Marty Stuart- Get in Line Brother

        Marty Stuart inspired my ‘Song of the Day’ on FaceBook; ‘Get in Line Brother.’  The tune is on his ‘Busy Bee Cafe’ LP.   He plays in North Carolina tonight.  If you wanna go tonight it is get in line brother ’cause the Don Gibson theatre venue sold out in about four minutes.  Don’t feel bad, I called too late too.

        I got to play with Marty Stuart one time.  He sees a lot of folks and I’m sure he could not remember it, but it was at one of John Hartford’s Christmas parties.  He and Bill Monroe were both there that night.  He looked just like his picture; big jet-black hair, cool suit, sly smile.  In spite of the clear fact he was a famous star and we were not, he treated us like he was just some regular guy in jam session, though.  I never forgot that.

        I played ‘Rawhide’ with the two of them. After a few times through, Monroe kicked up the pace several notches to where it was too fast for most of us to keep up, but Marty just smiled and kept jamming.  Ain’t no hoss gonna throw Marty Stuart; even Bill Monroe. 

        My mentor that night was a well-connected elderly gentleman who had jammed with Marty before.  On the way home he told me, “Son, I want you to play your mandolin like that Marty Stuart boy.”

        “Yes sir.  I’ll try.”

        When I first heard of Marty Stuart he was a twelve-year-old kid from Philadelphia, Mississippi who picked the mandolin for Lester Flatt.  He says in his biography it was hard to go back to the ninth grade after a summer of that, so he began to tour full-time.  I recall he once said (paraphrased), “You ain’t been home schooled till you learned geometry from Lester Flatt.”  Lord, don’t you know Marty has some stories to tell.

        I like Marty’s work.  When he came to Nashville he wanted one of those Nudie suits only to find out they cost ten times his net worth.  Instead of being mad about it, he made friends with everyone in the store.  He knew he’d be back. 

        These days Marty is a right well dressed cat, but my guess he is still bluegrass at heart.  The man has jammed with everyone from B.B. King to Keith Richards, (not to mention Bill Monroe and Dr. B, ha!) and was mentored by Lester and Johnny Cash.  To me he is still real country and didn’t give in to the pressures to water it down.

          It’s like a doc.  The only business plan I ever had was to treat folks the best way I could and let it shake out however it was meant to be.  I think Marty decided a long time ago to play the best music he could and the heck with trends.  I say more power to ya Marty, and don’t give in.  Based on tonight’s immediate sold out concert, I’d say folks love you just like you are so there ain’t no reason to change now.

        I don’t have a ticket but I’m gonna drive over there with my ‘Busy Bee’ LP and hang around the back door like Marty would have as a kid at the Opry.  Lester Flatt once told Marty to never forget that in this music your fans are fans for life.  Lester home schooled Marty Stuart, and I am certain Marty would say Lester always taught the truth.

         Only problem is a lot of years have gone by.  Nowadays some of Marty’s fans are old gray-haired docs instead of only all those young ladies.  Oh well, it comes with the territory of being true country.  Appreciate your music, and play ‘Rawhide’ for me.  All the best in your travels.

Dr. B

www.martystuart.net

Doctor’s Orders- A Little Dab’ll do Ya

        Yesterday Lynn O’Carroll brought me a note from the nursing home.  It seems the young secretary over there couldn’t read my order.  I don’t know why.  After twenty-five years Lynn and Myrd can read my writing without fail. In fact, they can ’bout near skip the paper work and read my mind.

        She handed me a copy of the order.  “The secretary thought it read “one dab to leg today.”

       I looked at it.  “Hm.  Looks okay to me.  What did you think it said?”

       “Oh, I got it.  It says apply TID.  She wanted to know how much a dab was.”  (There are a lot of new school folks in the medical field nowadays.)

       ”Maybe you shoulda told her a little dab’ll do ya.”

        Lynn smiled.  “I’m afraid she was too young to get that either, Dr. B.  I told her to just put on little bit three times a day.”

        “Thanks for translating.  Sometimes I wonder if I am getting too old for this business.”

        “Naw, Doc.  You’re just fooling ‘em with the gray hair.”

        Bless both Lynn and Myrd’s hearts.  For a quarter century they’ve been making old Doc look better than what he is.

Dr. B

Dem Beatles

        When I was growing up my parents were afraid I might become “one of dem Beatles,” except they said “those” instead of ‘dem. (Remember?  Mama was an English teacher.)  Bub the barber worried the new haircuts might set a trend and run him out of business.  I remember I was so excited they were gonna be on Ed Sullivan.  I told my uncle the farmer the Beatles were coming and he said he hoped they didn’t eat up his crops.  

        Over time most of us got used to the fact that even Harvey County might change some.  Of course there are always a few people who hold onto things they shoulda turned loose of a long time ago.  Believe it or not this even applies to the Beatles.

        I saw a fellow at the Billiard and Bowl the other day who was like that.  He had on a bright orange hunting cap that had this huge peak on the front and wore a camouflage jacket.  If he’d had a shotgun over his shoulder he’d been a ringer for Elmer Fudd gone to shoot some ’wabbits.’

        “Hey Doc how come you let dem Beatles come to North Carolina?”

        “Whatda you mean?”

        “Dem Beatles.  They was over near Charlotte at that new Don Gibson theatre.”

        “The Beatles?  I think some of them are gone, my friend.”

        “Hell no.  They wuz there. How come you didn’t stop it?”

        ”Hm.  It must have been ‘64.  They’re a tribute band.  But brother I gotta tell you, I ain’t in charge.”

        “Well you shoulda been.”  He grumped around a minute and put some salt on his liver mush.  “I tell you what’s the truth.  When dem Beatles came out I didn’t put me a radio in my new car.  Still don’t have one.”

        “Lordy man, that was near a half century ago.  You’ve missed some good music.  They’ve got bluegrass on the radio nowadays.”

        “Really?”

        “Yes sir, no kidding.”

         ”Do they still got dem Beatles?”

         “Well, yes sir, at least some stations do.”

        “Then I’m agin it.  Hmph.”  He sipped on his coffee a minute.  “At least they didn’t put ‘em over at the new Scruggs place.”

         “I reckon.  Maybe so.  We don’t want no riots.”

        “You tell ‘em, Doc.”

        I didn’t know I was in charge of so much.

My Editor Defictionalized (Dorrie O’Brien)

        My editor has given me permission to tell you her real name. I think this might be a sign she feels my book has promise.

        How I found her is a long story. It starts with my mama. She was an English teacher. I was rambunctious boy who spent whole summers sunburned, barefoot, and covered in red clay. My only possessions were a one speed bike and a baseball bat and glove.

        I had two brothers. When mama put her fried chicken on the table you had to move fast or get a fork stuck in your hand by one of your brothers as they reached for a drumstick. We were rowdy, loud boys.  There were never any leftovers.  We didn’t have any sisters.

        I didn’t pay a bit of attention in English but did okay ’cause I talked like mama in class. I got by. I didn’t realize you were supposed to take your books home, but mama made up for it. She’d take me to the library every week and I’d check out all the books they’d let me take home. They were mostly on baseball at first, but she got me in the habit of reading. I wrote some stories and got a few blue ribbons but then got interested in girls, guitars, and golf and let it go for a while. Mama raised me most of the way and my wife took over from there.

        Even though I didn’t have any sisters, because of mom and my wife I had all kinds of respect for women. Even though I was amateur husband I did okay ‘cause I believed a man could have all the female friends he wanted as long as he only loved one woman.

        After I got to be a doc, I was surrounded by women all day, and began to learn a lot from them. Some guys say they don’t like to work with women but I never had any problem with them. If they disagreed with you they’d tell you, but they never tried to rassle with you or punch you in the nose to settle any differences. Compared to life as a kid it seemed rather civilized to me.

        I told you all that so you’d understand why when my agent decided it was time to search for an editor I told him I leaned toward it being a lady if possible. I figured me and him both knew how guys think, and it wouldn’t hurt to get a female perspective. Besides, I always like at least one female voice in a bluegrass band; just a better mix to my ear.  Maybe it was ’cause mom was such a big influence.

        It seemed my readers were likely to be female too.  Several of them became very influential as the book developed via their comments and feedback.  My daughter said this was because women read more than men. (She wrote for the Harvey Herald in high school; the kid was published before I was.) 

        And I would never have never made it as a doc without Lynn O’Carroll and Myrd. We have a lady doc at the office too, Dr. Lucas, and she always had insight into women’s health issues you just couldn’t get out of a text-book.

        My agent went on a search and narrowed it down to ten or so, then we went over the resumes and got it to three.  Then he said it was up to me. I had to interview them by phone and decide, and he wouldn’t do it for me. It had to be the one who resonated with me. They were all good. Each one had a lot of experience, and I am a first time novelist.  Any of them woulda been fine. 

        But there something about Dorrie. I knew I was gonna marry my wife the day I met her, and I knew Dorrie was gonna be my editor after our first conversation. I guess a man of science shouldn’t make decisions from the heart like that but I often do anyway. Dorrie seemed like the literature sister I never had just like my nurses were my big and little sisters at the office.

        She seemed to have her heart in the project early on, and included me in each step rather than make her recommendations and leave it to me to implement them without any further feedback. I was used to negotiating with women in the workplace and maybe she sensed I was comfortable with constructive criticism. Sometimes she would call and get inside my head about a passage before she decided on the recommendations she wanted to make. 

        At the same time we were in agreement she couldn’t write it for me. One thing I never wanted was a ghost writer, and I was glad she wanted no part of that. “Besides,” she said. “If I wrote any part of myself it’d stick out to your readers. You are unique and no one can fake you.”

        She also was clear she wasn’t gonna be my mama. I agreed.  I said right from the start if I wanted someone to tell me they loved my book, I’d get Mom to read it. I wanted Dorrie to be solid honest and tell me what parts didn’t work, and she did so.  Dorrie is tough and won’t put her name on anything she doesn’t feel good about, so don’t expect a free pass.  

       She felt free to question anything, and I re-worked every passage she found weak.  “You got to remember, Bibey.  Many of your readers will know nothing about medicine, bluegrass music, or golf.  It is up to show them in a way they will be comfortable in your world.”  I figured she was a pro.  If parts didn’t make good sense to her I could not hope it would fly with a more casual reader.

        She found my punctuation atrocious but corrected it for me like a big sister would the night before a term paper was due.  Also, I figured a woman might inject a bit of culture into the story. The draft I first presented to her was written up the way I heard the story, and there were a few rough spots.  She took out some of the cuss words, but still left it real. It will be interesting to see if you guys can spot where the cuss words were deleted.  If you do you can insert the words in your mind, but don’t say ‘em out loud.  Mama will like it better that way.  

        When we finished this last revision, I read it over one last time before I shipped it off to my agent. I realized with Dorrie’s help I had finally said what I meant to say. She made my voice stronger, but still insisted it had to my voice.

        My old bluegrass buddy Darin said early on to get all the help I needed but to never forget it was my story. Dorrie saw it the same way. On my last read, I’m not ashamed to tell you I shed a few tears at the end. I felt like a painter who still had a brush in hand.  As I considered one last accent, I realized it was best to put it down ’cause one more brush stroke might foul it up.

        It turned out to be a fine partnership, and one I suspect we’ve just started. I told Dorrie the same thing I told my agent. “If you are fair to me it’ll be like they told Monroe when he got to the Opry. If you want to leave you’ll have to fire yourself.”  

        Right now she’s editing an article of mine that should be placed in a national music magazine come spring.  The last time I talked to her I told her it was too bad I didn’t run into her at Harvey High.  When I went out to play gigs she coulda ridden in the back seat on the way home and read ‘Wuhtering Heights’ to me like any good big sister would do.  I mighta done better than the ‘A-’ I made with the Cliff notes.

        She said, “Bibey. I’m good, but not that good.  You better call your mama for that.”

        Oh well.  You can’t blame a fellow for trying. 

        One disclaimer: This post was self-edited, so don’t blame Dorrie for any errors.  I wanted to surprise her.  Oh by the way Dorrie, is defictionalized a real word?

Here is her contact info:

Web page link: http://www.book-editing.com/bios/dorrie-obrien/index.shtml

e-mail:  dorrie@peakpeak.com

        If you e-mail her tell her Dr. B sent you and I said to give you the big sister discount.  In the interest of full disclosure I should tell you I have no financial conflict of interest in her edit biz, but I do think she is a fine editor and wanted you to know of her.  Also don’t forget she is an artist and doesn’t live by doctor standard time.  Don’t call her too early in the morning and remember she’s on Central Time.

        One  last thing.  My agent felt my MS was only ready for an editor after several re-writes and a test market by some very serious readers around the country.  I think it’d save every writer a lot of time, trouble, effort, and money in the long run to do that kind of preparation. And don’t just have your mama read it. If she’s like mine she’ll just say she loves it. 

All the best Sis, 

Dr. B

All of Me

        I heard this one on my office IPOD the other day.  It isn’t the point of the song, but it occurred to me the title reflected how I think we ought to go at things.  It sure is that way in medicine.  You give it your all, and in the end you’re still gonna lose.  Sometimes I think we start with cadaver to make sure we get the point.

       Art is the same way.  Over the years I’ve played with hundreds of musicians.  Many of them are excellent at their art and will never be recognized by any worldly reward.  For 99.9% of us, all we’ll see at the end of the rainbow is the satisfaction of reaching deep down inside to find our best.

         Writing sure is that way. Tim Stafford is at work on a book about Tony Rice.  He told me a book project was a longer journey than a CD.  After fifteen years with Blue Highway and multiple successful recording projects, he knows.  In many ways writing a book is a microcosm of life.  It is full of hopes, dreams and rejection. In spite of it all, you are still compelled to keep on in the hope you will fine tune your craft to the point others will get inside your head and contemplate your take on things. 

        It has its risks.  You toss your heart out to the world and see what happens.  Sometimes you get stomped on, but you go see the cardiologist, patch it up, and go back and try again.  When it’s all over I want folks to say old Dr. B gave it his best in both medicine and art.

        I know a lot of people find artists to be a little kooky, but I’m gonna give all me the whole way and let the chips fall where they may.  

Dr. B

A Song For Every State

        My ‘Song of the Day’ on Facebook was the Tennessee Waltz.’  We lived in Knoxville a few years and still have a lot of fond memories. 

       One time my wife played a regional teacher’s convention and the band came up with a song for every state represented.  We just did it off the top of our heads.  I dug the ‘Alabama Jubilee.’ We both loved ‘Carolina on my Mind’ even though it wasn’t bluegrass.  I know you are not surprised the ‘Banjo Diva’ had to have ‘Rocky Top’ on the set list.   Alaska wasn’t there but I’d like ‘North to Alaska’ if they had been.

        It occurred to me there are a lot of states I am not as familiar with as I should be.  Before I get travel with my book I’d love to hear from you guys.  What song do you like for your state?  It can be but does not have to be your state song, although I’d love to collect that list too.  If you send them to me I’ll keep ‘em in my tour file.  

        When you go to Rome you gotta do like the Romans.  It hit me I have spent my whole life right here in Harvey County. If it hadn’t been for all the bands touring through I might not have known of the outside world.  I can’t think of a better way to know the heart of a state than to know the music people love there.  No reason to confine it to the U.S. either.  I’d love to hear from folks all over.

        Let’s see now.  Is there a ‘New Hampshire Breakdown?’  Or how ’bout “On Some Foggy Green Mountain Top’ for Vermont?  Y’all (or you guys as the case may be) let me know.

Dr. B

Service People

        Regardless of the politics of any conflict one thing is for sure:  It ain’t the fault of those young folks on the ground who just hope and pray to stay alive and get back home.

        Whenever I see a service or police person as a patient I always close with the same statement, and I mean it.  “I appreciate what you do for me.  I’m too old to protect myself anymore and you put yourself in harm’s way to see it to I am free to be a Doc and try to do a little good.  Anything else I can do for you?” 

        My dad’s big brother died in France in WWII.  Dad rarely speaks of it, but of course has never forgotten.  Like many towns around the country we have a monument on the Courtsquare.  His name along with many others is etched on there for all time. 

        We play a gig every so often on the Square.  Every time I go by there I stop and look his name up on the monument and say a silent prayer.  I didn’t have the privilege to know him, but everyone around here says he was a wonderful young man.  I’ve seen pictures.  He was a good-looking boy with this big smile. They say he was a shutter-bug. I wonder what all he could have done with more than twenty short years.  I guess we’ll know in eternity.

        Hats off to all who serve.

Dr. B

Message in a Blog Bottle

        I sit here at the Deep River Blues Coffee Cafe and I’m in awe.  When I was growing up here we only had the Billiard and Bowl until Hardees came in, and pizza was an exotic international food.  I can’t believe Harvey county has come far enough to have our version of Starbucks. They got all kinda coffee in this place, and I can’t pronounce the names of any of ‘em.  Usually I just get the house black but every so often I’ll order a new fangled one.  “How ’bout one of those high-test hoop-tee-do cold caramel ones with the crushed up ice?”  I asked.

         “Tough day, Doc?”  The kid at the counter is a blonde haired girl, but she acts about like a bartender.  “You mean the frappacino?”

        “Uh yeah. That’s fine. Make it a double shot of that espresso jazz and put some whipped cream on it.”

        ”Yes sir.  Coming right up.”

        I slumped into the corner easy chair and tapped into the Wi-Fi.  When I was a kid Hi-Fi was fancy.  We’ve come a long way.

        I e-mailed a friend in Australia.  I’m about like Jimmy Stewart.  I love the old hometown, but there was also a part of me that wanted to fling responsibility to the wind and see the world.  In a way the Internet has allowed me that without leaving home, but has also whetted my appetite. 

        But as my daughter always said, “Daddy, there’s not a frivolous bone in your body.”  I never would have gone without  a reason for the trip.  That reason is the reader, and we want to meet all these new people I have met in my writer journey.  My book is my travel ticket.

        Not that I want to give up my day job.  I still love it and the interaction with the patients.  But as the book draws nigh, I’m also gonna have to see the world before I get too old to  go.  Then I’ll come back home, check into Harvey Nursing Home without complaint, play bingo every Monday and teach mandolin lessons to anyone who’ll visit, ’cause I got to do it all.

          When I started my blog it was like a message in a bottle.  I tossed it out from our little desert island here, watched it bob away and drift off into the distance, and waited to see if anyone would respond.  One day someone far across the ocean found it on an isolated beach where it had washed ashore.  They popped the cork and fished out the message.  

        “My wife and I love home but we also want to see the world.  We love bluegrass music, writing, and art.  We only want to go where we already know folks of like mind.  To tell you the truth, Harvey County is a small place.  We’re a little scared of strangers.  When I finish my book can we come visit a bookstore near you?”

         The answer was yes, and to a degree I never dreamed of.  I have already learned a bunch from you guys and look forward to plotting my course over the next few years to get everywhere I want to go.

        All that is gonna take a lot of time.  As the publishers look at ‘The Mandolin Case’ some have already inquired about an outline for a sequel.  (Thank goodness I have one)  I work steady as a Doc every day and it is hard to fit it all in.

           I hope you guys will bear with me.  Today I want to tell you of a slight change in my publication schedule.  In some ways it will be more; in some ways it is less.  I plan to post a brief  ‘Thought of the Day.’ (at least most days)  Often it might dove-tail with my ’Song of the Day’ on FaceBook.

         Instead of three long posts a week I’ll do one long one on Mondays.  I’m gonna call the ‘Monday Morning Post.’

        I hope this change will allow me to commit to the support of ‘The Mandolin Case’ I will have to give it, and also the time to write the sequel I have started.

        At the same time, I admit I fear the thought of the loss of even one reader.  I have come to enjoy your regular input.  Like a doc without patients a writer with no readers might as well call it a day.  I have learned much from you and hope you will all continue the journey with me even though my format will have to change a bit to get it all done.

        So I send another message in a bottle from Harvey County and float it out to you again.  I hope you’ll stick with me.  The total time I give to the blog might be cut in half, but I hope the books will make it up to you.  Hey, at this point y’all about gotta read them ’cause some of you made it in the story by virtue of your visits to Harvey County.

        As Tim O’Brien would say I won’t say so long ’cause I ain’t going anywhere. (or something like that)  So I’ll be in touch and see ya soon. 

Dr. B

Doc Watson/David Holt

        Last night we went down the road to Spindale, N.C., the home of WNCW radio, for a festival and concert by Doc Watson and David Holt.  Trust old Dr. B and put this on your calendar for next year; these folks know music.  We sat up our lawn chairs on a gentle grass slope right in front of the stage.  The backdrop was a small lake/large duck pond.  The wind whipped up a few waves and the leaves fluttered around.  All the best regional bands were there.  Very soon I forgot of the troubles I brought with me.

        If you have never seen Doc Watson, the time to go is now.  Like the Appalachian mountains he still calls home, Doc has seen a lot in his time and he continues to express it in his artistry.  He is genuine, no put on whatsoever.  David Holt led him to the stage. Doc was in a flannel shirt and had on some kinda dark dungarees, white socks and worn brown brogans.  As he tuned up my heart pounded with the anticipation of a small child.  I have heard him many times, and yet never grown tired of Doc.  He is as comfortable as a front porch session and yet brilliant.  He began to play.  My wife and did not speak a word until the first break for fear we might miss a note.

        David Holt was the perfect picking partner for Doc.  His respect for him was clear.  He’d coax Doc into telling old stories, some of which I’d never heard.  Doc told us how his dad taught him the harmonica, or French harp as they called it back then.  He told of  a day as a young boy when his grandmother sang ‘Uncloudy Day’ on the porch or listening to Merle Travis in the late 30s and how the ‘Deep River Blues’ came to him.  He talked about courting his wife with ‘Shady Grove’ (said his heart turned a flip the first time he heard her voice) played old fiddle tunes like ‘Rag Time Annie,’ and told of the days when he worked the other end of a cross-cut saw with his Dad.

         There was ’Step it up and Go’ with David on the washboard, bones on Fisher’s Hornpipe, then hambones and harmonica. David laid his banjo in his lap and used the head as a snare with some brushes and they rendered the old Eddy Arnold number ‘Any Time’ with a swing feel that was might near jazzy.  Doc sang the Crystal Gayle “Ready for the Times to get Better’ in Bm all weary and worn but with hints of hope.  There was the African-American “You Must Come in at The Door’ Doc first heard on a scratchy record many years ago. 

        It was David on the slide resonator with Doc doing ‘Sitting on Top of the World’ to Doc alone right after the break with “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.’  Simple, elegant, true.  Doc is Gershwin to spirituals; ragtime to blues.   He is real.  Please don’t miss him.

         For me it was a reverence close to a church service, though Doc would be the first to tell you we are all just imperfect humans.  Maybe so, but Doc is a mighty fine human, one who overcame a disability to become an American institution.  The remarkable thing is he remains simple and humble.  I don’t think he knows how special he is.

        They did one encore, and then the magic was over for the night.  We turned to the young couple next to us and they shared they had never seen Doc before.  I shook the young man’s hand.  “I’m so glad you were here.  I took my kids to see Doc twenty years ago, because I wanted them to experience truth in music.  They go to see him every chance they get.”

        “I will too, sir.” The boy watched as David led Doc off the stage.  “I promise.”

       I’ll go see Doc every chance I get too.  I learn something every time I get to hear him play and sing.

Dr. B

Pick Up Truck Litmus Test

        A couple posts ago, I told you of Mr. Charles Franklin Thombley IV, negotiator extraordinaire.  It is true he uses a pick-truck to help him in his business. Given he is in a very intense business enviroment, you might wonder how this old truck could come into play.

        Indeed the truck is a bland as Thombley is spectacular.  It is a 1979 Ford F150.  It has an in-line six and and tows okay, but has no frills or options of any kind.  There is no carpet, but only rubber flooring.  You can work with it on the farm and then wash off the red clay with a garden hose and then leave the windows down and let it dry out.  Right near the clutch there’s a big hole, and you can watch the highway roll by through the floorboard.  The vehicle never had a bed-liner, and is rusted out in spots,  It burns some oil, but only a quart between changes.  It has an AM radio but it hasn’t worked in years.  

         When Mr. Thombley meets a new client and is not sure of their character he often uses the truck as a litmus test.  He’ll find out if a potential client has any need for a truck.  They often do because he deals with a lot of professionals in transition in between offices. They often say, ”Oh yeah sure, I have a man moving me this weekend.  I’m sure it’d come in handy.”

           Mr. Thombley will say, “Well, I have access to one you can borrow.  It belongs to an old farmer who helps me out on the south pasture.  He just asks that you bring it back in the same shape as when you picked it up.”

        ”Okay. Thanks.”

         The he lets them take it for the weekend. 

          Invariably when the potential clients return it they fall into one of three categories.

          Some of them bring it back filled up with gas and washed.  Every so often one will even wax it.  He has never entered into a business relationship with anyone in this category and regretted the decision.  To a person they proved to be good clients.

          Some bring it back with the exact same amount of gas.  They might not wash it, but they get most of the mud off.  They might make adequate clients, but have to be watched with more care.

         A few bring it back dang near out of gas, mud-stained, and sometimes even dented.  Charles will mention it to them and they might say, “Hell, he’s just an old farmer.  He doesn’t have the time or the money to deal with me.”  Mr. Thombley always tells these people his schedule is jammed and he had to stop taking new clients until he can get caught up.

        “Bibey,” he told me.  You can always tell what a man is made if by how he treats people who are not in a position to defend themselves.  If he is going to be fair to some old farmer he doesn’t even know, then he will be fair to the people he enters into business with.  If he’ll take advantage of them because he thinks he can get away with it he’ll be too much maintenance to deal with on a fair basis.  You can arrange a fair deal with guys like this, but it takes too much time and energy, and they will back out on you at the first opportunity.  It just isn’t worth the trouble when there are so many good people out there to work with.

        I was always good to fill up a man’s truck if I borrowed it.  Often I’d run it through the car wash too. After I met Charles I try to wax ’em if I get a chance.  You only get one chance at a first impression and if die tomorrow I want people to remember I did my best to be fair to them.

       As I am sure you know, there was no farmer.  Mr. Thombley kept the truck just to be sure what folks were made of.  He bought it new in 1979, and said it has been one of his best investments.

Dr. B