My dad had eight children, and Mama was pregnant again. Her labor had started. The hospital, in Lubbock, Texas, was about thirty-five miles away, and on the way to the hospital, my mother passed away. The baby inside her didn�t make it either. I was four years old.
After that, my financially strapped dad put me and two of my brothers in the Methodist orphanage in Waco. That was to be our �home� for the next five years. As dad and my five older brothers and sisters drove away, a simple question took form in my young mind: What will happen to me? I can�t begin to describe my panic and fear at not knowing the answer to that question. Placed in the care of total strangers, my brothers and I were devastated.
The three of us were housed in the infirmary for the first six weeks�separated from the rest of the children. Of course, nobody bothered to explain to me or my brothers what was goin on or what we could expect next. The three of us were overwhelmed with feelings of loneliness and desolation, with no one to turn to for solace.
Later, my brother Jerry and I were placed in the same dormitory with about forty other kids. Delmar, my other brother who was about four years older than I, was sent to another dormitory. Each dormitory was under the supervision of an overworked matron with absolutely no time for nurturing her charges. At times, I�d sit alone in the dorm while billows of loneliness swept over me. It seemed as if nobody cared. It was like being in prison�or worse.
While we were in the orphanage, my brothers and I never had anything we could call our own. If we got an apple or an orange at Christmas, we considered ourselves very lucky. But some say doing without is wonderful preparation for making someone glad for the �little things.� I�ll never forget Christmas at the orphanage when I was nine years old. A mystery friend gave me and my brothers a brand-new leather football. We were amazed to think that someone�anyone�had remembered us. That was one of the best Christmases of my entire life!
The following year, I moved back in with my dad. At the age of ten, I was old enough to �earn my keep.� And I did�in spades! I�ll never forget my thirteenth birthday, the day I picked 329 pounds of cotton on that West Texas farm. My dad gave me twenty-five cents. I�m still not sure whether the money was a birthday present or a reward for my labor!
Well, I took that twenty-five cents and went to see a movie, Public Cowboy #1, starring Gene Autry, �The Singing Cowboy.� Afterward, I remember thinking to myself, I could make a living doing that! All I needed to get started was money for a guitar. (I�ve still got the poster from that movie hanging on my office wall.)
The first chance I got to make real money�money I could keep and spend for myself�was plucking turkeys for three to eight cents a bird in Clovis, New Mexico, during summer vacations. I moved in with my uncle who lived in Whiteface, Texas�about sixty miles from Clovis. Pretty soon, I racked up enough turkeys to buy myself a $3.25 guitar and a 25� instruction book. From then on, every spare minute, I practiced with my guitar and worked on songs. When I was fifteen, I won a contest sponsored by KICA, the Clovis radio station. As the winner, I was given a live fifteen-minute program that aired every Saturday afternoon. Just me and my guitar. �Course, there wasn�t any money�the exposure and the experience were my pay. For the next three years, I hitchhiked back and forth between Whiteface and Clovis every Saturday just so I could do this free program. For some reason, I never had any trouble getting from Whiteface to Clovis, but on the way back I sometimes couldn�t get any closer to home than Morton�the nearest town on the main highway. From there, I�d have to walk the last ten miles. People tell me that�s called �paying your dues.� As I walked those long, lonely miles alongside the cotton fields of the Texas Panhandle, I can tell you, I felt like I was paying enough dues to last a lifetime!
After high school, I got gigs in a lot of clubs and even played rhythm guitar at several recording sessions for Columbia Records in Nashville. My first real break came when I was nineteen. Country star Hank Thompson hired me to be his opening act. That led to my first recording contract on Capitol Records.
In 1952, I started working on The Louisiana Hayride�a television show about equal in ratings with The Grand Ole Opry�where I stayed about three and a half years before moving to The Ozark Jubilee for another three and a half years.
I had a memorable year in 1954 when �The Billy Walker Show� went on tour. One of our featured performers was a new face on the country music scene�Elvis Aron Presley. On Elvis�s birthday, January 8, 1955, I bought him a cupcake and put a candle in it. We were both twenty!
In the years since then, I�ve been privileged to entertain millions of country music fans from the Hollywood Bowl to the Garden State Arts Center outside New York City and, as they say, around the world. In 1960, I was honored by induction as a member of The Grand Ole Opry.
Looking back�all things considered�I�ve had a wonderful life. In 1983, I came to understand that God has been looking after me all these years�even during those desperate times at the Methodist Home in Waco. Along the way, I�ve collected more than my fair share of trophies. But among all the certificates, banners, gold records, photographs, and other prizes, there�s only one treasure that holds the place of honor on the mantel over my fireplace�a worn leather football.
The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.�Victor Hugo
During the holidays, I sometimes think of Ol� Art. That wasn�t his real name. It�s just what we fifth-graders called the scrawny, likable classmate with the goofy smile, threadbare pants and poorly mended shirts.
Not that Ol� Art�s poverty meant much in our rural Georgia area. Few people had money, but most had gardens, a pig for yearly meat and a willingness to share. The problem was Ol� Art�s mom. She saw such offers as charity and stoutly refused any aid.
Still, Ol� Art never complained about carrying buttered biscuits for lunch, cheerfully washing them down with water from the hall fountain. The only time Ol� Art thought about his poor state was after suffering a bout of Lila�s taunts. Lila, a local grocer�s daughter, jeered at us all, but she seemed to take special pleasure in tormenting Ol� Art. She was in rare form when Ol� Art drew my name for the fifth-grade gift exchange during the upcoming school Christmas party.
�You won�t even get a used head scarf this year!� Lila crowed, referring to a hand-me-down I received the previous year at the school�s annual gathering. �Ol� Art here couldn�t afford a box of dirt.�
Ol� Art blushed beet red to the tips of his hair. He blinked fast and crossed his arms tightly against his thin chest, using his bony hand to try to cover the new hole in his shirtsleeve. Feeling awkward and ashamed ourselves, we all looked the other way. I wanted to comfort Ol� Art by reminding him it was Christmas, not presents, that mattered. However, I was a clumsy ten-year-old, too shy to say something so intimate to a boy.
Ol� Art�s gift, wrapped in pieces of toilet tissue held together by a piece of twine, heightened Lila�s mean giggles. However, she stopped midlaugh, her eyes growing wider than my own, when I pulled from that wad of tissue a sparkling rhinestone bracelet with a gold-plated heart attached. Hanging in the middle of the heart, a miniature gold cross was embedded with a red stone. It was, at that point, the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I had never dared then to hope for such a possession, even in my dreams.
In fact, like the vagaries of a dream, something familiar tried to tug at my psyche as I stared at the bracelet, but the mental image would not come clear in my state of surprised pleasure. Slightly dazed, I glanced up to see that even the teacher was staring in open-mouthed wonderment at Ol� Art. He was smiling so hard in return it seemed as if his face might soon split with the effort. His happy grin lasted that entire afternoon. When Ol� Art�s mom came to walk him home later, her usually grim expression softened at the sight of Ol� Art, and, going out side by side, a slight bounce in her step implied she shared her son�s ecstasy.
His mom died the following year, and Ol� Art was taken in by relatives in another state. We never saw him again, but I never forgot him or that bracelet. It was eons later, after years of adulthood, that I ran across that bracelet again. The rhinestones had blackened with age, and the gold-plated heart was scratched and worn; but when I polished the bracelet, the red stone embedded in the miniature gold cross still gleamed.
�How,� I finally asked after so many years, �did a fifth-grade boy who ate biscuits and water for lunch afford such a gift?�
It was then when an almost-forgotten sense of familiarity from the past became clear. About a month before that same Christmas party, I was in the school bathroom when I overheard a teacher outside the door ask the woman who had been hired to scrub floors for that day if she wouldn�t like to take off her bracelet before beginning.
�I don�t take it off until I absolutely have to,� the woman had replied, almost apologetically. �My husband gave it to me before he died. I found out later he had sold his father�s watch to get the money to buy it. I don�t usually take off this bracelet for any length of time without good reason.�
Making this mental connection at last, I realized Ol� Art�s mom had eventually felt a compelling enough reason to not only remove her bracelet, but to give it up for good. That reason had been a mother�s love. That love was so strong she wanted her son, the poorest boy in the class, to have one shining moment of glory when he was able to give the best gift at the school Christmas party.
He was driving home one evening, on a two-lane country road. Work in this small Midwestern community was almost as slow as his beat-up Pontiac. But he never quit looking. Ever since the Levi�s factory closed, he�d been unemployed, and with winter raging on, the chill had finally hit home.
It was a lonely road. Not very many people had a reason to be on it, unless they were leaving. Most of his friends had already left. They had families to feed and dreams to fulfill. But he stayed on. After all, this was where he buried his mother and father. He was born here and knew the country. He could go down this road blind and tell you what was on either side, and with his headlights not working, that came in handy. It was starting to get dark, and light snow flurries were coming down. He�d better get a move on.
You know, he almost didn�t see the old lady, stranded on the side of the road. But even in the dim light of day, he could see she needed help. So he pulled up in front of her Mercedes and got out. His Pontiac was still sputtering when he approached her. Even with the smile on his face, she was worried. No one had stopped to help for the last hour or so. Was he going to hurt her? He didn�t look safe�he looked poor and hungry.
He could see that she was frightened, standing out there in the cold. He knew how she felt. It was that chill that only fear can put in you. He said, �I�m here to help you, ma�am. Why don�t you wait in the car, where it�s warm�By the way, my name is Joe.�
Well, all she had was a flat tire, but for an old lady, that was bad enough. Joe crawled under the car looking for a place to put the jack, skinning his knuckles a time or two. Soon he was able to change the tire. But he had to get dirty, and his hands hurt. As he was tightening up the lug nuts, she rolled down her window and began to talk to him. She told him that she was from St. Louis and was only passing through. She couldn�t thank him enough for coming to her aid. Joe just smiled as he closed her trunk.
She asked him how much she owed him. Any amount would have been all right with her. She had already imagined all the awful things that could have happened, had he not stopped. Joe never thought twice about the money. This wasn�t a job to him. This was helping someone in need, and God knows there were plenty who had given him a hand in the past. He had lived his whole life that way, and it never occurred to him to act any other way. He told her that if she really wanted to pay him back, the next time she saw someone who needed help, she could give that person the assistance that they needed, and Joe added, �and think of me.�
He waited �til she started her car and drove off. It had been a cold and depressing day, but he felt good as he headed for some, disappearing into the twilight.
A few miles down the road the lady saw a small caf�. She went in to grab a bite to eat and take the chill off before she made the last leg of her trip home. It was a dingy looking restaurant. Outside were two old gas pumps. The whole scene was unfamiliar to her.
The waitress came over and brought a clean towel for her to wipe her wet hair. She had a sweet smile, one that even being on her feet for the whole day couldn�t erase. The lady noticed that the waitress was nearly eight months pregnant, but she never let the strain and aches change her attitude. The old lady wondered how someone who had so little could be so giving to a stranger. Then she remembered Joe.
After the lady finished her meal and the waitress went to get her change from a hundred-dollar bill, the lady slipped right out the door. She was gone by the time the waitress came back. She wondered where the lady could be, when she noticed something written on a napkin. There were tears in her eyes, when she read what the lady wrote. It said, �You don�t owe me a thing. I�ve been there, too. Someone once helped me out, the way I�m helping you. If you really want to pay me back, here�s what you do. Don�t let the chain of love end with you.�
That night when she got home from work and climbed into bed, she was thinking about the money and what the lady had written. How could she have known how much she and her husband needed it? With the baby due next month, it was going to be hard. She knew how worried her husband was, and as he lay sleeping next to her, she gave him a soft kiss and whispered soft and low, �Everything�s gonna be alright. I love you, Joe.�
Just to be alive and to be of service to somebody is a reward.�Jo Ann Cayee
The International Country Music Fan Fair in Nashville is always a zoo-like affair with three hundred or more people waiting in line at John Berry�s booth for autographs, to take pictures, and to buy memberships and T-shirts. Fans often climb over the stanchions trying to get a picture and yelling at John to get his attention.
Last year, John and his wife, Robin, had a great idea for the theme of his booth. They felt it would be nice to have people come and visit them on their front porch, so they had the booth made as an identical replica of the porch on the Berry house. The display kind of depicts how John feels about his fans�almost like they�re family. Coming onto his front porch at the show was a very comfortable thing for people.
Fan Fair began on Tuesday with a full day of interviews followed by over four hours of autograph signing at the booth. John�s fan club party didn�t close down �til 2:30 the next morning.
John started Wednesday with the Capitol Nashville Showcase. After that, it was back to the booth where the autograph line began in front of the picket fence leading to the porch. A separate handicapped area fed into this line. At one point, I spoke with a woman who explained that she was deaf. She told me how she listened to John�s music by laying her fingertips on the speakers in her home. Now, she just wanted to be face-to-face with John. She asked if she could touch him to really feel what she had been �hearing� through the speakers with her hands.
I was impressed by the woman who seemed like a kindly soul with a gentle spirit. In spite of her handicap, she was independent, positive and confident. Although I knew John was already exhausted, I was certain he�d want to meet this special fan. I took the woman over to John, let him know she was deaf and explained that she had a special request. John had her sit down next to his rocking chair and got very close. Everyone around kind of stepped back and things quickly got very quiet. The woman reached up and put her fingertips on John�s throat. At that point, she asked him to sing. Without hesitation, and in the middle of June, John broke into �O Holy Night.�
You could see a total transformation on the woman�s face; and then the tears began streaming out of both of them. Everyone in the surrounding booths stopped talking, walking and taking pictures. All of us just watched. It was as if everything in the room had frozen except the two of them.
At the end of the song, there was a poignant pause followed by tumultuous applause and a standing ovation for the special moment that all had shared. John reached over and gave the woman a very tender hug. All of us felt the energy pass through them. The woman didn�t say much after that. Within a moment, she found her friend and was gone.
A man never so beautifully shows his own strength as when he respects another�s weakness.�Douglas Jerrold
Although there have been many, this story is about meeting one of my special unsung heroes�The Man in Black.
It happened back in 1967. I dropped out of school and my parents told me I had two choices: one was to go back to school, the other was to join the Job Corps and learn a trade. Well, because the Job Corps would get me an airplane ride and I wouldn�t have to mind my parents�besides, it was an adventure just like any immature kid would want�I opted for the Job Corps. Like most kids that age, I thought I knew it all, but I really didn�t know anything! A couple of weeks later I was on my way to Rodman Job Corps Center in New Bedford, Massachusetts. For a boy from Kansas City, it was a completely new experience. There was an ocean all around the Job Corps center, and as a kid from the Midwest, it was awesome. But it was nothing like home and it didn�t take long before I was homesick.
My parents had brought me up listening to country�Hank Williams, Kitty Wells, and yes, even Johnny Cash. So when I heard that Johnny was having a show around the New Bedford area, I saved up my money for two weeks�just enough to see the show. Back then, it wasn�t so much that I even liked his music, but that it was something that reminded me of home.
The night of the show, I took the bus that runs from the center to the downtown area to the theater where the show was going to be. I couldn�t believe how many people were waiting to get into that theater. The seating was �first-come, first-served� so the line must have been two blocks long. Luckily it didn�t take too long for me to get up near the front of the line. I got a pretty good seat to watch the show and the show went by real fast. Before I knew it, it was 11:00 p.m. But being that I was having fun it didn�t matter.
Then I remembered the last bus going back to the center had already left. I was in trouble. There was no other way back except by cab and I had spent all my money on the ticket for the show. To make matters worse, if I didn�t get back to the Job Corps center by 12:30 a.m., they would put me on restriction for a month. That meant that I couldn�t go back to town for a month.
Because I was already in trouble and couldn�t see a way out of it, I decided that I might as well go for broke and try and get Johnny�s, June�s, and everybody else�s autograph that I could, because I would be stuck at the center for a month.
That is what I thought at the time. But that is not how it turned out.
When the show was over, everybody tried to get Johnny�s and June�s autographs. But I was a little craftier. I snuck past their security guards and got back into their dressing room. I ran into the dressing room thinking that no one would be in there and was startled when I ran into the Carter family. The thing that got my attention was mother Mabelle. She had the most beautiful blue eyes I have ever seen. One of the girls asked me what I was doing there, and I told her I wanted to get Johnny�s autograph. But before she could say anything, in walked Johnny and June.
The girl said, �This is��
�My name is Richard,� I said.
�Where are you from, son?� Johnny asked in that deep southern baritone voice.
�Kansas City, sir,� I replied. I was in awe. Here I was actually talking to The Man in Black.
�Why�d you come back here?� he asked.
�I wanted your autograph, sir,� I managed to get across my lips.
He sort of smiled and said, �I think that can be arranged�Let me step in here and change, and I�ll give you an autograph.�
When he came back out, he said, �Okay, son, what would you like me to autograph?�
Well, I felt kind of stupid �cause I hadn�t brought anything for him to sign! I noticed a handball, picked it up, and he signed it for me.
He was getting ready to leave and he asked me if I wanted to carry his guitar out to his car! Needless to say, he didn�t have to ask twice! I felt like I had the whole world in my pocket. I mean, here I was�me�carrying Johnny Cash�s guitar to his car!
Well, off we were to his car. The only problem was he had forgotten where he had parked it. He remembered it was parked on the side of a restaurant, but he couldn�t remember which side. He remembered that there was a sign with a blue whale picture on it. I knew where that was, so we were able to find his car.
He put his guitar in the trunk of his car and was getting ready to leave and all of a sudden he looked up at me and asked, �Where are your parents?�
�Back in Kansas City, sir,� I told him.
�Well, how did you get to my show?� he asked inquisitively.
At that point, I told him the trouble I was in.
Without hesitation he asked, �Do you know how to find your way back to the center?�
I said, �Yes, sir. I know what streets to take there.�
He said, �Well, get in, son, I�ll drop you off there.�
And with that, he took me back to the Job Corps center.
Now how many entertainers of his caliber do you know that would take the time out to help a kid like me stay out of trouble and make sure that they got home safe? There may be others, but from a personal point of view, I know only one�The Man in Black�Johnny Cash. My unsung hero.
So Johnny, if you�re reading this, I just want to thank you for caring about that kid from Kansas City. Because you cared, it has given me a reason to care. Like I said, it takes one to teach one.
Cameron Mounger and I have been friends since we were teenagers. Both of us liked music, and several years after we left high school, Cam became a disc jockey.
Recently he told me the story about the day he was down to his last dollar. It was the day his luck--and his life--changed.
The story began in the early 1970's when Cam was an announcer and disc jockey at KYAL in McKinney, Texas, and attained celebrity status. He met many music stars, and he enjoyed flying to Nashville in the company plane with the station owner.
One night Cam was in Nashville for the final performance of the Grand Ole Opry at the Ryman Auditorium before it moved to Opryland U.S.A. "After the show, an acquaintance invited me backstage with all the Opry stars. I didn't have any paper for autographs, so I took out a dollar bill," Cam told me. "Before the night ended, I had virtually every Opry personality's autograph. I guarded that dollar bill and carried it with me always. I knew I would treasure it forever."
Then station KYAL was put up for sale, and many employees found themselves without a job. Cam landed part-time work at WBAP in Fort Worth and planned to hang on to this job long enough for a full-time position to open up.
The winter of 1976-77 was extremely cold. The heater in Cam's old Volkswagen emitted only a hint of warm air; the windshield defroster didn't work at all. Life was hard, and Cam was broke. With the help of a friend who worked at a local supermarket, he occasionally intercepted Dumpster-bound outdated TV dinners. "This kept my wife and me eating, but we still had no cash."
One morning as Cam left the radio station he saw a young man sitting in an old yellow Dodge in the parking lot. Cam waved to him and drove away. When he came back to work that night, he noticed the car again, parked in the same space. After a couple of days, it dawned on him that this car had not moved. The fellow in it always waved cordially to Cam as he came and went. What was the man doing sitting in his car for three days in the terrible cold and snow?
Cam discovered the answer the next morning. This time as Cam walked near the car, the man rolled down his window. He introduced himself and said he had been in his car for days with no money or food. He had driven to Fort Worth from out of town to take a job. But he arrived three days early and couldn't go to work right away.
Very reluctantly, he asked if he might borrow a dollar for a snack to get him by until the next day, when he would start work and get a salary advance. "I didn't have a dollar to lend him; I barely had gas to get home. I explained my situation and walked to my car, wishing I could have helped him."
Then Cam remembered his Grand Ole Opry dollar. He wrestled with his conscience a minute or two, pulled out his wallet and studied the bill one last time. Then he walked back to the man and gave him his bottom dollar. "Somebody has written all over this," the man said, but didn't notice that the writing was dozens of autographs. He took the bill.
"That very morning when I was back home trying not to think about what I had done, things began to happen," Cam told me. "The phone rang; a recording studio wanted me to do a commercial that paid five hundred dollars. It sounded like a million. I hurried to Dallas and did the spot. In the next few days more opportunities came to me out of nowhere. Good things kept coming steadily, and soon I was back on my feet."
The rest, as they say, is history. Things improved dramatically for Cam. His wife had a baby and named him Joshua. Cam opened a successful auto-body shop and built a home in the country. And it all started that morning in the parking lot when he parted with his bottom dollar.
Cameron never saw the man in the old yellow Dodge again. Sometimes he wonders if the man was a beggar--or an angel.
It doesn't matter. What matters is that it was a test, and Cam passed.
The five-minute drive to the hospital seemed to take hours. I leaned against the passenger door of the car and tried to let the coolness of the window calm me. My mother had sent her friend to come get me. How like Mom to think of me driving to the hospital in my worried and frantic state--I had just gotten the news that my father had suffered a massive heart attack. Shock, worry, uncertainty and sheer terror all bombarded me without yield. I could not speak. I could not think. It was as if an unseen force controlled every part of me. I whispered prayers that I was not too late.
When we arrived at the hospital, I ran through the emergency room doors and back to the room where my father was stretched out on a table. My beautiful mother was collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor, crying uncontrollably. She saw me and extended her arms for me, and them I heard it--the thin shrill cry of a flatline.
Doctors, nurses and orderlies filled the room barking orders in that medical language you see on television. I heard the crash of equipment being pushed through emergency room doors and a series of blips and bleeps. A metal tray haphazardly crashed to the floor somewhere behind me and I heard on brave, calm soul counting down numbers, "One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Breathe! One-Two-Three-Four-Five-Breathe! Clear." A volt of electricity ran through my father lying helplessly on the table and at that moment a part of me died inside.
After several minutes, a comforting series of bleeps began. His heart was beating on its own again. The next few hours were frightening. A team of emergency technicians was constantly monitoring his vital signs; however, his condition had improved quite a bit.
While asking a nurse to watch over my mother, I excused myself and found an empty waiting room. Like many people in the midst of a crisis, I had been keeping a tight rein on my emotions. Now, I chose a couch in the farthest corner and collapsed. The tears flowed uncontrollably, the sick and helpless feeling in my gut returned full force, and the experience began to take its toll. I prayed out loud for guidance from above to please not let my daddy die. I prayed for strength so I could be there for my mother--but I didn't know from where that strength could possibly come. I was frightened and felt very small and very alone. I worried that my father would die without truly knowing just how much I loved him. We had always been close, but how...how could words describe that kind of love? I buried my head in my hands and continued crying.
Softly, on my left shoulder, I felt a hand. Through tear-filled eyes I looked up and there he was. An elderly man with piercing eyes as blue as an autumn sky and a face of weathered leather. His once-powerful frame was now slightly bent and covered by a well-worn pair of overalls.
"It's okay, child. It's gonna be okay," his gruff, yet softened voice whispered to me. "You know you don't have to worry none 'bout your daddy knowing how you feel."
A puzzled look in my eyes beckoned him to continue as his strong hands pulled mine from my face and comforted me.
"Your daddy knows how much you love him, he always has, and no matter what happens, he will always be with you."
I had no idea how this stranger could have known what I was feeling inside, but this sweet man sat down beside me and gently put his arm around me, rocking me slowly back and forth. I spent an hour in this isolated waiting room with this comforting soul at my side, discussing prayers and memories of my father. He told me his wife was also in the critical care ward dying of cancer and was not expected to live but a few days. I expressed my sorrow for his soon-to-be loss and asked what I could do for him and his wife.
"What's to be will be. My wife and I have lived and loved each other a long, long time. Forever it seems. My loss is soothed by the comfort of eternal peace--your situation is much different. Hush now child, you rest, I will wake you if there is any news."
Weary and completely drained of energy, I soon drifted off to sleep being held by the stranger. A nurse accompanied my mother into the waiting room where I was resting and gently woke me.
"Your father has been moved to a critical care room. He is out of immediate danger; however, it will be a long night. We have arranged to have a couple of cots moved into the room so you may stay with him. He is a very lucky man." She quickly left the room to attend to other patients.
Mom sat down beside me and I quickly glanced around the room for my stranger. He was gone. I wanted to tell her what had happened, but she soon fell asleep, overwhelmed with exhaustion. She leaned her head on my shoulder and dozed as I held her close. Miraculously, I felt peace and strength I didn't know I had. I assumed it was from the utter calm of the stranger in the waiting room. I can't explain it, but when I looked in his blue eyes and he told me to rest and not worry, I had felt his calmness transfer to me.
Dad remained in the hospital for several weeks. I never left his side. My eyes glued to the monitors praying those bleeps did not stop. I slept in short intervals, frequenting the cafeteria for a shot of caffeine and occasionally I would see the man from the waiting room. Each time we bumped into each other, he would whisper with a twinkle in his eye, "He's doing better today isn't he?"
"Yes sir, he is. Thank you for sitting with me. How is your wife doing?" I questioned.
"Now, now child, I told you, an eternal peace is comfort. She has her days--some are good, some are bad."
"What room is she in? Perhaps I can bring the two of you some dinner later?" I asked eagerly wanting to repay the kindness.
"Ah, child, my memory is a lot older than my body is. I can't recall the room number, but I can always find my way to her. We'll be alright, you just take care of your daddy."
Over the next few weeks, Dad improved daily. I continued to bump into the kind gentleman. Unfortunately, I was always by myself because I wanted so badly to introduce him to my family. However, the oppurtunity never arose. I always looked forward to seeing him and even once wandered through the critical care ward peeking into rooms to see if perhaps I could find him. I wanted to do something nice for him, but I never found him.
The night before my father's release was the first good night's rest I had the entire time he was hospitalized. That night, the lumpy recliner, which had given me many backaches all the many nights before, felt exceptionally comfortable. I curled up in a blanket the nurse had given me and quickly fell asleep. Sometime after midnight, I awoke suddenly. My heart pounding, I studied the monitors above Dad's bed making sure they were working. I looked over at mom sleeping peacefully and realized I must have just been dreaming. I curled up into the blanket and just happened to glance over to the window. Through the half-closed blinds, I saw the blue-eyed old man. He raised one weathered finger to his lips, "Sssshh" and smiled. He waved and went on his way. I slept soundly the remainder of the evening.
The next day was exciting for me as I helped Mom pack Dad's belongings and loaded the car. After the nurse whisked Dad away in the wheelchair, I ran back to the room for one last look around making certain we did not leave anything behind. Then I found a nurse--I just had to thank my friend. He had sustained me through long weeks when I didn't think I could go on. Yet I always had. He always appeared when I needed him most.
"Nurse, an older man has been on this ward at his wife's side. You must have seen him wandering around. He's fairly tall, white-haired, deep blue eyes. And he's very sweet. I'd like to say good-bye to him."
"I'm sorry. That's not ringing a bell with me. Hold on..." the nurse said. She went and got a supervisor, and I explained again how the old man had been a great source of comfort to me and I needed to say good-bye. They went over the list of patients, but not one older woman was listed on the critical ward.
"We have several older men and a couple of car accident victims, but no women on this floor."
After asking around, no one could even recall seeing the old man. I was completely perplexed. Surely I hadn't imagined this man. He had to be in the hospital somewhere. But more questioning of nurses and orderlies drew a complete blank. Sadly, I realized I would have to leave without saying a proper good-bye.
Later that night, after Dad was settled at home, I reflected on the mysterious stranger. Maybe the old man himself was the answer to my prayers in that lonely waiting room. The elderly gentleman with those strong, weathered hands, the faded overalls and those deep, piercing blue eyes was a prayer answered for me. He helped me though one of the most difficult times in my life with his gentle voice and kind words. He brought me peace and hope at a time when I thought none could be found. Perhaps he was sent as my daddy's guardian angel. Or mine. My very own waiting room angel.
I have recieved some wonderful fan mail over the years. I've recieved letters from couples who have fallen in love with my music, gotten married because of my music and raised their children on my music. I've had fans write and tell me of playing my music at weddings and on special wedding anniversaries. I've even been told of fans playing my hymns at a loved one's funeral.
There have been many tender, touching letters, but one in particular, I will never forget. It came from a young lady in Canada, and it took me back to a night in the late sixties when I played a concert in her hometown.
I remember the night well. Jan Howard was touring with me, and we were booked into an ice hockey arena in eastern Ontario. Prior to the show, we sat backstage killing time in the dressing room when a man came by and asked if he might speak with us a moment. We said sure, and he walked in.
He sat down and softly told us about a young man from the town who, he said, had wanted to attend our concert more than just about anything in the world. All he had talked about for weeks was our coming to town, telling everyone how he was looking forward to seeing our show. But only a few days before we arrived, this young man was critically injured in a motorcycle accident. And he was lying cut, badly broken and only semi-concious in a hospital bed on the other side of town. The prognosis for his survival was not good.
"I have a feeling," our visitor continued, directing his request toward me, "that if you and Jan would just take a minute of your time and go by the hospital to see this young man, it would be the best medicine anyone could possibly give him. He may not even recognize you, but he'll know you were there. I can't tell you how much he loves and admires both of you. If you'll just go say hi, I'll be glad to drive you over and I'll bring you back."
Fortunately, there were two shows set for that night with over an hour's intermission scheduled between the ending of the first show and the beginning of the second. Jan and I agreed we would go to the hospital between shows. "But we've got to come directly back," I cautioned. "We can't afford to be late." The man said he understood fully, and he told us he would be in his car with the motor running outside the stage door at the end of the first show.
I was surprised to find, when we arrived at the hospital, that the "young man" we had been told about was a big, strapping dude, well over six feet tall and probably weighing over two hundred pounds. His name was Arthur, and to my further surprise, he was married and the father of several children. I had expected, for some reason, an irreponsible teenager.
Arthur was hurt every bit as badly as our visitor had indicated. I remember seeing legs in casts, arms in casts, wires and tubes connected to virtually every part of his body. He was apparently recieving large doses of medication, and he appeared to be only partially awake.
Jan and I walked over to his bedside and told him who we were. We told him we were sorry he had gotten banged up so bad that he couldn't make it to our show. And we told him that we fully expected him to get well so that the next time we were up that way he could come to see us. We tried to keep everything on a light, positive note, but it wasn't easy. The young man was obviously very seriously injured. He could barely move his eyes to let us know that he was even aware we were in the room. I left his side feeling less than hopeful.
But God is still in the miracle business. The next contact I had with him was a letter from the family a few months later telling me that Arthur was improving. And the letter thanked me over and over again for having taken the time to come see him.
"You and Jan coming to the hospital gave him the will to live," the letter said. "He says he is going to get well enough to come see our show next time you're here. And we believe he will."
I was back in the area again about a year later, and I thought of Arthur and wondered how he was and how his recovery might be coming along. I didn't have to wait very long for my answer. When we pulled up to the arena, here came a big, husky guy in a motorized wheelchair grinning from ear to ear. He hugged my neck so hard he nearly broke me in two. All the family hugged me too, saying repeatedly that our visit to his hospital room was the medicine that saved his life.
The next time I saw Arthur, he was in the parking lot outside my office in Nashville. He had gotten well enough to drive and with the help of a special apparatus connected to the steering column of his car, he drove nearly a thousand miles to come see us at the Grand Ole Opry. He was truly a living miracle.
I stayed in touch with him and his family over the years. I saw him several more times, and he never failed to mention the visit Jan and I had paid him during the darkest moments of his life. And then I didn't see him or hear from anyone in the family for quite sometime. One day I recieved a letter from his oldest daughter. It was very simple and to the point. She said simply that Arthur had become very ill and had died. She told me very few details. But she wrote one line that will stay with me forever:
"Thanks to you," she said, "I had a daddy for twenty years."
Love recieved and love given comprise the best form of therapy. --- Gordon Allport
Giving love is doing,
and there's always more to do.
Share with those in need,
and it will all come back to you.
For when life on earth is over
and your time to go has come,
You won't be judged by what you have,
but by good deeds you've done.
So greet with open arms
every soul you run into,
'cause giving love is doing,
and there's always more to do.
"Love is a verb." --- Anonymous
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