smiling’ on the mandolin.  (It’s her theme song)  Having the kids in and out all month.  The Grascals and III Tyme out on the same stage.  Spitting watermelon seeds off the boat dock.  Floating on an inner tube.  Ski once for old time’s sake.  Listen to Bill Monroe on an IPOD.  (I can be modern when it’s called for)  Burgers on the grill and watch fireworks from the boat on the 4th.  The Darin and Brooke Aldridge Quintet at the Fiddling Pig in Asheville for Sunday Gospel brunch.  (July 5th)  Say a prayer when I go back Monday I still have the chops to be the best Doc I can for my people. 

        For me it is a perfect vacation.  What’s your idea of perfection for your time off?

The cure for Type A blues

        Jack Lawrence is one of the world’s best flatpickers.  Yesterday I saw him under a tent trading licks with a ten year old kid named Jake.  I’ve seen Jake around; he’s a cute little tow-headed fellow who can pick the fire out of a mandolin.  It struck me that the child was oblivious to the fact Jack Lawrence has toured the world as Doc Watson’s right hand man. 

        And it didn’t matter a whit to Jack either; he just loves the music and hopes to pass some of it on.  “Good lick right there.  You keep at it.”

        About dark-thirty I was parked under a pin oak shade tree.  The cicada’s whine called the young’uns home for the evening.  I debated whether to get up and follow the trail of fish and chips that wafted through the air.

        I decided to wait.  Larry Sparks was up.  The Doc side of my personality has a bad tendency for Type A behavior.  I’d about partitioned off that side of the hard drive for the night, and I figured Larry would cure the rest.  If a man listens to ‘Blue Virginia Blues’ and can’t wrestle his type A behavior to the ground he has issues.  I propped my feet up on my mandolin case.  Not much was ailing me, but if anything lingered, I think Larry’d be able to cure it.

Dr. B

The Great Northeast Part One

        I know you must scratch your head and wonder how a country boy who seldom strays from Harvey County could dream up a Northeast tour.  I was up that way was for the ‘64 World’s Fair.  That was when I fell in love the Mustang car.  The GE exhibit was excellent too.  Marfar and I went back that way years ago on on a trip to Maine, and we are overdue for a return visit.

         How any of this dream tour came about is a bit of a miracle.  I guess all I can say is it is the bluegrass way.  Because of the magic of the Internet, I now have a lot of new friends in that neck of the woods.  Today I’m gonna start to tell you about some of them, and also of my plans to visit the area.  

        About a month after I started my blog, a fellow named Ted Lehmann logged on and left some comments.  I had no way to know at the time what a fortuitous circumstance that would be.  Ted is the premier bluegrass photojournalist in the North East.  His blog is: www.tedlehmann.blogspot.com  Ted, or the English Professor as I dubbed him, goes to a lot of festivals and looked all over for me.  He took a lot of pictures and would caption them with the question ‘is this Tommy Bibey?’ 

        We met at MerleFest, and he and his wife Irene have become fast friends.  Ted is true bluegrass, and is one of the folks we have to see on the Northeast tour.  He recommended a place called ‘The Toadstool Bookshop’ in Keene, New Hampshire.  www.toadstoolbooks.com  Ted also suggested ’Northshire Bookstore’ in Manchester NH: www.northshire.com  In addition, he said there were a number of independents in Massachusetts he could recommend when the time gets closer.  The BreadLoaf English program started somewhere up there, and I hope Ted can direct me to it.  I got to know BreadLoaf through an English teacher in Mississippi who got me started as a pen-pal with some high school kids there.  After meeting that teacher and those kids, I believe in what the BreadLoaf program does.

        Ted knows most everyone in bluegrass, but stays in touch with groups up North such as the Gibson Brothers on a regular basis.  I was familiar with their work before Ted, but he brought a heightened awareness of this group to many of us in the South.  They have the “it” factor with some of the finest brother duets around, and a live show that captivates.  Their web site is:  www.gibsonbrothers.com   I hope to jam with them while I am up there. 

          I can’t talk about the Northeast without telling you about chili.  I got interested in her blog ’cause she posts a regular grammar lesson, and I was in acute need of that.  She is not only a teacher but also a devoted wife and mother to a whole household of little chilis.  When I first found my agent I told chili, ”I guess he sees a little something in me.” 

        Chili said, “you can bet he does or he wouldn’t waste his time with you, Doc.”  It was early in my writer journey and I never forgot her kindness.  Chili always encouraged me to press on.  I figured she was an English teacher and she knew, so I did.  She recommended ‘Water Street Bookstore’ and also ‘The Toadstool’ as  did Ted.

        I contacted both stores.  They said they’d love to have me bring my mandolin and do a book store signing when I come through the NorthEast.  Talk about Northern Hospitality!  I’ve never met the folks at these stores, but they were happy to hear from me based on the recommendations of their customers.  Chili, when we get there me and Ms. Marfar owe you one.  We need to take you, mrchili and all the little chilis out to dinner one night.

        chili is on my blog roll: www.teacherseducation.wordpress.com  If you are like me and could stand some on-line remedial English instruction, I recommend her highly. 

        The book store links are as follows.  For ‘Water Street’ click www.waterstreet.booksense.com   You can reach Toadstool at www.toadstoolbooks.com  Touch base with them if you live up there and tell ‘em the Tommy Bibey tour will be a curiosity if nothing else.

        I’ll be back with more on the Northeast soon.  We are coming up on the 4th, so I be a bit sluggish in my output for a week, but I’ll get to it.  I love the 4th.  I know our country isn’t perfect, but I figure a blog like mine would be banned by some governments, and I am thankful for my freedom to write and say what I think.

        Y’all have a fine holiday.

Dr. B

Jackson County and Appalachian Fire

        Y’all, I played all weekend.  I’ll resume our regularly scheduled programming and the push pin mandolin tour with my next post. 

        Years ago when my son went to look at colleges, we took a trip to Cullowhee, N.C., the home of Western Carolina University.   He took one look and said, “Dad, this is where I want to go.  It’s like Harvey County with mountains.”

        Not only did he go to school there, but after he got his degree he settled in the area.  I have to agree with him; it is very pretty country.

        Every so often he’ll hear about an event and call.  “Dad, you need to come to Western this weekend.  They’re having  a bluegrass festival out at the Jackson County Recreation Park.”

        “Who all’s playing?”

        “Shilo.  Rumor has it Opie Poindexter is their mandolin player today.”

        ”Wow.  I need to get there.  I haven’t seen Opie in years.  (Opie is a former Galax International Fiddler’s Convention mandolin champion.)  “Anyone else?”

        “Appalachian Fire.”

        ”Cliff Searcy’s outfit?”

        “Yep.”

        I cupped the phone in my hand.  “Marfar!  You wanna go visit Tommy?”

        “Sure.”

        So off we went.

        Jackson Rec Park is in a valley nestled right in between a couple mountain ranges.  It was just the kind of festival I dig.  There was a big green lush lawn and the mountains cupped around the field like a natural amphitheatre.  They had a politically correct kid’s playground; the kind where all the edges are plastic and rubber to reduce the risk of head injuries.  (Docs always scout out a new place for such things.)  Some fellow walked a couple of beautiful liver and white Springer Spaniels who would become your life-long friend for a pat on the head.  

        The sun beat down at first, but there were a few tents for shade.  As soon as the sun dipped near the western shoulder of the mountain ridge it cooled down.  A breeze rustled through the stage mics; it sounds like the rumble of thunder for those of y’all not used to being around sound equipment.  Don’t forget to try the Cherokee Indian fry bread.  Indie woulda loved that.  Great stuff.

        I got out my mandolin.  A young middle aged man approached the stage.  He was a burly sort with a beard flecked with gray, a firm handshake and a ready smile.  He walked with the spring of a fellow who was an althlete.  He stuck out his hand, and we shook.

        ”Nice mandolin,” he said.   “Looks like a Montana era Gibson.”  I lowered my sunglasses and he looked in my eyes.   “Son of a gun.  Tommy Bibey, it is you.”

        I grinned.  “Cliff Searcy, I presume?”

        “Yes sir.”

        ”So pleased to meet you.”

        We chatted for a moment, but Appalachian Fire was up next, so I let them get to their warm-up.  They were a fun band.  It was all Fedora hats and baseball caps, New York State fiddling, and wild Hawaiian shirts.  They had a fine girl singer, Ranee Stepp, and I loved her version of ‘Amazing Grace’ and ‘Blue Moon of Kentucky.’  When  bunch of middle aged guys from across the demographic board can make such fine music with a young lady who is barely more than a kid, I know this kind of music will not be lost.  I like to see the young people in it.  Music is the  tie that binds.

        All in all it was a fine festival.  Opie is a great mando player, and I always learn from him.  FlintHill was there, and Michael Burgess is one of my favorite songwriters.  He has placed tunes with bands like Lonesome River and the Darin and Brooke Aldridge Quintet.  Their banjo man is one of the best you’ll hear, and the guitar man is a pretty dang hot picker too.

        For me, bluegrass music is all about the people.  A genuine tough guy ex-football coach with a soft spot for English Lit, kids, and folks in Nursing homes is the kind of human being I continue to find in my bluegrass journey.  We plan to do a few charity gigs together.  Someday I’ll visit his class and tell ‘em when I was a boy we always paid mind to Coach, and they better too, or some day they’d regret it.  I don’t think I’ve seen the last of Cliff Searcy and Appalachian Fire too, ’cause they are true bluegrass.

Dr. B

Alone and Blue/Hector Brown

        Tim O’Brien used to do a song in his ’Hot Rize’ days called ‘Hector Brown.’  It is the bluegrass statement on ‘lives of quiet desperation.’  The chorus goes, “if you don’t think an old man can be alone and blue…let me tell you my friend, he’s just like you.”

          Believe it or not here in Harvey County we still make a  few house calls.  There are a lot of little old folks who live just like Hector Brown in the song.  

        There was one old fellow I used to see who loved for me to bring my mandolin.  If you are one of those hard-hearted insurance kinda  guys don’t worry; I didn’t send in a bill.  In fact, at times I’d thumb through the code book and say, “Hey Bill; what kinda ICD-9 code you reckon the government would take for mandolin picking and watching ‘Bonanza’ re-runs?”

         He was confined to bed from a stroke and could barely talk, but he’d always laugh his a^^ off.  Bill was a Hector Brown kind of guy, but he endured it all with dignity.  I like to believe I helped some.

        When I age out of the Doctor gig that’s how I am gonna spend my time.  I’ll go out to the house of folks like Bill, take a plate of chicken and my mandolin, and see if I can make their day better.  By professional mandolin standards I am an average player at best, but so far no one has complained. 

        I’ll get back to my tour schedule next week.  I’m tired and need to recharge.  I wanted y’all to think about the folks confined to home.  When you get down to the bottom line, I think that is why I play mandolin more than anything else.  I’m gonna play some this weekend.  Who knows, maybe it’ll be a bright spot for some soul like Hector Brown.

Dr. B

Mississippi Part II/The Great Grand Mandolin Push Pin Book Tour

        First of all I have to give credit where due.  My new book tour title comes from Ms. Sharon at the sunlitdesk in Australia.   Her blog is very appropriately named.  From what I have read, there is a lot of sunlight down there, and along with Ms. Karen she shines new light on the word world for me every day.  Check out her site at: www.thesunlitdesk.wordpress.com  

        I guess you might wonder how I fell in love with Mississippi.  It is very simple.  They were the first folks outside of my hometown who began to read my short stories and show interest in my work.  I’m the same way as a Doc.  My first patient is still my most special one, and always will be.  She put her faith in me when I was too young to deserve it, and I have never forgotten her.

        After my stop at Tupelo and Saltillo, Mark, the manager at The Jamison recommended I check out Square Books in Oxford Mississippi.  He said Oxford was a prototypical New South town; big on the arts with lots of music and books; one I should not miss.  Smitty had said the same.  I try to never ignore good advice, especially when I hear it it twice, so we got in the car and went to Oxford.

         As you might expect Square Books is right on the square in downtown Oxford, Mississippi, the home of Ole Miss.  Upstairs they had a fine ice cream shop.  Cold ice cream and mandolin picking mix real good on a hot summer Mississippi day.  I got out my Gibson and played a few.  The next thing I knew a small crowd gathered.   

        “Do you know ‘The White Spire?” one asked.

        I knew this was an insider.  “Whiskey Before Breakfast?”  I asked.

        He smiled.  “That’s the tune.  Who are you?”

        “Tommy Bibey.”  I stuck out my hand.  “Pleased to meet you.”

        “Greg Johnson.  I’m in charge of the Blues Archive here at Old Miss.”

       It turned out Greg played in a Celtic band.  He invited me to stay and play that evening, but we had promised to be be in Memphis by dark-thirty and had to go.  He promised if I came back he could get me in the best jam sessions around.  Since then I have studied a bit of Yank Rachell blues mandolin.  Even though I am not an expert on the blues, I have at least some of that musical vocabulary.  It should make for great book store gig when the time comes.

       I paid my bill and thanked the lady for the ice cream.  “Ma’am that was extra good.”

        ”When your book comes out I want you to come back and play another tune.”

       “I will as long as you promise I can have some of that ice cream.”

         “Yes  sir.  It’s a promise.

          In addition to Greg, I have a young friend at Ole Miss I need to catch up with.  She goes by MJ, and she is  a writer too.  MJ was one of the Mississippi school kids I became pen pals with, and we have stayed in touch.

       You might wonder what an old Doc and a young Pharmacy student could possibly have in common.  I hope MJ will weigh in, but here’s how I see it.  I am about 80% scientist and 20% artist.  MJ might have a somewhat different percentage in mind, but I have a notion she has a similar perspective.  When I was young I met a mentor who had combined the two with success.  I hope young people like MJ will look at old Doc and say, “if he can do it so can I”  and know they also can live their dreams.  MJ is a good little writer.  Y’all check out her blog at:    www.fictionpress.com/~mjskywalker

        So I hope all of you will get out your ball of string, and see if you are anywhere near my path.  If you know of  stops on the great grand mandolin push pin book store tour I need to visit I hope you’ll let me know.  I’ll get out my push pins and put you on the tour master map.  I also have some contacts in Louisiana.  There is a romance writer there who is a semi-professional alligator wrestler.  A woman with that resume is bound to know of some good independent book stores.

        And Ms. MJ, we’ll see you in Oxford at a book store signing.  Maybe you’ll have  few short stories ready to share with the group.  (It might be tough to get a novel done while in Pharmacy School.)   If you’ll recommend a not too fancy but good place to eat my wife and I will take you and a friend to dinner.  If your folks are in town have them come along.  As kindred spirts all us scientist/artists  gotta stick together.

Dr. B

Excerpt from a Mississippi Book Store Gig/Act Naturally

        As you know, I am in the final edit stage of ‘The Mandolin Case.’  I expect to spend about six months on this.  We should beat our January 1, 2010 deadline by a few weeks, then I’m gonna spend Christmas with my family.

        After that it is on to publication.  We have several publishers who have it under consideration.  If by chance they all turn it down, we have a couple of excellent self-publish options, so no fear, there will be a book.  Y’all know me well enough now to know this next line is just a joke, but the Publishers don’t.  I like to keep the business kind of folks guessing, but I always tell them, “Y’all, either a Publisher is gonna make me famous or I’m gonna make a Publisher famous.  It doesn’t matter to me which way we do it.”

         Of course Milwaukee and beer pulled that off, but I don’t think Tommy Bibey is as big a deal as beer.  Still, I have to admit I have fun pulling their leg.

         Once it is out my wife and I plan several tours.  My life as a Doc goes on, but starting in 2011, my contract will allow for some extra time off to accomodate all this.  My employer understands I am 80% Doc and 20% artist, and that I function best that way.  They are fine with that mix, so I’m gonna get there. 

          Once I began to plan, I realized the world was a big place.  We still have our map on the wall with all the little push pin destinations.  Not long ago my agent took a look at it, and said I better start to get organized, so here we go.

        My tour plan revolves around people.  If there aren’t any people to see I don’t have any reason to go anywhere.  So today, I am going to start with the geographic location of Mississippi.  Over the next several posts tell you about other places we plan to go.  I’m gonna do them in the rough order I got to know the people who inspired me to travel to their neck of the woods.

         I do want to ask for a favor.  As I cover areas around the country, I would like for you to get out a map.  Take a piece of string and lay it out from Raleigh to the area of interest on that day’s post.  And it doesn’t have to be as the crow flies either.  I plan to zig-zag a lot, and have interest in all people who love books, music, and the arts in general.  If you know of a book store or music store where my tour would be fun let me know.  I have a special interest in the independents, as I am rather independent myself.   

        Today I start with Mississippi.  I met Smitty on a random pairing at a mountain golf course several years ago.  When we realized we both played the mandolin, we became instant friends.  The folks we were paired with thought we’d known each other for years.  In many ways it felt like we had.  By the end of the round we were planning a round of golf, a picking session, and a visit to his mom’s for fried chicken in a black skillet.  It all sounded good to me. 

        We stayed in touch.  He is a Mississippi school principal, and I became pen pals with some of his students.  I still correspond with some of them to this day.  (I call them my rangatang young’uns after an old story.)

        Today’s post is how I envision a Mississippi book store gig.  With minor variations I am sure you can see how it has application in other geographic locales.

‘Mississippi Mandolin Book Store Gig’

          “Folks, I’m so proud today to be here at Reed’s Book Store in Tupelo, Mississippi.  Anywhere that is the home of Elvis, Jerry Clower, Marty Stuart, John Grisham and William Faulkner is good by me.  You folks are famous.”

         (applause goes here )

        “I’m  gonna kick this off with ’When You’re Smiling,’  not that y’all get any choice on that one.  It’s the theme song for me and my Marfar.  As all y’all know here in the South, if mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy.’  She keeps me smiling, so I gotta return the favor.”

         Then I’ll go into my version of the tune.  I gotta brag here.  It is pretty good for a Doctor.  The single line melody is from Darin Aldridge and I learned the chord melody second part from Wayne Benson.  If you can’t learn some mandolin from those two you’re in trouble.  They are the best. 

        I especially like the middle of the second half.  It sounds just like something you’d hear when you open up a music box.  I can picture my daughter as the ballerina complete with a pink Karate outfit and the matching black belt.  Or if that image doesn’t imprint, how ’bout my boy circling ’round and ’round on a Harley, the muffler emitting the characteristic potato, potato, potato, exhaust sound.

        (light applause again.)  I do a few bars of ‘Miss the Mississippi and You,’ an old Jimmie Rogers tune. 

        ‘Y’all got any questions about the book?”

         A hand goes up.  “Yes.  Did Indie really keep white lightning in a skeleton’s skull in his office?”

         “No ma’am.  It was Jim Beam.  He only drank white lightning at the Bomb Shelter.”

        ”Oh my.”

         “Oh don’t worry.  He didn’t drink when he was on call.  And his vision was 20/20 right till the day he died.  He had some faults like we all do, but I loved him anyway.  That reminds me of a tune.  How ’bout the Cherokee Shuffle?”

        “Why that one, Dr. B?”

        “Oh, it was Indie’s theme song.  He had a shuffle type gate ’cause of his Parkinson’s disease, and he dealt with it head on.  He said we had to play the Shuffle at every gig.”  I render it the best of my ability.  No one could play it like Indie.

       The applause was a little bit heavier.  (Everyone loved Indie.) 

        “Y’all hold it down some now.  That little lady over there is a librarian, and I don’t want to upset her.  I want to get invited back for the second book.  We better settle down.”  (My librarian at home always said she wanted me to have fun, just not too much)

        “Hm.  Time for our commercial break, y’all.  Folks, this portion of our program is brought to you from the folks at Reed’s fine clothing store, right here in downtown Tupelo.  You walk in there and that man can size you up for a suit from fifty paces without so much as pulling a tape measure out of his pocket.  You can’t miss ‘em.  They’re right across the street from Tupelo hardware where Elvis’s  mama bought him his first guitar.  And while you are here, go over and visit Elvis’s home-place.  Music history there for sure. ”

        I spot Smitty in the audience.  “Hey Smitty, you got me a golf game lined up?  I might need a couple shots a side; getting some age on me you know.”

        “Straight up, Doc.”

        I smile.  I never could fool the principal.  “Speaking of Elvis, is he gonna drop by?  I need me a singer.”

        About then the door chimes.  In walk Elvis and Conway.  “Lord have mercy, y’all.  We have us a gig.  Did y’all bring that girl singer?  Lawd, she was good.”

        “She’ll be over directly, Doc.”

        Someone asks a question.  “Doc, tell me me more about Mason Marley.”

        ”Oh she was a good’un.  Hold on just a minute, though.  It ain’t every day an old bluegrass picker gets to play one with Elvis and Conway.  Boys, what y’all wanna sing……”

        Well, this gives you some idea of my book store gig format.  I hope it will be O.K. ’cause I don’t know any way to be but myself.  As as Buck Owens would say, “all I gotta do is act naturally.”  If fact it is all I can do. 

        I hope all of y’all will start to fill in the blanks as I work my way through this series.  If you know of places I need to stop please let me know.  I’ve worked up a good version of ‘Sweet Georgia Brown’ and the ‘Alabama Jubilee,’ and have songs in mind for the other states along the way.  I keep all this in my ‘tour’ folder on my blog, so I have some rough organizational scheme in mind.  

        But keep in mind, I am not a business guy.  This tour is all about people, music, books and fun.  It is about dreams.  Sure, I hope to sell some books, but if I come home with ten more dollars than had when I left and made a bunch of new friends I’ll consider it an overwhelming sucess.  I have to admit it is a mentality that leaves the business folks scratching their heads in bewilderment, but what can I do?  I have to be myself, and I am no businessman in doctoring or books either one.

         If y’all want me to stop at your favorite book store or music store I hope you’ll drop me a line.  (Many of you already have, and I thank you so much.)  Like I said, I ain’t going anywhere unless there are people I want to see.  All I can do is act naturally and hope to find kindred spirits along the way.

Dr. B

Father’s Day/Amazing Love

        Our song of the day yesterday at church was ‘Amazing Love.’  I thought it was just right for Father’s Day.

        I was fortunate to have a good Father.  He was also a country Doc.  I used to go on house calls with him.  He worked very hard, maybe too much at times, though they had little choice in the matter.  Even though he had a tough go, I could tell what it meant.  We’d go out to the Fairgrounds and some child would come up and hug his pant legs and tell him how much they loved him.  I didn’t know exactly what he did, but I wanted to be a part of it.

        I heard of a minister whose work was with death row inmates.  He said he never met a man on death row who had a good relationship with his father.  I never forget that, and vowed when my time came I’d do my best too.

       The best thing a fellow can do to be a good father is pick out a good mother for his children.  I was lucky on that one.  When I married their mama I figured God would give us beautiful children and it worked out just like that.   I have often said God knew what God was doing, ’cause if it was up to men to have babies, the human race woulda died out a long time ago.  I am a Doc and I tried to be as supportive as I knew how, but like most men all I really know about the miracle of birthing babies is to read ‘Field and Stream’ magazine in the waiting room, smoke a fine cigar, and brag. 

        Marfar had her hands full.  She was both the grace and the discipline.  I was (and still am in many ways) nothing but an overgrown child who was fortunate enough to have a good grown up Doctor brain.  In truth she raised three; our two and me, and did a fine job of it.

        But I loved to work and play hard, and I included my kids in it all. They hung out at the office with me and made hospital rounds.  We’d stop at a red light on the way to the hospital and their grade school word lists would flutter to the floorboard.  They’d gather ‘em up and we’d memorize a few more.  I told them it was the only way our people knew how to survive so they better get good at it.  They became good with words.  

        Somewhere early on I read children need rituals; a routine they can count on.  There was a little country restaurant on the way to school, and I took them there for breakfast every Wednesday morning without fail.  I was often on call Tuesday nights.  At times I was so tired I thought my face was gonna plop right into my eggs, but we kept it up.  I was a busy young Doc, and didn’t have as much time for them as I wanted.  But at Wednesday breakfast I learned of all their hopes and dreams, and encouraged them to reach for them.

        They both did well.  My boy is a paramedic who loves to ride Harleys and work on cars.  He has a fine mechanical mind and can fix anything.  My daughter is an intellectual young lady who is in Public Health in the Tobacco Triangle.  Her special interest is in health care for the under-served.  The child has already been around the world and is working a plan to save it.

        They both play a little music.  I taught my son mandolin, guitar and banjo, and he learned the bass on his own so he could play in the church praise band.  (His mom took it up later)  My Marie was in the orchestra and learned violin, piano and bass (plus some bluegrass bass from her mom) and I gave her a mandolin and she knows some on that too.

         My boy and I played a lot of golf together.   Golf was our time and his sister and mom only played a little.  When he was little he once asked when a man was ready to be married.  Son, I said, “when you are mentally prepared to bust your a^^ all month, and give everything you have to make sure you take care of your people, and at then at the end of the month you have enough left over to walk nine holes of golf and buy a hamburger, and when it thrills you to have that opportunity, then you’re ready.”

         He’s married now and doing well.  He’s not a father yet, but I pray he’ll be a good one, and I am sure he will.

         My daughter was my book kid.  In the third grade she’d want to  talk about issues like poverty and world hunger.  She was a normal girl; quite feminine and as pretty as her mama, but boyfriend, clothes and makeup worries just weren’t on her radar.  Still, I always saw her as my little girl.  She only got mad at me one time.  We were out in the yard pitching baseballs, and she stalked in. 

        I followed her in the house.  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

        “You won’t throw it at me as hard as you will to Tommy.”  She held back big tears.

        I bought her a basket of flowers the next day, but from then on I threw just as hard to her as I did the boys.  She is now a black belt in karate, so I guess she showed me a thing or two about chauvinism, huh?

        Our song of the day in church was “Amazing  Love.”  My definition of love is to care more about someone else than yourself.  If the terrorists were to show up at the house and demand my wife and children they’d have to kill me first.  They are younger and stronger than me, and they would prevail, but I’d hope to put up enough of a fight to where my people could escape.

       Of course what would really happen is my boy would beat ‘em with a ball bat and my daughter would kick the h@## out of ‘em with karate.  Then Ms. Marfar’d take ‘em her best southern barbecued chicken down to the Harvey County jail and they’d wonder exactly why they signed up for this terrorist gig to start with.

         Human love and forgiveness is an amazing thing.  But the love of our Heavenly Father far exceeds even that.  I love my children so much that as a human I could never give them up without  a fight.  I can’t understand God’s love; to give up His only Son.  I guess part of Grace is to accept what we as mortals have no way to comprehend. 

        As an earthly father, I’ll take all the help I can get.  One of these days I’m gonna have grandchildren.  I hear that is God’s way to give you a second chance to do better than when you were young, dumb, and scared half to death.  I’m gonna make the best of it when the time comes. 

Dr. B