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

        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

        I’ll be back with more on the Negotiator next post, but I had to tell you about today first. 

        The Negotiator called first thing in the morning to say he’d struck a fair deal for two parties; his specialty.

        I drew the Hawg in the choose-up; always a good sign.  We played Little League ball together.  Hawg was an athlete, I was a student.  I knew I’d better get good at books as soon as I saw his fast ball.  Thank goodness we were on the same team.  Hawg played AAA ball, I became a doc.  His brother (little hawg) played the PGA tour; Hawg is almost as good at golf as his brother. 

         I was a ‘C’ man today, and shot 79.  I hit one in out of the fairway and made an eagle.  The sun was in our eyes so none of us saw it go in, but it was in the hole when we got to the green.  We barely won the front but Hawg got warmed up and shot four under on the back, and we ran away with it. 

        It’s always good to have good friends.  If the Hawg shows up half drunk, chain smoking, and wobbly, and even if he’s gotta drag around some skinny old country doc who only plays on Wednesdays, still put your money on him; he’s a player.  I took a bunch of mad money home to Marfar and it made her happy.

       I went to the dentist and didn’t have any cavities, reviewed a CD from an artist friend I think a lot of, and came home and read some Mark Twain.       

        Not a bad day.

        This guy is just too good for you to miss.  I hope to secure his permission to tell more of his story in a second book called ‘Acquisition Syndrome.’  He had a peripheral involvement in ‘The Mandolin Case,’ which is now under review by several publishers.  He asked that I hold off on his full story until it is released.

         His name is Charles Franklin Thombley IV.  His everyday car is a Sunbeam Tiger, which is an Alpine with a 260 except he exercised an option for the Ford 289 V8.  He once won a sportsman’s race at Charlotte Motor Speedway. The Tiger had a car phone just like the one Maxwell Smart had.  The car was similar too, but Mr. Thombley’s is British racing green rather than red.  He thought it provided better camouflage. Somehow Thombley was connected with Max and guys like him, and I suspect he was a major factor in thwarting Chaos.  Mr. Thombley has not changed and remains just shy of middle age, still youthful but also wise.  

        He was an advisor in the Mandolin Case, but always stayed behind the scenes.  His involvement was so clandestine he does not appear in that novel.  If you asked him about it, he and the Chief would enter into the cone of silence.  He is tight-lipped and will only agree to his story in print if I encode it to the degree that I have de-identified him.  We are in high level negotiations at this time, but after he reads ‘The Mandolin Case, I believe he will go along.

        His people are from Atlanta and got their start in the business world at the time of the Civil War.  They bought up real estate futures right after Sherman came through, and never looked back.  Charles went to Oxford on a rugby scholarship, and has a three handicap at an exclusive club in Augusta he preferred not to name.  He owns lake-front property throughout the South and a home in Europe.  He usually wears sunglasses.  If you go out to eat with him in Atlanta, the owner of the restaurant will call him ‘Sir’ and seat you at a private reserved table in the back.  He is old southern but he married a lady from above the Mason Dixon line.  She was a Hamilton, and I think her people came from money.  It wasn’t new money. 

         He wears dark Italian suits and red ties.  He is of medium build and average height, but little else about him is average.  He has a wavy head of hair about like Lyle Lovett except there is just a hint of gray in the temples.  All the women want to meet him, but he is solid loyal to his wife.  He is also loyal to his clients.

          He doesn’t work from a contract, and never sends a bill.  Instead he conducts business on a handshake.  He always says, “I will do my best for you. You have to decide what it means to you and then determine my fee.”  Everyone who works with pays him well because they want him to stay on their team. 

        He is booked as steady as the guitar man I told you about a few posts ago.  Except for a few weeks off in Paris every year he always has a gig.  He remains available to his clients even when he Europe. He also has business there.  He sings in the church choir.  His favorite hobby is the financial revitalization of under-capitalized southern churches.

        In my next post I am going to give up the only work secret he will let me disclose at this time.  As I said we are in negotiations for the rights to the sequel to ‘The Mandolin Case.’  This story will reveal his ways in greater detail.  He will have to proof the manuscript to be sure it is sufficiently encrypted.  This process might take a couple years, but it will be worth it.  You will want to get inside his world because to tap into any small part of his skill as a negotiator will be invaluable information for you. 

        I can tell you this.  He reshaped the medical landscape in Harvey County, and cut a wide swath right down the Interstate all the way through the Tobacco Triangle a few years back.  One year my band played a gig in Raleigh and a doctor came up to me and said, “You and that masked man out of Atlanta changed everything and it was all for the better.”

         I told him it was a nice complement but I couldn’t take the credit.  It all belongs to Mr. Thombley.

        So, here is the one secret he will allow me to disclose at this time.  He often decides which clients he wants to do business with based on a pick-up truck.  Now, I know you must wonder.  How can a pick-up truck help a sophisticated man like Mr. Thombley decide which clients are trustworthy?  I have to go back to the doctor gig, but promise to explain this in my next post.

        Never worry about Dr. B.  You have come to know me well.  I have a good grown-up doctor brain, but I am just a little boy and have the heart of a child.  I do not understand business, and have no chance against the sharks who now circle the medical waters.  Don’t worry though.  He is the only man I know who understands business but also has a heart, and he looks after me.

        I am in good hands, because he is the negotiator, and he took me under his wing.

Dr. B

        I’ve been a little slow to get as much posted, because I’ve been sick a little while.  Don’t worry; I’m on the mend.  Once a year, I’ll get a bad case of laryngitis.  When it happens I get behind on my work, especially my dictation.  But I always take it as a reminder of how lucky I’ve been.  Most of my patients are far worse off.

        Whenever I get sick, I always look for the same things.  My wife is good with crafts and such, and she has an afghan of hers on the couch I’ll curl up with.  She makes some kinda concoction called a ‘comfort egg.’  Maybe I’m just prejudiced, but I think her chicken soup is the best in the world.  My mama used to give me peppermint candy and a Coca-Cola whenever I got any kind of virus.  My kids knew this and would always bring me both what few times I got sick along the way.  Sometimes when I’m ill and it snows I can recall those old days as a kid at home so vividly that I am compelled to go out in the truck to find some Co-Cola and peppermint candy.  It might sound irrational to you, but it works.  Besides, I’m a man of science, so it must be true. 

        Of course I always look for some healing songs, too.  My Song of the Day on FaceBook was ‘He Ain’t Never.’ The version that came to mind was Darin and Brooke Aldridge’s.  You can’t help but be energized when you hear Brooke sing that one.  If instead I want a big laugh, I’ll pull out a tape of one of the gigs from my old doctor band. I played the banjo back then and they introduced me as ‘The Harvey County Flash.’  Believe me, there has never been much flashy about old doc, and today I am extra sluggish. 

        But I take comfort.  Like old Dad always says, tomorrow will be a better day.  I have my family, my friends, and my music and the Good Lord always sees to it to heal me up by Monday to doctor another day.  For breakfast, Ill have a comfort egg, some hot tea, and a Co-Cola.  I’ll be okay.

        Most  bluegrassers know healing has very little to do with pills, and everything to do with people. What are the healing songs for you guys?  I’d like to know, ’cause next time I’m sick they might be the very tunes that bring me comfort.  Then y’all can say you healed the doc.  

        I’m gonna go have a peppermint and put on some music.

Dr. B

        I had lots of favorite moments at our open house, but this one might be the best of all.

        As you can imagine we had folks who came from all walks of life. There were a few movers and shakers who came out of curiosity, but for the most part it was rank and file everyday folks.  There was the UPS guy, several country preachers, maintenance men, kitchen workers, the barber, teachers, a couple mechanics, docs and nurses, and a number of golfers.  I’m sure you are not surprised a bunch of bluegrass pickers were there.

        They came for different reasons.  I knew almost all of them. Most came to say, “Thanks, Doc.”  Some came for the music and a few came because there was free food.  That’s okay.  I figured it was a special day and they sure needed it more than I did.  I didn’t eat ’cause I was afraid we might run out.  (We did)

        When they got ready to have the ribbon cutting ceremony, there was a dignitary there to kick it off.  He asked for all the elected officials in the crowd to raise their hands.  He was a bit embarrassed to realize there wasn’t a single one.

        One of my patients said, “Hey Doc, not one politician?”

        “I guess we forgot to invite them.”

        ”I take it you only invited the important people.”

        ”Dang right.  This is my kind of party.”

        I am sad to say modern medicine is often about a lot of things these days besides the patient.  For some it is power, some money, others it is ego or control, and sometimes just pure arrogance.  As my friend said, “When I got into health care, I thought we were gonna talk about germs.  All we talk about is money.” 

        Maybe it was only for a day, but at least for one day and one day only it was about the patient and nothing else. 

        I noticed our competition in town came by.  They were most generous.  I didn’t get to speak to them but they said it was good for Harvey County.  I am sure they got the message.  There have not been many times in my life I’ve seen everyone sit up and take notice af what counts but for once it happened. Other than a few medical out-and-out saves I’ve pulled out of the hat over the years, it was my favorite day in the doctor business, ’cause we honored all the real people.

Dr. B

        It’s easy to find.  Go down I-40 to Marion.  Take 221 North.  Just after a fancy golf course on the left the Red Barn Tree Farm will be on your right.  Around Christmas you can cut your own.  You’ll go up a big mountain.  Right past the turnoff to Perry Woodie’s home place you’ll go through a squiggly stretch of road and then under the Blue Ridge Parkway.   Turn left at the gas station/grocery store and go four miles on New Three Mile Road.  On the sign it is called ‘The Lula Belle and Scotty Wiseman Highway.’

        After you go by Old Three Mile Road turn right on 19E.  Go through Burleson country.  This is the home of Jason Burleson, the banjo voice of Blue Highway, and also home to N.C. State and NBA basketball star Tommy Burleson.  Harvey High once played against Tommy.  We practiced using brooms to swat away jump shots. It wasn’t enough.  We lost, but at least got ‘em to overtime. 

        You’ll see a brook on your left.  The water splashes across smooth rocks.  It winds along with the road.  Follow it.  The church is about a mile past a school bus on the left.

        It is a small red brick church.  The choir sings in a shaped note style.  Young girls in print dresses with names like Brooke or boys named Cory in new pressed suits sing with power and purpose.  They don’t need microphones.  The Aldridges will play and sing the gospel.  The preacher preaches the truth.  They baptize in the brook.  Winter’s coming on so get saved now; the water’s already chilly.  More important, we don’t know what tomorrow will bring.  The mountain folks know we aren’t promised anything but eternity, but that is all the promise they need.  They are serene.

        After the service come back down the mountain by Spruce Pine.  Take the left at the big flashing light.  As you wind down the grade you’ll see the lights twinkle in the valley.  Go slow and take them in.  Be careful, the turns are sharp.  At times you feel like you are gonna double back and head back up the hill.  Matter of fact, you’ll wish you could, ’cause the Mountain Church and its people are a blessing.  You won’t be the same after your trip. 

Dr. B

        I know a lot of guitar players.  Doc Watson is at the top of my flatpick list and Doyle Dykes is a master country finger-style player.  But my favorite of all is the guitar man.

        Back in the old days of the golf tour the real action went on behind the scenes.  The music world can still be the same way.  The old guys in golf made their real money in the Monday money matches or from barnstorming.  They played the tour ’cause it was there, but didn’t have to to survive. 

        Neither does the guitar man.  Sure, he’s played MerleFest, but the big money is at the private gigs for the rich folks up on the mountain.  He can play there for a grand, but is just at home at the DAV playing for tips.  He owns his guitars and his home but needs little else.  All his guitars are worth more than his cars.  His just acquired a ‘new’ ‘53 D-18.  It deserves a player such as the guitar man and I’m glad it found a home with him.  It’ll be a good life for the old ax as long as the man is the player.

        Most of his talk is with the guitar.  You get the notion he may have known more pretty girls than one, but he is quiet on the subject.  His black hair is always in place, often parted in the middle and sometimes with a hint of a ducktail.  He wears red silk shirts with diamond cuff links and dark dinner jackets but never a tie.  Sometimes he has a soul patch.  He can morph and look a bit different at every gig.  He fits in at the Country Club or the Masonic Lodge.  He is mysterious and yet a treasured old friend at the same time.  From filet mignon to liver mush, or wine and cheese parties to home brew at Galax, he’s seen it all.

        There’s a hint of cigarette smoke, but not much because he protects his voice.  “Gotta keep up with my brother, Doc.”  His brother and John Cowan are the two best white soul singers I’ve ever heard.  The guitar man plays with so much soul the banker’s wife in the crowd will turn to the homeless man next to her and whisper in his ear, “How does he do that?”

        He can play the slide on ‘The Johnson City Blues’ so sad you’ll cry and then have you grinning like the man on a Viagra commercial when he and his bass playing brother sing “Got My Mojo Working.’  Ask him what the song is about and he’ll just flash a shy grin and shrug his shoulders.  ”I dunno.”  

        His guitar and a great mandolin man talk back and forth on ’Russian Lullaby’ without a word spoken.  He goes deep and leans in his chair until it almost falls over.  His eyes roll back in his head, and you think he’s near playing in his sleep.  It’s a lullaby, but you sit on the edge of your seat wide awake in anticipation of the next phrase he’ll turn or chord inversion he might choose.  He never plays it the same way twice but it’s always the best take on it you’ve ever heard. 

        He plays for money but if you are a musician who wants to pick on a Tuesday you can drink beer and play swing tunes at his house while his cousin ties fishing lures in the den or cleans fish in the kitchen sink.  Famous musicians down on their luck have crashed at his place for weeks at a stretch until they could get back on his feet.

        A musician told me about him and his brother years ago, and recommended I go see them at a place called the White Horse Saloon.  My wife was gone that night so I took my daughter. I stopped at the door.  “Two, please,” I asked. 

        They carded her.  “Lemme see your driver’s license, kid.”

        ”Uh, well sir, she’s only fifteen,” I said.

         He looked at me, and then at her again.   ”Old man, I don’t know what you are doing out with such a young girl but you can’t bring her in here.”

         “C’mon, man.  She’s my daughter.”  I took a different angle.  “Go ask the man.  Tell him Doc is here.

       “You ain’t Doc Watson.”

        “I know that, but the guitar man sure is.”

        He raised his eyebrows.  “You got a card?”  I handed him one.  He flipped it over and saw the Tommy Bibey logo on the back.  He put it in his front shirt pocket.  ”I’ll go ask.”  He opened the door, turned around, and then disappeared into the darkness of the room.  I could hear a sound check going on in the back.

        He came back in a minute.  “He said you was one of us.  Come on in.”  He looked at Marie again.  “The girl can’t have no beer, though.”

        “No problem. Thanks.”

         The guitar man knows every real musician in the Southeast.  One well known touring musician told me he was the best he’d ever played with.  I am a doc and can never play like him, but for him to consider me a musician is some kind of compliment. 

        If you visit North Carolina go see him play.  It’s somewhere in between B.B. King, the Rolling Stones, Muddy Waters, and ‘The Black Mountain Rag’ and that’s just the first few tunes.  You don’t want to miss him.  Just ask any musician.  They’ll know where to find him, ’cause we all know the guitar man.

Dr. B

        The Dillards (The Darlings on the Andy Griffith show) used to do a song called ‘Somebody Touched Me.’  It is a simple song.  My people touched me yesterday.  It is a simple song and I am a simple man.

        Yesterday we took a break from the music festival.  I needed to work a half day, and then we had an open house for the new office. 

        Some of my friends decided to ride the Neuse River converted school bus back to Harvey County for the event.  Darin and Brooke Aldridge had a day off in between their Thursday and Saturday Art of Sound shows.  They wanted to come and play and sing for us.  It was way below their pay grade, but all the boys piled in too and we were off.  The English Professor and Irene hopped on board too.  He left his camera in the bus.  “Your patients will want their privacy, so I’m not gonna shoot any photos Doc, but we’d love to come along for the ride to Harvey County.”

        It was a wonderful life kind of day.  So many folks came the police had to direct traffic.  It was somewhere in between Friday night football, the Fair, and a private bluegrass festival; just my kinda gig.

        Ears of corn roasted on the grill, and stir fry chicken sizzled.  If you closed your eyes and took a deep breath, you’d swear you were on the MidWay at the Harvey County Fair.  Most of my favorite old patients were there, and many of our new neighbors were too.  As the song says, ’There’s gonna be prizes for everyone…. going downtown gonna have some fun.”  Local radio did a live feed and there was a ribbon cutting ceremony.  They said they wanted me to do the honor.  I was very touched by that.  I guess as senior partner (the doc with the most gray hair) it was fitting. 

        I gotta go on record though and say you are only as strong as the people around you, and I am a fortunate man.  My wife and family have lived with a schedule that was brutal for many years and seldom griped about it.  

        My parents used to worry I might ‘turn into one of those Beatles.’  They were there on the front row, Mama’s foot just a tapping.  I saw my old basketball buddy Barry Graylord in the wings leaning against a tent pole.  Dad and I used to make house calls at their home on Chestnut street.  Gray and I’d shoot hoops at least if he wasn’t the patient that day.  He was an all-star linebacker back then and nowadays has a shelf of golf trophies.    

        If my partners had not been there to cover me when I’m off I would have never played music a single day and would be dead by now.  My staff saves my bacon every day.  I could never have made it without Lynn O’Carroll and Myrd. In the early days we were the three Musketeers; just dumb kids who thought we were gonna start in Harvey County and save the whole world. 

        Fabulous musicians like my regular guys in Neuse River, Darin and Brooke Aldridge, and Wayne and Kristin Scott Benson have taken me under their wing and taught me so much.  I am fortunate to have many fine friends.  So many were there yesterday and I was humbled.  It takes a community to raise a doctor, and Harvey County has done good by me.  

        My wife’s band, ‘Guiter-ed and Feathered’ opened the music.  Hugh, the voice of Harvey County, was there to cover the event.   We go back to Little League together.  The ladies were nervous to be on live radio, but they did great.  Playing music with your wife is downright spiritual.  It was just like old times with my kids in tow who followed me around everywhere I went.  They were in middle school before they realized it was unusual to have a Daddy who made hospital rounds before going to play a gig.

         Darin and Brooke did two sets.  I am enthralled with their sound, but then they were the talk of Nashville a couple weeks ago at IBMA so they are no longer a secret.  They let old Doc sit in.  It was like a chance at batting practice with the Cubs.  Come Monday I will turn back into Doc, but all my people let me be a musician for a day.  It was great fun. 

        Darin and Brooke did a fine version of the Everly Brothers ‘If I Could Only Win Your Love.’   It was so good I just listened.  I sang the trio with them on a couple numbers.  We sang “I’ll Never Love Anybody But You’ and I dedicated it to Marfar.  She flashed the same grin as the one in our engagement picture that sits behind my desk in the office.

       In the South we often wait around on funerals to get folks together.  We didn’t do that yesterday, and I was proud of us for it.  We believe in smelling the flowers now.  No use waiting till we’re dead for that.

         On the way back to the festival Marfar and Brooke were both exhausted.  We tucked them into the two couches and fastened the seat belts.  Darin and I went to sit up front.  All the boys pulled out the instruments and we played as the old bus wobbled down the back roads.  It reminded me of a road trip I took with the Gentlemen when Charlie couldn’t sleep and would sing with us.

        Darin took the lead, and I covered the baritone.  Moose Dooley drove and sang that wonderful high tenor of his just like he did as a young man when we met years ago.  His banjo work and singing has just the right touch of old-time mountain and yet is still modern; it always suited my ear just right.  

        I was so exhausted I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to write and tell you of my friends.  Call me an old sentimental sap if you want, but much like Jimmy Stewart in ‘A Wonderful Life’ I have been a most lucky man.

Dr. B

        I went by Moose Dooley’s house early this morning.  It was dawn-thirty Harvey Standard Time. The sun peeked over the horizon.  We’d had the first frost of the year.  I followed the Moose tracks through the back yard.  ”Is it ready?”

        Moose gave the door a tug, and it creaked open.  “We’ll find out.”

        We keep the Neuse River converted school bus (our tour bus) behind Moose Dooley’s shed.  When we were young we went to a festival almost every weekend, at least when I wasn’t on call.  We always went in the tour bus, even if was just across town.  Art of Sound is the last festival on our schedule this year.  After this one, the bus will go under the cover for the winter.  For now though, it has been up and running all summer so we should be set.

        In the winter we keep it under an old canvas circus tent that serves as a cover.  We get it back out every spring.  Stroker, our guitar man, is a mechanic.  He charges the battery and changes the oil.  Moose and I hose it off, Jen sweeps out the cobwebs, and it is ready to go.  It is a low (?no) maintenance vehicle.

        We bought it at the Shanghai School House County auction at least twenty-five years ago.  We never had that big an entourage, so we took out the seats except for the front four rows.  Moose’s father- in-law gave him a couple couches he’d found at the dump.  Moose secured them to the floor, and got  few seat belts at the junk yard so we wouldn’t get thrown off in the floor if we tried to take a nap while on the road. 

        We bolted an old coffee table in between the couches.  Most of the time it served as a place to play cards, but also was our business conference table.  All high level negotiations for the band took place right there.  Moose threw together many an improvisational contract on that card table.  For years folks didn’t realize he wasn’t a real lawyer. 

        We used to have trailer we tugged along back, but one year the hitch broke.  The trailer got loose and wound up at the bottom of Lake Hickory.  We were just glad it was empty.  Raymond the fiddler had gone on a beer run while we set up the sound, so we didn’t lose any equipment.

        The bus didn’t have a bathroom, but there used to be a five gallon metal bucket at the back exit door that had a rope tied to it.  If we ran late for a show someone could use it then toss it out the back door as we rolled down the highway.  You didn’t have to let it rattle along the asphalt very long for it to empty and dry out, then you could reel it back in.  This worked okay till we got older and some of the guys developed prostate issues.  (Plus we became more conscious of the enviroment.)  The bucket got lost around Waxhaw one night when the rope broke, and we didn’t get around to replacing it.

        “Who all’s playing this one?” Moose asked.

       Good line up. I went last year.  Darin and Brooke Aldridge, Balsam Range, FlintHill.  Besides bluegrass there’s everything from zydeco to calypso.”

        “Cool.  Shelby. The home of Earl Scruggs, right?”

        “Yep. Don Gibson too.  They’ve got a Scruggs Museum and Don Gibson theatre in town.”

        “I’d like to see that.”

        ”It’s not up and running yet, but will be soon.  They’ve got Marty Stuart coming in November.”

        Moose noticed a cracked window on the starboard side.  “You seen the duct tape?”  I opened the glove box, retrieved a roll, and handed it to him. ”Thanks.”  Moose found the cardboard and began to board up the window.  “Say they’re having Marty Stuart?”

        “That’s next month at the Gibson Theater.”

        “I’d love to open for Marty.”

        ”Heck of a player,” I said.

        ”I tell you man, when we played with him at Hartford’s he was a hoss.”

        I thought back to those old Christmas parties at John Hartford’s house.  Hartford, Bill Monroe , Marty Stuart, Benny Martin.  John sure knew how to throw together a jam session.  “We gotta get in with this Art of Sound crowd.  Word on the street is they know all the rank and file musicians in that part of the state.  Honest to goodness, man; it’s a music town.”

        “Didn’t we play the fairground there one year?”

        “Yeah.  It was the year Monroe was there.”

        “If I remember right they only had a few hundred people.”

        “Yeah, that was twenty-five years ago, though.  I’m telling you, someone over there has revitalized the local music scene.  I think it’s the Arts Council in town.”

        Moose fished the keys out of his pocket, and put them in the ignition.  “I’m gonna crank it up.  Go outside and check.” 

        Moose turned the ignition several times and stomped on the gas.  The engine emitted a high-pitched whine, then strained and sputtered.  It finally turned over.  Black smoke poured out of the tailpipe.  I went back up front to give Moose the diagnosis.  “We gotta get Stroker to rebuild this dude over the winter.”  He turned it off, got the grocery list out of his front pocket, and handed it to me.

        I looked it over.  “Good Lord Moose, we don’t eat any better than we used to.”  Viennas, Penrose sausage, Kobe string potatoes, salt and vinegar chips.  “You got any low cholesterol food on there?”  I had him check it again.

        Moose put on his glasses.  “Hm.  At least we don’t have streaky meat sandwiches anymore.”  He handed it back.

        “I guess.”  I folded up the paper and put it in my pocket.  “I’ll go by the Piggly-Wiggly tonight.  

        ”What time can you split?”

        I gotta work the morning, but I can get away by 2:00.  They got blues, jazz, a little of everything.  Did you ever hear The Harris Brothers?”

        ”Best electric suitcase going.” 

        ”Yeah, boy.  Let’s go jam hard.  We’re gonna hit the stage there one day.”

        ”…If we can just keep Raymond the fiddler out of the moonshine.”

        ”No kidding.  Hey, you remember when he had a nip and sang ‘Little Cabin Home on the Hill’ in Arabic?  And I’ll never forget that gig at Fat Boy’s……”

        It’s gonna be a fine road trip.

Dr. B

For info on Art of Sound click on the AOS logo at the Cleveland County Arts Council website.  Here’s the link: 

www.ccartscouncil.org

And here is the clip of Darin and Brooke Aldridge at the IBMA in Nashville.  They play twice at Art of Sound, Thursday night and Saturday:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6av9r58Kjbc

This song is ‘The Sweetest Waste of Time,’ one that came in for them from Australia.  It is a perfect country duet.  Their new release will have tunes by Tom T. Hall, Jerry Salley, Donna Ulisse, and their original material too.  A group not to miss.

Dr. B