All I Ever Wanted

Since I’ve begun blogging, readers often ask how I got into writing. Well, it has been a long road, with lots of stops along the way, but here it is.

I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t observing people—studying their facial expressions, their mannerisms, body language—and as soon I could hold a pencil in my hand, I was drawing pictures of faces. I was off and running after I learned to read and write. To heck with arithmetic, science, geography, and all those other subjects; I had all the tools I needed.

It wasn’t long before I was sketching the faces of people I knew and jotting down what they were saying: family, friends and neighbors, even the congregation of Mississippi Baptist Church. I was a quiet and solemn child; parishioners paid little attention to me, so it was easy to wander unnoticed among them, picking up slivers of conversation here and there.

This led to my creation of a church bulletin one summer, which I distributed among my brothers and sisters. The bulletin was not your regular church news; it contained the behind-the-scenes stuff. In the form of a comic book, the dialogue hung in bubbles above their heads: Two ladies stand face-to-face after services, cardboard fans poised in the air: “I don’t why you want to get rid of Naomi,” Miss Lizzie says, “She’s a good piano player.” “Your daughter has played it long enough,” says Miss Anna, “It’s Helen Jean’s turn!”What I wasn’t putting on paper, I was filing away in my subconscious mind. Unbeknownst to me, it was settling in, making itself at home. Marinating.

A wealth of new material awaited me when I entered Bardwell Grade School. By the time I was in the early grades, I was writing stories about my classmates’ antics, sometimes adding tidbits to make it more interesting. (Now, they call it creative nonfiction!)

One day in fifth grade, during geography class (which I hated), I was trying to block out Miss Avil Witty’s voice, droning on and on about the Amazon River. I didn’t care about the widest river in the world; what was happening in our neck of the woods was much more interesting to me. So I decided to write a story.

A few days later, as I was scribbling away, Miss Avil caught me. “I've got an idea,” she said, “What do y’all say we have Brenda read one of her stories in fifth period next Wednesday?”

Fifth period, each Wednesday, was fun time; Miss Avil told us about things that had happened way back in her childhood; she had students reading the works of well-known writers and poets, and others giving talks about trips they had taken to Kentucky Lake or Mammoth Cave.

I was petrified the first time I read one of my stories in front of the class, expecting everyone to poke fun at me, especially the boys. But they seemed to enjoy it. And wanted more.

Encouraged by Miss Avil and my classmates, I soon branched out, writing plays and convincing classmates to take parts. Most were comedy, and we ad-libbed a lot, but the “reviews” were great. Everyone, including Miss Avil, clapped and cheered after our performances. (I often think of Miss Avil, and what a progressive and fun-loving teacher she was!)

By the time I was in high school, writing was second nature to me. I loved literature and English, so sentence structure and punctuation came easily. I looked forward to writing book reports, churning them out in nothing flat.

“Good job,” Mrs. Mitchell said, “Think what you could do if you really tried.”

I stiffened, deeply offended, and then I continued doodling and gazing out the window: How did she know I wasn’t trying that hard?
After graduating from high school, I had dreams. Maybe I could go to UCLA, or another well-known college and study writing, maybe go to drama school. Or something like that.

But money was short—there were no grants or college loans back then—so I attended business college in Paducah, earning an associate degree in business, got married, and began my career in Chicago.

Although I still kept journals, sporadically recording bits of our life along the way, I omitted my thoughts, my dreams. Emotions. They were pushed back, buried. All that didn’t matter now; I was a married woman, and it was time for me to get on with the business of living. That’s what adults did.

After my daughter was born, I enjoyed my time with her, determined to be the best mother possible. I played with her, read to her, and worked to instill her with good values, self confidence. Most of my journal entries were about her growth and progress, the cute comments she made, schoolwork, book satchels, new Red Ball Jets.

I must have read thousands of books during those year at home (wish I’d kept a list!), and I took Suzanne with me to the library each week. She sat on a tiny stool, thumbing through Cat in the Hat, Heidi, and The Borrowers, while I was busy checking out all the books Miss Withers, the stern librarian, would allow. And each night, after Suzanne was tucked in bed, story read, prayers said, I settled in my wing chair and got down to my favorite pastime.

One night, after finishing another book that wasn’t really that good, a thought drifted through my mind: I could do that.

As always, although she lived 300 miles away, Mother seemed to know what I was thinking. Shortly thereafter, I received a letter from her: I was just thinking, Brenda, you could be a writer. A lot of the letters you write home could be made into stories.

After that, her letters often contained newspaper and magazine clippings about writing and authors, notes scribbled in the margins: Her writing reminds me of yours; Bess Streator Aldrich (or some such author) received 120 rejections before she ever got a story published!

When Suzanne started to school, I went back to work. And a few years later, I bought a secondhand IBM Selectric typewriter and reams of bond paper. I converted our third bedroom into my office, bought a desk, stocking it with plenty of typewriter ribbons, notebooks, paperclips and post-it notes. I bought new maple bookcases, placing my collections of William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, Flannery O’Connor stories and Eliot and Frost poetry on the pristine shelves.

After everything was in place, I stood back, admiring it. For the rest of the evening.

The next few evenings were spent in much the same way, strolling around on the green shag carpet, admiring my office and congratulating myself on a job well done.

When I finally sat down at the desk, things weren’t exactly right. So I rearranged the contents of the desk drawers and the book shelves, and then I read a few pages of one book or another, leaning against my new bookcases. I typed up famous writers’ quotes and placed them near the typewriter. I positioned a dictionary and thesaurus between two glass-tiger bookends.

And then I sat down at my desk again.

I couldn’t seem to get started; I kept thinking about things that needed to be done. Right then. And after I got everything done—including cleaning out the refrigerator and scrubbing the cat’s food and water bowls—I sat gazing off into space.

Finally, I got up, walked out of the room, and politely closed the door.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I joined Suzanne and her father in the family room: This was great, doing what normal people do; forgetting about everything else and watching television: “You dingbat!” says Archie Bunker, “I bust my bootocks, working in that rotten world out there, and you give me meatloaf for dinner?”
After a few evenings, I returned to my office, where I sat paralyzed at my typewriter, dreading the task that lay ahead. Although words and ideas were floating around in my head, it was hard as hell to harness them and wrestle them into a decent story. Even thinking about it made me tired.

Finally, after many nights of leaving and going back, starting and stopping, agonizing, and revising, revising, revising, I finished my first short story.

I was disappointed. Something was missing. But I couldn’t figure out what. So I threw it into a drawer and rushed out of the room, vowing to forget about writing altogether.

I took up jogging, rising at the crack of dawn and running two miles each day; Suzanne and I joined a health club. (Not that Suzanne’s firm little 13-year-old body needed it; I just didn’t want to be away from her three nights a week. Since I had begun night classes at Illinois state, I was already away from her one night each week.)

All the time I was running and working out and studying, I was thinking about writing. And the ideas kept coming: What a great idea for a story! A wonderful sentence! That would be an excellent first line!
As time went by, I kept writing. I was unable not to.

Then, somewhere along the way, my writing took a “turn.” I was finding myself delving deeper and deeper, examining things more closely, getting in touch with emotions and feelings. And expressing them.

By the time Suzanne’s father and I divorced, I was pouring out my feelings on page after page of three-ring notebooks, agonizing, reflecting. And when Suzanne and I moved to Kentucky, and I began dating again, remarrying, divorcing, and dating again, I was recording all that. Which kept me pretty darn busy! Brutally honest and painful, it left me feeling raw, exposed. So I placed the notebooks high on a shelf in the closet, where they gathered dust for years.

I have since learned that's something one must be willing to do if they want their work to have real substance. Not necessarily trying to publish every detail of one’s own life, but learning how to burrow in on a subject and haul it out. Writing about something to which readers can relate. And believe.

I was soon studying what well-known authors were saying and doing: why they wrote, how they wrote, when they wrote, what made them tick. Most were driven to write, but they procrastinated, agonized, revised, revised, revised. And, almost without exception, they were seldom satisfied with anything they had written.

Just like me.
It took a long time, but I finally began writing in earnest. And when I did, the dam burst, spewing out characters like crazed fans at a rock concert, all clamoring to be heard. I was no longer procrastinating, agonizing, or dreading writing. I was beating a path to the typewriter every chance I got.

My characters are still clamoring, silenced only after their stories are told. And there is no end in sight; when I’m nearing completion of a story, more appear. I’m now working on two fiction pieces, Aunt Fanny’s Drawers and The Judge and Miss Mercy, and I have just finished Dummy's Field, a nonfiction piece. And, as always, I am still working on my novel.

Other than submitting a few short stories to literary magazines years ago, which were rejected (and rightly so!), I had stopped trying to publish anything. But when I began digging deeper and deeper, it did happen. I have had more than a dozen stories published or accepted for publication, both online and in print, and a literary agent has expressed interest in my novel when it is finished.

Although it's exciting to see my work among the pages of literary magazines, I would keep writing if I knew I would never be published again. Because writing is in my blood. And it has been there from the beginning.

Sometimes it takes almost a lifetime to fulfill your dreams; circumstances, people, and self-doubt often get in the way. But if you are driven to write, persist, and work like a coalminer digging those words out with a pick, your dreams will come true. Maybe not in the way you had hoped, but oftentimes in more rewarding ways.

Other than the early years at home with my daughter, the past few years of my life have been my most rewarding. I am free to do what I love and the time to do it. I may never sell my novel, but I will finish it. I may never sell another short story, but I will keep writing them. Why? Because I love my work, and there are many more stories to be told.

My most ardent supporters are my daughter and my husband; I love and appreciate them beyond words. And when someone I’ve never met devotes a full post to me and my writing? That is just icing on the cake. I have always felt that if someone is touched, or finds a bit of themselves in one of my stories, I will feel I have accomplished my goal with the written word.

Well, it appears I have done that. And that is all I ever wanted in the first place.

Random and Weird Facts

Suzanne, the best blogger around, has tagged me to share some random facts about myself. Here are the official rules:

Link to the tagger and post these rules on your blog. Share five facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird. Tag five people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

Fact #1

I hate to shop. My husband or daughter have to practically drag me to the mall to buy clothes.

Fact #2

I kissed the Blarney Stone.

Fact #3

My favorite treat is melted milk chocolate chips, mixed with marshmallow crème and smooth peanut butter. (Only during the holidays, when baking; I am, after all, a responsible adult!)

Fact #4

I was redoing our living room. Color coordinated and beautifully decorated, it was coming together nicely. There was only one problem: Although I planned to buy him a new one, my husband refused to give up his sagging, dilapidated recliner. I tried to reason with him, to no avail; I got angry, to no avail. Yelling didn’t work, either. It did, however, give him an excuse to storm out of the house again and head off to join his buddies somewhere. He never returned until late.

On one such night, as I stood watching the tail lights of the Torino disappear, I turned to the monstrous recliner. I rared back and kicked it, and then I pushed it over, kicking it again and again. It lay cockeyed and undisturbed, so I flipped it upside down and proceeded to jump up and down on it. It was still intact; not even one gouge had appeared. I started in on the upholstery, struggling to rip it to shreds, but everything stayed securely attached. It just lay, like a wimpy Hulk Hogan, waiting for my next punch.

As I was heading to the garage to get the hammer, I gave up. On the recliner and the marriage.

Fact #5

In the early eighties, actor George Hamilton and I were in the bedroom together.

* * *

I'm tagging ChristaD and Patricia Wood. I think they'll both have some interesting random facts!

The Veep: Just Like Paw Paw

I was so happy to read Bill Bartleman’s piece in The Paducah Sun about possible plans in the works to properly recognize the late Vice-President Alben W. Barkley. Senator Mitch McConnell and I have had our disagreements in the past, but I applaud his decision to help do something to honor this honorable man.

As most people know, Alben W. Barkley (affectionately called "The Veep" by the press) was President Harry Truman’s vice president.

When Truman decided not to seek re-election in 1953, Barkley's supporters encouraged him to seek the democratic nomination. But that was not to be; his age and failing eyesight were against him. Delegates at the Democratic National Convention invited him to deliver a farewell address, though, and he did so with his usual grace and style.

It was late, so we were already in bed when he delivered his speech that night. But Mother and Daddy were listening to it on the radio in the living room, so we heard it all, amazed by the long ovation he was given.

"My goodness," Patsy said, "They just keep on clapping!"

“I saw him one time,” I said.

I was around five years old, and I was at a picnic with Maw Maw Wilson. I don’t remember where it was, probably somewhere in Carlisle County.

I loved picnics, and I was very excited. We strolled the grounds in the sweltering heat, Maw Maw stopping every now and then to talk with friends and neighbors. And then we headed for my favorite spot, the food stand, where Maw Maw bought me a big barbecue sandwich and an Orange Crush.

Tears gathered in my eyes as I took my first bite of the zesty, tender pork, and I was washing it down with a gulp of ice-cold Orange Crush, when everyone began hurrying toward a big flatbed farm truck.

“Let’s go,” Maw Maw said, taking my Orange Crush and grabbing my hand.

As we rushed forward, I saw a man climbing onto the bed of the truck. He was smiling and waving, and he was wearing a hat and a dark suit. He must be hot, I thought, glad I was cool in my new yellow pinafore.

It didn’t last long. As the crowd pressed closer, perspiration broke out on my face and trickled down my neck. I was squashed between Maw Maw and a fat man wearing bib overalls, who was spitting tobacco juice on the ground in front of me. But I just kept eating my hotter-than-a-firecracker barbecue and drinking my Orange Crush.

I had a difficult time enjoying it, though. Each time I tried to eat or drink, I was jostled on all sides by warm, sweaty bodies. My bottle tipped, spewing orange soda over my hands, and I wiped them on my pinafore as I stood on my tiptoes, stretching my neck. Everyone was so tall!

They clapped, cheered, yelled and even stomped the ground. I had never seen a crowd this excited, even at Mississippi Baptist Church during revival time.

I breathed a sigh of relief when his speech was finally over, and as the crowd broke up, I could already taste that bag of popcorn Maw Maw had promised me.

But she had other plans. “Let’s wait a minute,” she said.

“Why?”

“We’re going over and say something to him.”

I looked at the man, talking with a clutch of people, and Maw Ma, again talking with friends and neighbors. “How you doing, Miss Muriel?” Thomas Bishop said. “Fair and a-middling,” said Maw Maw, “How’s Hannah Lee?” “I see you’ve got a little helper today,” trilled Miss Belle Terry, squatting and patting my cheek.

I knew I was in for a long wait.

After what seemed like an eternity, the crowd thinned out and the man headed toward a big black car with a bunch of other men, all wearing suits and hats.  Just before he got into the car, Maw Maw walked over and touched his arm.

The man turned. “Well, I’ll be,” he said, a big smile lighting up his face, “Miss Muriel!”

They talked for a while, but I didn’t pay much attention to what they were saying. My hands were sticky, and I had just noticed my new sandals were getting dirty, my toes dusty. I heard the familiar shrill of a mosquito, and I kept swatting at it as it hovered around my ear. Why didn’t Maw Maw hurry up?

And then I heard Paw Paw Wilson’s name mentioned. He had died a couple of years before, and I missed him. Each time I saw Paw Paw, he knelt and patted my head. He often walked the mile to our house and we walked back to their house together, my hand holding tightly to his little finger. He bought me ice cream cones. And he called me “Gailie.”

“I thought a lot of Pat,” he was saying, “He was always a good friend to me.”

“And you were always a good friend to him,” Maw Maw said, tears forming in her eyes.

I gazed up at him, watching the perspiration running down his face and dripping from his chin. Why didn't he take off his coat?

Suddenly, he looked down at me. “Well, hello there, little gal,” he said, kneeling and patting my head. He started to say something else, but more people had gathered, so he got to his feet and headed toward the car, shaking hands along the way.

As we watched the big black car bump across the grounds and pull onto the highway, I turned to Maw Maw. "He's just like Paw Paw," I said.

Maw Maw stood quietly for a moment, looking down at me, and then she wiped her eyes and took my hand. "Yes, he is,” she said, “Now, let’s go get us that big bag of popcorn!”

Happy Thanksgiving!

The year has turned its circle,
The seasons come and go.
The harvest all is gathered in,
And chilly north winds blow.

Orchards have shared their treasures,
The fields, their yellow grain.
So open wide the doorway,
Thanksgiving comes again!

I would do the same.

My contributor's copies of Existere Journal of Arts and Literature, containing my nonfiction piece, "A Black Panther's Hearse," arrived in the mail today. Although I've had several short stories published, I am always thrilled beyond words to see one in print.

Through the years I've seen countless interviews with writers, actors, and others, and they always say, "It's great to get paid for something I would do for free."

"Yeah, sure," I thought, "Tell me another one."

But now I know I would do the same.

A Song in October

Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes, to golden!

Autumn has come, but never fear,
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear,
And fields stand deep in violets.

The heavenly blue of fresh new days
Oh, friend, you must employ them
Before they pass away. Be brave!
Enjoy them; oh, enjoy them!

~Theodor Storm~

Luvean's Leavin'

Years ago on a Sunday afternoon, Luvean, a neighbor, stopped by my parents’ house to ask if we planned to go to an upcoming revival at the local church.  Brother Joe would be preaching, she said.

“Brother Joe is really a nice man,” Patsy said.

Luvean reared back in her chair and folded her arms across her ample stomach.  “You know what I hard?” she said, “I hard he was fixin’ to leave.”

“What?” Patsy said, “He’s leaving the church?”

She cocked her head, chin at an angle. “Yeah, that’s what I hard,” she said, “I hard he’s fixin’ to leave.”

We all kept our composure while she was there, but when she finally left, we burst into laughter.

“You know what I hard?” I said, giggling.

My sisters chimed in. “I heard he's fixin’ to leave!”

Soon, the whole family was using Luvean’s phrases. Even Suzanne, who was no more than six or seven at the time. “I’m fixin’ to leave,” she yelled as she ran out to play with her friends.

This went on for years.

And then one day, as Mother and I were discussing some of the silly country songs that were popular, we decided to write one about Luvean.

“What about this?” Mother said, “I had a true love, her name was Luvean...”

“The prettiest woman that I’ve ever seen...,” I added.

We threw in more lyrics from time to time, and soon we almost had a song. We titled it "Luvean's Leavin'."

There was only one problem: we were unable to come up with a tune. That’s when my brother, Tim, stepped up to the plate. Mother and I were newcomers to the business of songwriting, but Tim and my oldest brother, Terry, had been writing and singing songs for years; every family gathering included singing and guitar and banjo picking. Daddy sometimes joined them on the piano.

Tim strummed along with us for a while, quickly coming up with an original melody, and we were off and running. Mother and I sang, other family members—even Daddy—joining in every now and then, and we all laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks.

After that, we tucked the song away and thought no more about it until one night in 1983 when Mother and I were having a singing session. She has a beautiful voice, and I had talked her into letting me record her singing some of the popular songs of the day.

After we finished and I was fiddling with the tape recorder, I thought about “Luvean’s Leavin'.  "Why don’t we finish that song,” I said, “And record it for laughs?”

So we dug up the words, added a few more lyrics, deciding Mother would sing lead and I would join her on the chorus. To add a little zip, I would call out, “I’m fixin’ to leave!” in the background at the end of each chorus.

Our recording session began.

It was much more difficult than we thought. We turned on the tape player, began singing, and I started giggling. We turned it off, back on, and Mother started giggling. This did not set too well with Daddy, who was trying to watch the evening news on television.

“What in the hell are y'all doing?” he said.

Since other family members were watching television in the family room downstairs, there was no place to go but one of the bathrooms. So we scurried down the hall like two naughty children, closed the door and perched, side-by-side, on the edge of the bath tub.

There was only one problem. We could not keep our composure. Between each botched recording, we laughed hysterically.

“Well,” Mother said, blotting her eyes with a piece of tissue from the nearby roll, “Are we ever going to get this on tape?”

After many more attempts, we finally got the job done.

“We’ve worked so hard on this” Mother said, “Why don’t we do something with it, like send it to a country music singer?”

“Or singers,” I said, giggling, “Since it requires at least two to sing it.”

Our brainstorming session began. The Statler Brothers? Ray “squirrel-in-the-church” Stevens? Just then, the Oak Ridge Boys belted out the first words of “Elvira” on the radio, and our decision was made.

My sisters and I often spent weekends in Nashville. We loved Music City USA, dining at different restaurants, going to Tootsie’s and other places of interest. The year before, Mary Ellen had interviewed the Hee Haw cast for her weekly newspaper, The Carlisle County Courier, and we ended up on stage at the Grand Old Opry, in the circle where so many country music legends had performed.

Since no one was there, other than the janitors, we decided to take some pictures. (This one of Gina, Patsy and me is faded now, but it was the one I could find!)

One fall weekend as we were leaving for Nashville, I tucked the tape in my purse. “I think I’ll try to find the Oak Ridge Boys’ office,” I said, half joking, “And ask them to listen to the tape.”

Everyone thought that was an excellent idea, and as we were heading down I-24, one of my sisters yelled, “I’m fixin’ to leave!” We sang “Luvean’s Leavin’” on and off, all the way.

It was surprisingly easy to find the Oak Ridge Boys’ record company (can’t remember the name, now). I dropped the tape off with the studio’s receptionist, a thin, bored girl, who said she would give it to them.

“Will they listen to it?” I said.

“People drop off hundreds every year,” she said.

“Will they listen to it?”

She examined her nails and looked up at me, “Well, I guess.”

Mission accomplished, we headed over to the Nashville Palace, which was near our motel. We always had dinner there, watching the dancing couples and wannabees on stage, singing, picking their banjos, and yodeling.

“I guess we’ll see that strutting, catfish-frying singer prancing across the stage again,” I said.

He was the cook there, dashing from the kitchen to the stage, pulling his apron off along the way. We all agreed he would never make it in the music business.

The singer's name was Randy Travis.

In February of the following year, Mother and I were working in Daddy’s office at the courthouse, when my niece called from home.

“A woman from the Oak Ridge Boys’ office called!” Mary shouted, “She asked me when y’all would be home and I told her 4:00!”

We rushed home and eagerly awaited the call.

The Oak Ridge Boys’ secretary called on the dot of four. “I’m calling y’all about your song,” Connie said, “The Oaks dragged box after box of tapes in here and listened to them all. Yours is the only song they’re interested in.”

“Luvean’s Leavin’?” I said, thinking she must have made a mistake.

“Yes, Duane just loved “Luvean’s Leavin’,” she said, “He’s been listening to it in his SUV everywhere he drives. He had me make tapes for all the Oaks.”

She went on to say they wanted us to come down to their office in Hendersonville so they could meet us.

“I can’t believe this,” Mother said.

No one could believe it. But a few days later, Mary Ellen, Mother and I drove to the Oak Ridge Boys’ office in Hendersonville, where Connie introduced us to their lead singer, Duane Allen.

“That’s the funniest song I’ve ever heard,” Duane said, “I’m trying to talk everybody into recording it.”

“Are you serious?” I said.

“I have never been more serious in my life, Brenda.”

He showed us around their large offices and loaded us down with tee shirts and their latest albums.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said when we left, “Joe really likes it. All we need to do is convince Richard and our producer.”

Nothing was said about William Lee Golden, the Oaks’ fourth member, a tall fellow with a long beard and waist-length hair.

We left with high hopes.  But months passed before we got a call from Connie.

“The Oaks are having a rehearsal, like they do every year before they go out on the road,” Connie said, “And they want y’all to come.”

After several more phone calls from Connie, we were all set. Reservations had been made at a motel near the hall where they would be performing, and our tickets would be waiting for us at the door. The Oaks would pick up the tab for our motel.

“Bring your guitars,” Connie said, “They might want y’all to sing ‘Luvean’s Leavin'."

Mother and I looked at each other. Guitars? We didn’t know the first thing about playing guitars!

We enjoyed a great show that night. Thankfully, we were not called up to the stage, guitarless, to sing. But we were invited back stage after the show, where Connie introduced us to cute, curly-haired Joe Bonsall, who was very friendly, and a neat, stiff Richard Sterban, who barely said hello. William Lee Golden, apparently, had left the building.

Duane, as always, was friendly. “We’ll be in touch,” he said as we left.

More months passed. I relocated to Michigan, and had just gotten settled in an apartment in Royal Oak, when I received a phone call from Mother.

“Brenda! Do you still have that tape of ‘Luvean’s Leavin'?"

“Yes, I think it’s here somewhere.”

“Connie just called and wants us to play it over the phone!”

“Over the phone?” I said, “I don’t know how it would come out! Besides, Connie has the original tape.”

“She wants it right away.”

Connie was breathless when she answered the phone. “Duane’s wife just called from ‘Hee Haw,’ and wants me to take ‘Luvean’s Leavin’ over there,” she said, “Could you play it over the phone for me?”

I wondered where her copy of the tape was, and I wondered how well it would record over the phone. “I don’t know if it’ll come out very well,” I said, “Couldn’t I just overnight the tape to you?”

“Duane’s wife wants it now,” she said, “Just go ahead and play it!”

I held the receiver close to the mouthpiece and played the tape. I had not played it in months, so when I heard our voices, I had to grit my teeth to keep from laughing hysterically.

“Got it!” she said, “I’m taking it over there right now.”

“Maybe you should play it back, to be sure,” I said.

“No, I got it okay,” she said, her voice fading, as if she were already departing, “I’ll be in touch.”

I didn’t hear from her that night. Or the next. Finally, I called her.

“There was so much static that you could hardly hear it,” she said, “They couldn’t use it.”

That was the only explanation we got. And we never heard from them again.

It has been over 20 years since it all happened, but every once in a while, we still wonder about it.

“Do you suppose Connie blew it for us?” I say.

“I’ll bet you anything she lost the tape.” Mother says, “She had the original!”

Whatever happened, they never got back in touch.

We had a great time, though, and the experience has neither lessened our enthusiasm nor squelched our creativity. When a particularly funny subject comes up, we’re at it again. A few years ago, when someone mentioned a woman named “Omeda,” Mother and I jumped on it.

“Meet me at midnight, Omeda...” I began.

“Down by the garden gate...” Mother added.

We never finished that one. But we did finish “Mistake.” (I won’t even go into the history of that one!) I sang the chorus (disguising my voice as a man's), and Mother and I sang duo on the rest of the song. It goes something like this:

Marvin and Mabel were sweethearts,
They dated for many a year,
Then one day he surprised her,
And said ‘will you marry me dear’…

Here’s a bit of the chorus:

I made a HELL of a mistake,
Oh, god, what have I done…

We never peddled any more songs in Music City, although we have several more on tape. But none of them came close to being as much fun as the making of “Luvean’s Leavin'."