Amanda

As I mentioned in an earlier post, this week marks five years with my sweetheart, Amanda. We still laugh at each other, we cook for each other, we clean up after each other, we share friends, we tell each other our worries, we cry together, we sometimes get a little weary of the other, we each tell the other how cute the other is pretty often, we try hard not to speak harsh words to each other (even though we don't always succeed,) we visit in-laws, we feed the dog, get the mail, give each other directions in the car, hug almost every morning, sometimes dance spontaneously, get really frustrated with each other, say we're sorry (whether we mean it or not,) but mostly what we do... is love each other.

This is the greatest evidence of God's grace that I know of. That two people from different families and unlike backgrounds can meet, fall in love, commit to a relationship, honor said commitment, and share their lives in relative harmony. It is the miracle that I am most thankful for right now. There are many, but this one is my favorite.

Ode to My College Band Director

I have had many music teachers. Band, choir, church, professional and non professional, private piano, class piano, private voice, class voice, master classes, singer dancers, dancer singers, strings, woodwinds, brass ensemble... and really, that's not all. Among them are some favorites. Among them are some true idiots. (You probably don't have the sense to know who you are...) But a few stand out, right now one in particular. He has the intuition of a mother, the sense of fun of a rambunctious kid, the risk taking fearlessness of a father, the quiet wisdom of a philosopher, and the kind heart of a friend.

When I first arrived on the campus of Wallace State Community College in the sprawling metropolis of Hanceville, Alabama, in the fall of 1992, I was like most kids fresh out of public high school... I didn't have a single clue. I had some friends that I liked to cut up with, my favorite bleached out Guess jeans that looked like they had survived some sort of jean world war, and a music scholarship. It didn't take Mr. Bean long to invite me into his office, sit me down in his chair, and begin my education in earnest. He saw through my "too cool for school" facade and he, first: understood that I was a talented musician that needed to focus, second, was prepared to help me do it, and third, came to see me at a horse show... of all things. My college professor came to see me sing the National Anthem at a horse show. That got my attention. He really cared.

Soon after that, I found myself donning a full studded Elvis jumpsuit, (with black wig and sideburns,) closing out the big school showcase with his smokin' hot jazz ensemble in front of what seemed to me like thousands of college kids including the Dean of students. Now the closest thing I had ever done to that in my short life was maybe performing an extended version of "Because He Lives" for the offertory at the Baptist church where I grew up, or maybe dancing along to the theme of "Dallas" in some crazy get up I put together for my Mammaw and Papaw on a Friday night sleepover. I had NEVER done anything like that before, but for some reason he let me, and for me, it was like music meth. There was a small snag, however; that night I fell and hurt my knee right in the middle of the big "American Trilogy" finish, but he gamely handed me back the mike and made me finish the song from the ground! True.

I say he had the quiet wisdom of a philosopher. Some students mistook that quiet wisdom for being slightly spacey. I say this with the kindest respect that I can muster, because I didn't realise at the time that I had found a kindred spirit. He related big ideas to small minds. Like "too much music or art and not enough physical activity makes you flaky" I am paraphrasing, but that's pretty much how I remember it. Or "Sometimes you need to stop talking and really listen in order to know what is really going on." Or "It is OK, even important, to have a life outside of a practice room."

He has the kind heart of a friend. When my Papaw Harold died, he drove to another town and stood in line for a good forty-five minutes to hug my neck and tell me he was sorry.

There are sooo many more wonderful things I could say about Mr. Bean, and if you've never had a teacher who affected you in such a profound way, I am truly sorry. If you did, take the time to tell them in some way. What profession has more power than that of a teacher who, on a daily basis has the opportunity to effect so many at such an impressionable time? Thanks Mr. Bean. I should be standing in line to shake your hand.

Robert Bean lives in Cullman, Alabama with his wife, Linda, also a band director, and his two children, Maria and little Robert. He continues to teach at Wallace State College and in addition to that, directs a community band and regularly calls to keep up with Amanda and me, among many other cool things.

Shoot High

I have a few sayings that I come back around to pretty often. One of them is, "Shoot for the stars and even if you miss, you might land at the top of a tree." OK... So I missed my goal of being named Country Music's Entertainer of the year by age thirty. I'm thirty-four. I admit, that was a blow. I have actually done a lot of things on that list, a few that I didn't even dare to dream.

I ran a marathon. Well, I mostly walked after about mile seventeen, but still... that's huge. Since then, I've adopted the idea that doing some kind of exercise is going to be a part of my regular routine until I am shriveled up. That was about seven years ago, and it has pretty much stuck. 

I don't go to a job I hate every day. That one is a very big deal to me. The work I do, for the most part, is deeply connected to my passion of relating to people on an emotional level, usually through music. Now there's always room for improvement. Of course it would be nice to make more money, have a butler, a driver, a stylist, you know, little things... but I'm pretty happy with things the way they are right now.

I travel a good bit. Amanda and I took off to Costa Rica this past summer, mostly for a fun and partly to visit "The Abraham Project," an orphanage our church sponsors. We've been to New York City so many times I can't even remember, and we even snuck in a week at Disney World, just to name a few.

 

I have my sweet family, a few incredible friends, the coolest dog on my street by far, two cars that run, a lot of great books, and I found love. And after five years she hasn't tried to leave me once! What could be better than that?

I am redeemed by the blood of Jesus.

So even if I didn't hit a star, I'd say I surely landed at the top of a tree, I might even be on the moon. And I'm not even close to finished.

 

Warning, this is a big downer. Continue reading at risk of possibly being disturbed or maybe even offended a little.

I am sad and worried about something. It is harming the overwhelming majority of people in our country. Harming isn't really a strong enough word. It is contributing to our early deaths. It is making us depressed, and it is causing us pain of all kinds. We continue to make light of it as if it isn't doing these things, as if our joking about it and dismissal of it will somehow insulate us from it's poison. As if we will somehow outsmart it. As if the satisfaction we get from it is worth all the hell we will suffer because of it. It saps our energy. As much as we justify it, it will never be worth what it costs us.

It is what we choose to fuel our bodies... what we eat and drink. I believe it is as sacred a part of our lives as anything else. It is not the occasional dessert, or biscuit or burger or order out pizza I am talking about. It is the daily overconsumption of high fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil, junk. It is poisoning our own bodies and killing the youngest and most vulnerable of our generation. 

Maybe it started in the 80's, I'm not sure, but something has happened that has caused us to go from fairly average to averaging thirty to fifty pounds overweight. I believe, for many, it has a whole lot to do with money. Eating poorly is cheap and convenient. But it is not worth it!

We believe that eating healthy tastes bad. That is not true. I believe it is partly because we do not know how to cook. It is partly because we have chosen other priorities. 

I usually have some comic relief in my notes, but I cannot think of one funny thing to say about this subject. It is the socially acceptable addiction. It is so many Christians' acceptable drug of choice, but how making a total hog of yourself became preferable to drinking alcohol in moderation is completely beyond my understanding. But that is the undeniable truth. (And another soap box altogether.)

Please join Amanda and I in our attempt to eat foods that come from nature, the way God made them. If it is in a box, wrapped in plastic, has a long list of ingredients you can't pronounce, the first ingredient is high fructose corn syrup, or you have the choice to get the Biggie version, don't eat it! Or at least just have it every now and then. This is my bull horn statement, and I won't have them very often. I think we all should be screaming at the top of our lungs! Our generation is going to be the first in centuries to live shorter lives than the one before us. Wake up and smell the locally grown organic steamed asparagus with garlic and e-v-o-o! It is delicious.  

What's In Your Hand?

I believe in redemption. My pastor, Dan Scott pointed this out to me after I told him about my first memory. This memory is kind of embarrassing, and unbelievable. But I’ll tell you it is true.

So I am in my crib. Not in the hizz-ouse kind of crib, I mean I was in my crib. I was a baby. Is is a summer day and my dad is working outside the window in the vegetable garden. I must have been very bored just lying there when I discovered something in my diaper that looked to me like, with some help, it could be a fun toy. So I rolled my poop into a ball and played with it. Now there are some you asking yourselves “If he really did that, why in the name of all that is Holy would he tell anyone?”

It helps make my point. Ever since that day I have been taking shit and attempting to make something useful from it. I’ll start with some small examples. It is very important to Amanda and me that our environment be beautiful and peaceful. We love nice art, furnishings, and tasteful décor. Our budget, however, restricts our purchasing power a bit, even if it does not stop us from having lovely things.




Here is our den. The chandelier was my great-grandmother Bentley’s. It used to be orange, gold, and avacado. I sprayed it white and then I saw one almost exactly like it on the cover of a very trendy home décor magazine. The little octagonal coffee table was a free (marked down from five dollars) yard sale find that I painted with some leftover paint from another project. The couch was Amanda’s grandmother, Annie’s, and I made the slip cover from some sheets that we weren’t using. That puts us at exactly no money so far. The rug we bought at the Atlanta mart at a discount and there are a few accessories that came from Ikea. The rest of it was unwanted from relatives or something we found very cheap.



This is some art I painted onto a piece of plywood that my father-in-law was going to throw away. I already had all the paint, and I borrowed the tree idea from something I saw on a TV show. The birdie idea came from my awesome friend, Stephanie Kling. Check out her great blog at birdsandtrees@typepad.com.



This is another piece of art that I painted onto some scrap wood. The Lamp was less than thirty bucks at a lighting dealer’s close out sale at the Atlanta Mart.




This incredible piece of furniture was given to us by a neighbor, who was about to trash it. All it needed was some liquid nails and a clamp overnight. It has served as our kitchen pantry, linen closet, and is currently pulling dining room duty housing our Vietri dishes. (all wedding gifts)



Here is our bed. I made the headboard out of a fence that had fallen down in our back yard. I bought the frame at Salvation Army. The guy wanted twenty-five and I got it for ten just because I asked my favorite negotiating question: “Is that the best you can do?” The art above the headboard… you can probably guess.

That is only the start. Our house is full of things that nobody wanted. And it is very beautiful if I do say so myself.

So I believe in taking things that had no value and restoring them. Isn’t that what Jesus does for us?

Sometimes I remember growing up as the grandson of an extremely popular football coach and not being able to play sports to save my life. In Arab, Alabama a boy who can’t play sports can start to feel pretty useless if he isn’t careful. Now I know that what I’m trying to redeem is myself! In taking all this useless junk and turning it into something of value, I am attempting to right a wrong. I am doing my life’s work. I am finding redemption.

Back to Pastor Dan. On Sunday he told a story of a man who gave away a shirt that had been very precious to him. When his son asked him about it, the man referred to the proper way to offer a sacrifice as outlined in the Scripture. Then Dan asked us to consider what we have in our hands.

What do I have in my hand? An old chandelier that nobody wants, some plywood, some paint, a fence that fell down? Now I have a pretty house. Now I have some friends to entertain in my pretty house. Now I can bless my friends and share the love of Christ with everyone I know… it goes on and on. What is in your hand? A life that needs to be redeemed? Turn to Hymn number… wait a minute, you can’t give an altar call in a blog! But He will take you just as you are.

You can hear/watch Dan’s sermon online at christchurchnashville.org free.

Black and White

I have always been intrigued by race relations, especially in the south. Honestly, maybe I should narrow that down a bit to say I am interested in relationships between whites and blacks in the south.  There are probably many reasons for this, one, I come from Arab, Alabama. Arab is a town of almost 10,000 and still, to this day there are very few black people who choose to live there.  Historically, this has been because of Arab's vocal minority of racists, I'm sorry to say.  I recently read Jerry Thompson's story of his infiltration into the Ku Klux Klan called, "My Life in the Klan." His brave work brought to light a first hand account of the reality of what has been a horrible organization founded on hate and fear.  The work hit so close to home for me that there were several names that I recognized in the description of his time spent in North Alabama and Birmingham.  

 

It was not unusual for me to hear that hurtful "n" word used to describe black people from folks who I saw in church every Sunday. After learning from my older cousin that the color would rub off if you touched it, I innocently stroked my African American nurse, Helen's arm. Then as I examined my fingers, she looked at me and said quietly, "No honey, it don't rub off." I have felt guilty for that, and I hope she understood that at four or five years old, I just didn't know any better. Somehow, I still feel like I should have.

 

It wasn't long after I left Arab that I began to meet people so far outside of the box that I had been accustomed to, that it opened up my life to paths that I  had never dreamed possible. I met a friend named Nicole at my first real job who happened to be a drop dead gorgeous African American girl. We quickly became close friends and we still keep in touch. She expertly helped me acclimate to urban life when I decided to move to New York City. As you might imagine, that was no small task!

 

My all time favorite work of fiction is "Gone With the Wind," mainly because of the honest portrayal of life in the south and Margaret Mitchell's rich characters.  Even in a story set in that racially charged time frame, Mammy rises from the pages as a heroine of calm strength and common sense.  The book, to me, is not only a brilliant love story, it is an excellent study in human character and race relations. I know some people believe this book is inappropriate because it contains language that may be offensive today. I do not. What is deemed offensive must be held in the light of history, and most times, whether something is appropriate or not simply isn't that black and white.

 

On this day as we celebrate the life of the great Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the day before we inaugurate our country's first black president, I don't want to miss a thing.  Even though I am politically more conservative, it is impossible to ignore the profound stride that has been made in this country, that not so long ago, allowed human beings to be bought and sold simply because of the color of one's skin.  I am moved beyond words when I think of the pride that will undoubtedly be felt by people who remember the bitterly segregated south tomorrow. I am thankful to live in this great country and I pray that people of every political stripe will stop for a moment, move away from their fears of the unknown, and embrace this historical time for exactly what it is:  A monumental shift toward that timeless truth our forefathers voiced so many years ago... that every man is created equal.

In Defense of the Cold

I challenge anyone to walk inside from the frigid outdoors today and not have something negative to say to the first person you see once you are inside. In Murfreesboro, Tennessee today, we are hovering in the teens, but I write in a warm house, relatively speaking. It is almost one hundred years old and a bit drafty, but this is to say, I realize that there are vast numbers of people in the world who do not have the convenience of walking over to a thermostat when the temperature inside strays a little too far away from that perfect sixty-eight to seventy-two range. With all respect to them, I'm not really talking to them. I'm really talking to myself.

I like extremes.  Take my coffee for instance.  I'd almost as soon drink mud than weak, cheap, Maxwell House coffee.  I realize I just lost some of you.  I am as much of a coffee snob as one can be on a mildly successful musician's income.  I even like the darkest dark roast.  I also adore garlic.  My great grandmother, whom I loved a whole lot, Lorene Kennedy, would holler to high heaven the minute we stepped close enough to an Italian restaurant to smell it... "Them I-tal-yun garlic eaters'll not catch me eatin' that mess!" she'd squeal.  Now that I think about it, she liked her coffee just dark enough to tint the water a light beige.  As for me, I'm a "more is more" kind of guy. So why can't I apply the same logic to that stinging cold air that hit my face the second I walked out the door to hit the gym this morning?  

Amanda, my wife, starts dreading winter about mid-September.  The short, dull gray days and the toes that feel like they might break off if you touched them can really get her down.  So about that time I start singing the praises of a cozy hearth, the possibility of a ski weekend, and blessed relief from the sweaty long days with slow flies and sticky nights. It usually doesn't work, but I continue to try.  It is a day like today when I find myself reaching deep within to ask "What are the redeeming qualities of winter again?"  And do I really believe all that crap I've been trying to sell Amanda?

Yes.  Winter is the season when we have more time for parties.  More long card games and laughs with friends around a cozy fire after a big bowl of homemade beef stew and corn bread. It is the time when seeds go dormant and remind us busy bee's that from time to time an entire day spent in your pajamas can be just what the doctor ordered.  Winter gives us time to go inward.  To reflect on what we've been doing and what we plan to do in the coming year.  It is the much needed calm before the storm of activity that usually accompanies the first warm days.  

Even more than that, winter helps us appreciate summer, just as without the dark, we couldn't appreciate the light, and without pain, we could not fully know joy. That's probably one of the hardest and most important lessons I ever learned. Everybody's got pain of one kind or another.  The important thing is to be reminded that you are not alone in it.  So if you haven't invited some people you can laugh with over to a home cooked meal to fill up some of these endless hours between 4:30 and time to go to bed, turn off Howie Mandel and go to the grocery store.  Get yourself a pound or two of hamburger meat, or chicken or whatever... shoot -call out for chinese if you have to, but get together and enjoy each other while the gettin's good!

Things I Learned From My Dog

Not long after Amanda and I were married, I started lobbying for a dog. (Amanda liked cats more at first.) After some persuasive conversation, we agreed that we would start our search for a smallish dog that wouldn't shed much. Knowing we wanted to put off having children for a while, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to work on "parenting skills." We knew we wanted a dog that needed a home. Not only were we flat broke, we didn't really see the point in paying the pet shop hundreds of dollars for a designer breed.

Following several visits to the local pet shelters and a place called "Love at First Sight," which almost lived up to its name, but not quite, I got a call on my cell while we were sitting in our little half painted house on Long Boulevard in the heart of Nashville from a kind but no-nonsense lady named Alice. Turns out she's a friend of a friend and heard we were looking for a dog and this sweet dog just showed up on her doorstep and... "Were we interested?"

This is one of the first lessons I learned from Ginny: Don't be too set on your own agenda. As Alice described the dog, the only thing that sounded very positive was that she seemed to be pretty much house trained, and she was very friendly. Growing up with a brother and only boy dogs, my first problem was that she was a bitch. Amanda assured me that girls were OK and sometimes could be cleaner and easier to care for than boys... hmm OK. Secondly she's pretty big. Our house is so small that her kennel would almost be more roomy, but it's not like we have a lot of expensive furniture... "Oh yea, she doesn't really have any hair right now because she had the mange, but it looks like one day there could be quite a lot of it... hair that is. Mmmm, and she accidentally bit me the other day but that was totally my fault" Alice said.

OK. So let's get this straight. She's a big girl who is recovering from the mange, looks like part Golden Retriever, (very hairy) and part Shepherd of some kind, (also very hairy) and she "accidentally" bit the person who was feeding her? Ah, what the heck, bring her on over. Let's give it a try.

We decided to meet on neutral territory so KFC fit the bill. We are excited as we pull in and here is this sixty pound, truly pitiful looking, orange and yellowish gray dog and all I can say to myself is "I love her." Why? Maybe it is partly because I believe in "redemption" as my Pastor, Dan Scott pointed out one day. Boy was there a lot to be redeemed about this dog. But, I think it was mostly because, like so many other things in my life, my ugly little half painted house, myself -a somewhat talented but very broke pretty much unemployed-except for a once a week church gig, newlywed musician in a city where you could throw a rock and hit a musician with a resume a mile long and real gigs. Yeah, so she's nothing but potential... she'll fit right in. She'll be perfect! As soon as we walked in the door and sat down on our seventy-five dollar hand-me-down couch, we looked at each other and then at this smiling dog, and we knew, the trial period is over, she's ours.

So we bought "Dog's for Dummies" and both read every word. She was impossible on a leash and our new neighbors got to know us as "that crazy new couple who runs through the neighborhood screaming "GINNY!!!" every other day. She got away a few times. And I spanked her so hard that I was afraid some of them might call PETA and have me hauled off. This brings me to the second thing she taught me: "Be patient, and keep doing the right thing, and it will pay off."

But that is still just the beginning of what that fuzzy dog has taught me. Not only has Ginny turned out to be a well behaved, beautiful, member of our family, that ugly little house has paid off for us in an unbelievable turn of real estate fortune, but that's another story. I took her to get her stitches out this morning at the vet, (she partied a little too hard on New Year's Eve night and cut herself on a chain link fence while visiting an old friend.) As she sat there with her tail wagging while the vet was taking out her stitches, my heart was full of pride in this sweet dog that nobody wanted. She sat on the cold, stainless steel table with a perfect game face on, ready to face whatever she had coming with a great attitude and nothing but a thankful heart because, strange as it sounds, this dog remembers where she came from. And she never takes it for granted. That's a lot to learn from a dog.

Goodbye Granna

This morning we said goodbye to a true southern Lady. Mrs. Jamie Baggett displayed all the graceful elegance of that charming definition of "lady" only known to those belonging to that greatest generation of ladies who could feed a full table of field hands, while balancing church work, taking care of her husband and cherished boys and do it all in the Tennessee summer heat, seemingly without breaking a sweat. Even though I only knew her when her hair was as white as cotton, there was so much evidence of her past in her presence, that everything I came to know about her made it seem easy to fill in the rest.

My wife's fraternal grandmother, Sam and Henry's mother was known to me as Granna. She spoke a dialect that is often imitated when that southern dialect with just a hint of aristocracy is depicted (often so poorly) in the movies. Even at 94 her voice was music. When she spoke of her eldest son Henry, a gentle and kind man who can curse more creatively than anyone I've ever had the pleasure to know, you might have thought he could sprout wings and fly right up to heaven if he took a notion. And her baby, Sam, my father-in-law captured her attention and affection to the degree that if he happened to be anywhere near you'd be hard pressed to catch her loving gaze in any direction other than his. "Say-am, you know I love you De-ah" she'd coo. Or to Amanda, "Don't evah fugit how much I love you Sweet-haht."

She had a reputation for her preference of quality, and it ranged from her fine solid furniture that, in her words, "You need only to buy once" to the people whom she held dear, and who in the end saw her through to the other side. She was not left to wonder whether or not she was loved in the halls of a nursing home or a hospital room, but she was cared for in Kelly and Sam's warm and beautiful home with family singing hymns around her bed, ready to bring her her favorite chocolates or anything else she might need.

Of course there were the moments of frustration, maybe even a thrown pillow. But for the most part Mrs. Baggett made her exit without much fanfare. She sang praises to her Lord, made certain those who cared for her knew she loved and appreciated them, and she peacefully bid her farewell to this earth.

Death is always sobering. It always makes me wonder what people will say about me. That's probably evidence of my uncanny ability to somehow turn everything around to be about myself in one way or another. But I think it is good to be reminded that one day, if we are lucky, friends and family will gather around and try to sum our lives up while not spending too much money (as the obituary does still cost by the word.) So what will it be? He sure did talk a lot? He played the piano pretty well? Or, he lived with grace, had a preference for quality, praised the Lord, and loved his family well? I hope it is something like the latter. Granna set an example that it would be wise for anyone to follow.

The Enemy of Great

I know I've heard it other places, but most recently I think it was on Dave Ramsey's radio show that I heard that quote, "the enemy of great is good." This concept has been in my thoughts quite a bit lately. As someone who has always relied on "talent" I'm afraid I'm good at a whole lot of things but I can't really say with much confidence what I'm truly great at. So I think I know what my New Year's resolution is.

Yesterday, I went to the gym like I do pretty regularly. Only this particular Thursday I decided to get my $25 fitness assessment. After answering some health questions, getting my blood pressure, resting heart rate taken, a skin fold test, walking a mile around a track and performing some rudimentary exercises, I was handed a printout that proclaimed me to be average. Now for many people this could be fantastic news, but somehow it felt a little like a kid who brought home a "C" when he was hoping for at least an A-. I was standing in the locker room looking at a "Men's Health" article about Lance Armstrong when that phrase came to mind "the enemy of great is good." My mind went back to high school band practice with Mr. Washam. Now in Arab, Alabama, during the rein of Wayne Washam, marching band and excellence were synonymous. His reputation as a leader was somewhere between Bear Bryant and Jesus Christ in my mind. He talked to us about what it takes to be the best in a way that made you want to name your first, second and third born after him. Then I glanced at Lance's midsection, and back at mine. Ok, I'm not Lance and I have no delusions that I will ever be. But I can strive for excellence in every area of my life. I can look at what I'm doing and see how I can do it with better discipline and be better. I can aim for great... and that is what I want to do in 2009.

I want to be one of those people who have a thread of greatness that is evident in every area of life. In my relationships, in my work, and in the way I take care of my body. So will I be on the tour de France in 2010? Probably not. Will I be a better piano playing, horse painting, home improving, husband, son, grandson, brother, friend? You better believe it.

Start Somewhere

I've gotten a lot of things done in my life simply by starting somewhere. I guess you could say anything I've done, I had to start somewhere. That has been sort of a mantra (if a Christian can have a mantra) to me especially when I'm at the beginning of something and I'm not sure where to start... I just say to myself "start somewhere." From relationships, to making money, to finding meaning in this life, you can't get anywhere without starting somewhere.

When I was a little boy, the first day of school was by far my favorite. I could just imagine all the kids that I would find in the desks beside me or on the playground outside who couldn't wait to find a friend like me. They would laugh at all of my jokes, they would need my help and I would be a true friend. So in my endeavor to seek out these friends, I said a prayer. "Lord help me to make friends." -Then off I'd go. Now sure I'd mess something up along the way, but I knew enough to know to ask for help and then go for it. When I finally met my sweet wife, Amanda, at the late age of 29, I had come to a point that I knew I did not want to keep living my life alone, or even worse with a bunch of guys, I started by taking an honest look at myself and trying to figure out what I needed to do to get ready for someone to join in with me, I asked for help, I worked out, worked on my confidence, read some books, tried to appear as appealing as possible and hoped for the best... and I got Amanda. More than I could have asked for.

When I think about how it is that I came to earn a living while not totally hating my job, I know there had to be some divine intervention. I have a degree from MTSU in music which puts me in the same boat as thousands of wanna-be's running around with some talent and dreams and a BS. Which in the real music industry amounts to a pile of BS. I found opportunities where I was, though. I guess I sort of bloomed where I was planted. I love old people and they usually love me. This started with my Mammaw. I played the piano at a lot of parties where there were lots of old people, country clubs, retirement homes, and churches that looked like retirement homes. Then I found that busses full of old people load up to visit places like "Dollywood" and Boca Raton and I found jobs entertaining more of them in those places. I found other people who I connected with in piano bars in NYC and church there as well. Since then I have found a whole lot of opportunities to play the organ for horse shows., yes horse shows. They happen all over the place and people are willing to pay good money for me to help fend off the inevitable boredom that comes from watching horses parade around for hours on end. I've learned to really enjoy it.

So what am I doing here? Well, I found some people I loved and who loved me. I found something I loved doing: playing music and relating to people, and I found places to do those things and get paid for it. So what does that mean? Well I think I started somewhere and ended up bringing joy to my life and others around me by meeting a need. Now what? I want to share it with more people. I want it to mean even more. I want to do it with better efficiency. How? Start somewhere. I'm making a blog to begin with. I have only read a few and I think it's a great idea. I have a lot to say and my sweet Amanda has heard a lot of it before. I have a great life, and a lot to share. I hope you will want to keep listening... And I hope if there is something you want to do and you don't know where to start, I hope you will start somewhere. Even if you mess up, well you'll know not to do that again.