I’ve never been a professional musician but I’m sure thankful for my people and the music.

        When I was courting my wife we were into the Beatles.  I bought a cheap guitar and sang bad versions of their tunes to her.  Bless her heart; she married me anyway.  I married her ’cause I thought she would give me beautiful children (the beauty part wasn’t gonna come from me I assure you) and the plan worked.  She gave me a Gibson mandolin too, and encouraged me to play and not work all the time.   What is it the Ten Commandments say?  (paraphrased)  “Honor thy father and mother and cherish your wife,” or something like that. 

        My daughter went with me to every show I ever played.  My rule was if it wasn’t fitting for a little girl I didn’t sign up for the gig.  She still saw some questionable venues.  Nature trumped nurture though, and she grew up pretty and sweet is spite of her raising.  (Warning guys:  She she has a black belt in karate too.)

        As a young doc, I worked way too hard.  I was exhausted half the time.  When my son got a driver’s permit I handed him the car keys, tossed my mandolin the back door, sat down in the passenger seat, opened up a newspaper, and promptly fell asleep.  He drove me everywhere we went.  We’d wind up at some mountain bluegrass festival by magic, and I was rested enough to play.

        I met Darin Aldridge along the way.  He treated me like a second father. Due to his influence, I’ve won the award for best mandolin player on the medical staff at Harvey Memorial more times than Rob Ickes has snared the IBMA Dobro player of the year.  (eleven)  After all that, Darin sent me to finishing school for some more study with Wayne Benson.  If a man has Darin on his right hand and Wayne on the left, he has no excuse not to make a mandolin player.  I am thankful for both of them.

        For decades now I’ve picked with the best regional players around, but my day job keeps me close to home, and we don’t travel far.  We have an active local music scene though, and the national bands play in our area every so often.

        Every time a band comes through Harvey County I take in the show if I am in town, and always thank them for what they do.  Medicine is a tough road.  (So is the music circuit)  I take it hard whenever my people suffer and playing, listening to, and writing about music is my escape.   And bless my staff and fellow docs.  They grant me the time to go play, and so my patients.

        To everyone who ever played a note of this wonderful music, either with me on stage or for me when I was in the crowd, I send you my sincerest Thanksgiving best wishes, and pray you have a fine holiday.  I doubt I’d still be alive without you, and I know I wouldn’t be as happy.

           My whole life has been set to a soundtrack, and I’m richer for it.  I appreciate all my readers.  You not only follow my story but contribute to it.  My life is so much better to have found you, and I hope you have a blessed Thanksgiving.

Dr. B

        As it turned out, we lucked up and found our way into the Marty Stuart show Saturday.  An old guitar pal of mine named Antonio called and had two extra tickets, so we jumped in the car and headed out for Shelby.

        I did not realize just how historic this deal was.  The small town of Shelby, N.C. has put together some kinda music vision with this Don Gibson theater.  We stopped first at the local music store, Shelby Music Center, to get the low down.  A fellow was at work on a guitar at the bench.

        “Hey, I’m Dr. B.  Tell me about the show tonight.”

         “Marty Stuart?”

        “Yeah.”

        “It’ll be good. That Kenny who picks the guitar with him is the hippest alt country cat around.”

         “He’s a player for sure.  Hard to beat Marty. You going?”

         “I wish I could.  Got a gig.”

        “I understand.”

        “Tell Marty he’s real country.”

        “I will.  Whatdja say your name was?”

        “Randy.”

        “Okay, Randy.  I will, sure enough.”

         This little town of Shelby has it going on.  It is the home of Earl Scruggs and Don Gibson.  Saturday night Marty Stuart kicked off the Grand Opening of the Don Gibson Theater.  I hope they bring him back when they open up the Earl Scruggs Museum, ’cause Randy is right.  Marty Stuart is as real country as they come.

        His Saturday show was a live country music history lesson.  Marty started out with Lester Flatt at thirteen, played five years worth of music with Doc and Merle Watson in a six month stretch, and then played seven years with Johnny Cash before he struck out on his own at the ripe old age of twenty-two.  I hear the strains of all these influences in his music.  It was bluegrass and country and gospel all rolled into one.  It was real.

        One fellow summed up the show the best I heard.  He had seen me play somewhere along the way, and came up and shook my hand.  He’d never seen Marty Stuart and his band before.  ”Doc,” he said.  “I believe if none of us had showed up that boy woulda still come to play just ’cause he loves it.” 

        I think that man was right.  If you despair that true country is lost, take heart.  Go see Marty Stuart ’cause it is alive and well.  I think Marty decided a long time ago he wasn’t gonna aim to be some reclusive star, but a real musician for regular people, and that is what he is.  For my money I’ll take an honest country music man over a marketing strategy manufactured ’star’ any day.  

        And check out this little town of Shelby too.  There must be something in the water there, ’cause it is home to both Earl Scruggs and Don Gibson.  Marty will always be a Mississippi boy, but I expect after Saturday’s historic show, Shelby would like to declare him their adopted young’un.

        And man alive is he a mandolin player.  He signed my gray mandolin case in big silver letters.  It looks quite cool, and I couldn’t help but notice it matches our hair these days.  My mentors always said to play my mandolin like Marty.  Marty Stuart is still a young man, and he clearly respects his elders who have gone on before.  I respect mine too, and they were right.  I’ll always be a doc but I’m gonna continue to try to play it like Marty.

        He sings of factory workers who’ve lost their jobs, poverty of the Lakota Indians, death and lost love, and fiddle tunes and good times too.  His music shows the truth.  Some of my doctor days can be mighty dark to travel, and his kind of music sees me through to go at it again.  You can’t help but love anyone whose music makes your life better, and Marty Stuart’s sure speaks to me.   

Dr. B

        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

        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

        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 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

        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

        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

        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

        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