I did my first Rotary Club gig, and it was just like the old hometown. In fact, it is the hometown of my music pal Darin Aldridge.
It came about like these things often do. Someone told their cousin about “The Mandolin Case” and they told their sister down at the bank whose co-worker needed to come up with the Rotary Club program for December and she thought, “Hey, maybe we can get the world’s only physician bluegrass fiction writer to come talk to us ’cause I read on his blog he’s off on Wednesdays and maybe Darin Aldridge would come by and pick a tune with him.”
And they were right on every count. I bet it was the first Rotary Club meeting in the history of the organization to have “Cherokee Shuffle” as the opening song.
It was all great fun. Some fellow sat in for the Prez and told a couple funny tall tales to kick it off. I was reminded of the words of my agent. “People don’t understand why all these writers keep turning up from the South. It’s because they come from a long line of folks who tell stories.”
This guy was good. How was I gonna follow him? For Heaven’s sake I ain’t Twain. I looked out over the crowd and thought, “What have I gotten myself into?” I’m no professor or a scholar, although I could jabber a half hour as to the appropriate evaluation of persistent eosinophilia, but who’d want to hear about that?
I decided to talk about why I write. “Maybe I’ve been a writer all my life,” I said. “I used to stay with my grandmother out on the farm and wrote up stories and got the little blue ribbons in grade school.” Perhaps I wanted to recapture some of my youth, although my track record is no better than Ponce de Leon’s.
Like many teenaged boys I got interested in girls and guitars, decided being a writer wasn’t cool and put it aside for a while, but it always nagged at me to start back. I heard it in medical school, again in residency and then in practice; “You need to write a book.”
As Jerry Clower used to say, “If you hear it three times its scripture.” The road from grade school blue ribbons to a novel is a long journey but I continued to plod along. I had no choice.
I love people, and in an exam room I’m at ease to talk about constipation or any other subject, but I got a bit self-conscious in front of a crowd without a mandolin around my neck, so I called Darin up to play “Ragtime Annie.” It was in honor of Tag, one of the honest lawyers in “The Mandolin Case.” I got lost about half way through ’cause my mind drifted to what I needed to say next, but Darin banged out a big “G” run to get me back in the groove.
I told them I was so pleased my writing had brought attention to my kind of music and about I’d become so interested in the Don Gibson theater and the Earl Scruggs Museum and how it has already led new people there, and how I believed it was gonna lead them to Cherryville, too. Darin and Brooke will host a festival there the first weekend of April that features several national acts like the Grascals, and it will attract visitors from all up and down the East Coast.
My agent told me not to read too much from the book, ’cause he’d heard so many writers drone on so bad they put the audience to sleep, but I did read my favorite passage. From Indie: “It doesn’t take any special talent to be wicked. Anyone can do that. But to be a decent person requires creativity to the point of art.” Sometimes docs see so much suffering and death that it’d either wear you out or turn you to drinking if you couldn’t ventilate it all though writing and music.
A bunch of them bought my book. I was humbled by their kind comments. One was a banker. I bet he’d consider a branch in Harvey County, even if it is small. Another bought a copy for her Dad. He was in the hospital and loved bluegrass music. We all said a quick prayer for his recovery. One was a dentist. I can promise you this man is on a mission. It ain’t like he’s into cosmetic dentistry for Hollywood stars, drives around in a Porsche car, and whines to reporters about his lot in life. An elderly lady (I define elderly as anyone eighteen months older than me) told me she was named after Old Dan Tucker. The raconteur bought one to take down to the Chamber of Commerce, and I gave him some extra postcards. He said he was gonna mail ’em out and tell folks there had been a Tommy Bibey sighting in Cherryville, N.C.
As I packed up my gear I thought a lot about why I write. I don’t care if I sell three thousand or three million, although my agent can’t understand why I see it that way. It just isn’t a competitive venture for me. And let’s face it, Grisham ain’t laying awake a night worried I’m gonna overtake him. One reason is because through my writing I came to understand myself. Flaws and all, I like me okay and accept myself for what I am; every bit of me.
Along the way I’ve met some very bright people. Some of them were writers, and every so often one will be upset they haven’t sold enough books to suit ’em. I don’t say much about it, but it seemed to me where they went wrong is they tried too hard to show people how much smarter they were than everyone else.
I wrote to try to understand how we are all alike. And as best I can tell, we’re all about the same. At least that’s what I figured out as I wrote.
The Rotary Club was just like the old hometown. If you live anywhere within a couple of hours drive of mid North Carolina, and you’re in a sweat as to what to do with your turn at the Rotary Club program I’d love to come and resolve it for you for the day. If Darin is free I’ll bring him too.
And if you meet on Wednesdays and have sweet tea and banana pudding like that Cherryville crowd, count me in.
Dr. B
Dr. Tom Bibey: Stories of the Bluegrass Music Road 