by Wayne, Jimmy
The meeting went okay, but nothing tangible was decided.
MIKE AND I KEPT IN TOUCH OVER THE NEXT FEW MONTHS. He called me one afternoon and said, “I’m going to send you some songs to learn, so you can come out here and record them during your next trip.”
I didn’t understand why he wanted me to record someone else’s songs, but I agreed to do it. Every day for the next few weeks, I anxiously checked the mailbox, looking for the songs Mike said he would send.
Nothing. The box was empty. I called Mike dozens of times, and the receptionist told me, “He’s in a meeting,” a phrase I later learned was Nashville-nice for saying, “He doesn’t want to talk to you right now.”
Finally, several weeks later, I received a package from Opryland Music Group. Inside I found three songs, each one written by Skip Ewing. I dubbed those three songs over and over, filling an entire ninety-minute tape.
I listened to those songs constantly, day and night. I wore earphones to bed with the songs playing softly in my ears as I fell asleep. I listened to the songs while working out on the road with the prison work crew as I kept watch over DD White and the other convicts. Every time the ninety-minute tape stopped, I flipped it over and pressed play again. I learned those songs backward and forward.
On May 15, 1997, I was back in Nashville, at the Opryland Music Group Publishing Company. Mike Whelan welcomed me, and we walked down to the studio, where he introduced me to the engineer, Bill Harris. “Call me when you guys have finished recording the three songs,” Mike told Bill, “and I’ll come down to listen to them.” He looked at me and said, “Jimmy, I’ll see you later this evening.” Mike waved good-bye and closed the heavy studio door.
Bill Harris was a kind, patient, old-school Nashville engineer. He had recorded hit songs for all sorts of artists. He positioned me inside a studio vocal booth and went back into the control room. Once Bill got the equalization and volume levels set on the microphone, he asked, “Are you ready, Jimmy?”
“Yeah, sure am.”
“All right.” Bill pressed the red record button. I sang one warm-up pass so Bill could check his levels, then one take per song, and we were finished.
Bill called Mike and said, “Hey, Mike.”
“Yeah?”
“You may want to come down here and hear this,” Bill said.
Surprised, Mike responded, “Y’all are finished already?”
“Yeah, man.”
Apparently it was uncommon in Nashville for a vocalist to record a song that fast, accurately nailing the notes the first time, in one take. I didn’t know that most artists “build” a song in the studio, laying down the vocals one line at time, and it can often take all day to sing one song. Sometimes it takes even longer, until the vocalist gets each part correct, and if the artist never gets it exactly right, through the miracles of electronics, the engineer can fine-tune the vocal until it sounds perfect.
Mike came down to the studio and listened to each song. As far as he was concerned, we were done. “Let’s go to lunch,” Mike said.
We went to a restaurant, where Mike talked much more than he ate. After the meal Mike promised he’d call me to let me know what the other guys at the company thought of my voice and if they wanted to sign me.
THE FOLLOWING MONTH WAS THE LONGEST MONTH OF MY life. I was constantly checking my answering machine at home and looking in the mailbox for any signs that OMG wanted me.
Finally, Mike called and asked, “Jimmy, how much money do you make working at the prison?”
“I make about twelve hundred dollars a month,” I said.
“We can pay you two hundred and fifty dollars a week, if you’d like to join us.”
I could not believe Mike Whelan was offering to pay me for doing something I was happy to do for free. Better yet, he was willing to pay me almost as much as I was making by risking my life every day at the prison. I didn’t have to debate my next step.
“Yeah, I’ll do it,” I answered quickly, not even trying to sound cool, “but I’ll need to give the prison a one-month notice.”
“Great,” Mike responded. “I’ll get a formal agreement to you soon.”
One more month, and my life would never be the same—but not for the reasons I hoped.
Thirty-two
GOOD-BYE, JIMMY; GOOD-BYE, BEA
FOR THE NEXT MONTH I FOCUSED ON PACKING MY THINGS, selling anything I didn’t need, and tying up loose ends. But there was one loose end that I wasn’t expecting—my relationship with my friend, Bea Costner.
She was eighty-one years old now, and much to her chagrin, Bea was forced to close the woodshop. For almost a year, a For Rent sign had hung in the window, but Bea still went out to the woodshop and puttered around for hours every day. Eventually the building rented, and Bea was resigned to spending her time sitting in the green-and-white metal chair in the front yard facing the woodshop. She sat there for hours on end, reading her Bible, working crossword puzzles, and watching the new people who had moved into her building.
Although I couldn’t help Bea with her personal business, I picked her up and took her with me to every show I performed. Bea loved going along. It didn’t matter what the event was—a cookout, a pageant, a karaoke contest, or whatever—Bea always sat on the front row, directly in front of the microphone stand.
But she rarely paid much attention to me. Instead, Bea sat on the front row and read her Bible. I couldn’t help but notice, and it drove me crazy.
You mean to tell me, I drove all the way to your house to pick you up and bring you with me to this show, and you’re not even going to pay attention to my performance? I thought. Of course, I never said that to her. I wouldn’t offend Bea for the world.
No matter where we went, she’d sit through the entire show and read her Bible. She didn’t read out loud, but I could see her pen moving across each page as she highlighted various verses.
Having Bea on the front row was a problem for me. I couldn’t flirt with the pretty, young girls, and I surely couldn’t sing a song about partying while Bea was sitting directly in front of me reading Scripture. It was annoying, and it affected my performance; but I loved Bea, and I wanted the beautiful, white-haired woman to be there with me.
I RECEIVED A CALL FROM CINDY BALLARD ASKING ME IF I could sing at the 1997 year-end closing ceremony for Highland Junior High. Of course, I accepted the invitation.
I called Bea and asked her to come along. But because I anticipated a number of bubbly high school girls bouncing to the beat on the front row, I planned ahead how I could circumvent Bea’s Bible reading.
When we arrived, I told Bea, “I have a special chair for you tonight, right over here by the exit door, so you won’t have to battle the crowd after the show is over.” I ushered Bea to her special seat and told her I was going backstage to prepare for the show. Bea sat down in the seat by the door, with her purse and Bible in her lap.
Ecstatic that I had moved her out of the fan zone without offending her, I went backstage with a smile on my face. Soon the announcer’s voice boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Jimmy Wayne Barber!” The house lights went down, the curtains opened, and the spotlight was on me. I walked out to the microphone at the edge of the stage, and as I reached for the mike, I glanced down into the audience of young girls. There, right in the middle of the girls, sat Bea on the front row, directly in front of the mike stand, reading her Bible.
Oh, well, I thought. I tried.
About halfway through my performance, I saw Bea close her Bible and stand up. I continued singing but kept an eye on her. She walked to the exit door and stepped out of the auditorium. Cindy Ballard followed her to make sure she was okay.
The moment I finished singing, I ran out to see where Bea was and to find out what was wrong.
“Oh, it’s nothing, Jimmy,” Bea said. “My leg started hurting from sitting so long, and I just needed to walk it off.” I was concerned. Bea was tough, and it was highly uncharacteristic of her to even mention
an ache or a pain, much less to get up and walk out of a show. I said a quick good-bye to Cindy and the staff and helped Bea to the car.
It was a short drive back to Bea’s house. As I glanced over at her, she was looking down at her Bible in her lap. Her face was radiant, and her white hair was beautiful, as usual. To me, she looked the same as she did the day I met her.
The familiar voice spoke to me: You need to tell Bea you love her and how much you appreciate all she has done for you.
What? I thought. I had never said those words to Bea, not once. This is weird.
We drove on in silence for a few more minutes. We were approximately one minute from her house. We were both unusually quiet.
“Bea,” I said.
She looked up but didn’t speak.
I stared at the road in front of me, and thought, I can’t believe I’m getting ready to do this. This feels so cheesy.
She simply sat there, as though waiting on me to say something.
Finally I looked at her and said, “Bea, I love you.” I quickly looked away from her. I had lived with Bea for six years and had known her now for seven years, but that was the first time I’d ever uttered those words to her.
“I love you, too, Jimmy,” Bea responded warmly and easily.
The door of my heart opened, like the dikes of a dam, and a Niagara of words flowed out in a rush. I began thanking her for everything I could possibly think of—for opening her home to me, for the opportunity to have a car, an education, my job. I thanked her for encouraging me to pursue my dream of being a musician. I thanked her for all the doughnuts and the Coca-Colas she gave me when I cut the grass. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” I told her. “Thank you, Bea, for my clothes; thank you for all the meals you made for me.” I thanked Bea for everything.
I pulled in her driveway, parked the car, and ran around to her side and opened the door. She reached out and locked her arm with mine as I helped her out of the car. We walked slowly toward her front door, and Bea commented on how much her leg was still hurting.
When Bea got to the top of the three steps leading to her door, she turned around and looked at me. It struck me that she was standing in the exact spot where she stood the day she first invited me into their home, holding open the same glass storm door. I, too, was standing in the same spot as I stood that day I showed up with my bag full of dirty clothes.
“Well, I’ll be back in three days to pick you up and take you to another show,” I said.
Bea looked at me and extended her arm slightly to wave at me. It was as though she was looking right through me. “Good-bye, Jimmy!” she said with so much love as she waved at me.
I thought, This is very weird.
We were three feet from each another. Still, I waved at Bea, and she waved at me again. I waved back, and we stood there waving at each other for what seemed like several minutes.
Bea kept saying, “Good-bye, Jimmy! Good-bye, Jimmy!” over and over.
I said, “Good-bye, Bea; I’ll see ya in three days, okay?”
Bea didn’t acknowledge my comment. She smiled and said again, “Good-bye, Jimmy.” She continued to wave at me.
I got in the car, and Bea was still waving. I pulled out and headed down the road, but when I looked in my rearview mirror, I saw Bea, still standing there, waving.
I waved at her one last time.
She was beautiful.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING I RECEIVED A PHONE CALL FROM Bea’s daughter, Sandie; she was crying. Somehow I knew what Sandie was going to tell me.
“She had a stroke, Jimmy,” Sandie said through her tears. “They said Mother had a blood clot in her leg that moved to her brain.”
Sandie and I wept together on the phone.
Over the next month or so, I visited Bea in the hospital as often as possible. Most days, she was unconscious, deep in a coma. I’d hold her hand and talk to her, but she rarely responded. Every so often, though, she roused slightly, and I tried to feed her some applesauce. She ate little and before long slipped back into the coma. Whether she knew I was there or not didn’t matter; I went to visit her anyhow.
One day I slipped into her room, and she was in the coma. Some other friends were visiting, so I simply stepped to the side of the bed and held Bea’s hand. “Bea? Bea, it’s Jimmy,” I said softly.
She opened her eyes, and they seemed to roll slightly, but then she focused just enough on me. In a soft, weak voice, she mumbled words that will motivate me till the end of time. Speaking barely above a whisper, Bea looked at me and said, “I’ll be looking for you.”
She closed her eyes and slipped back into the coma. Those were her last words to me, and to all who knew her. “I’ll be looking for you.” And she will be.
GOD PROMOTED BEA TO GLORY ON JULY 29, 1997. WHEN Sandie called and said, “Mother passed away,” I was terribly sad, but I was glad that she was not suffering anymore, and I knew that because of our mutual faith in Jesus, I would see Bea again.
Still, her funeral was difficult for me. I knew that Bea would want me to sing, so I walked up to the podium and turned around to face the congregation. I looked down and saw Bea lying in front of me, in the casket. Her white hair was done perfectly, although it didn’t look quite right without some sawdust in it. Her face retained the dignity of royalty even in death.
She was still beautiful.
I began singing “How Great Thou Art,” one of her gospel favorites, but I couldn’t get through it. I just cried.
I think she understood, and I thought I heard her saying from somewhere up in heaven, I’ll be looking for you, Jimmy.
Thirty-three
SOME DREAMS REALLY DO COME TRUE
BY JANUARY 1998, MIKE WHELAN AND I HAD AGREED IN principle on the deal points for my songwriting agreement with Opryland Music Group. I still wasn’t officially a professional songwriter, but the possibility of my dream coming true was one step closer. In the meantime, I went to work at the prison each day and slipped into the music room at every opportunity to practice my guitar playing. My commanding officer discovered me practicing when I should have been guarding prisoners, but he knew my time at the prison was winding down, and he graciously didn’t fire me.
On March 20, 1998, the time came for me to turn in my badge and uniforms. As I walked through the gate, carrying a plastic bag filled with my prison guard uniforms, a convict yelled, “Hey, Elvis, you gonna play us a song?”
“I can’t,” I replied.
“Hey, everybody, Barber Mandrell is going to play us a song,” the convict called out, using the parody of my name with which he often teased me. Convicts stood up from the weight benches; a couple of guys threw down their basketballs. Others laid down their cards or stopped doing what they were doing and walked toward me. A crowd gathered quickly, and I knew I had to play at least one song before I left, or there was going to be trouble.
So like the pied piper, I walked toward the music room with a large group of convicts following behind me. I could hear antsy prison officials calling out over the intercom system, “Attention on the midyard! All inmates must remain in the yard.” The guards must have thought something bad was about to happen since it looked as though a riot was about to break out. The army of convicts continued following me. We went inside the music room—the same music room where I sometimes met with Jody Hager and where Sergeant Newton caught me practicing guitar. Cons and killers surrounded me the same way they did on my first day during mail call. Some sat at my feet, others stood in the doorway stretching their necks to look in. Still others looked in the windows.
I took down from the cabinet the brown guitar, the same one Jody had used, with the prison number 4515 stamped on it. I was about to begin playing when the prison superintendent burst through the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“They want me to play them a song,” I said.
He looked at me then glanced around at all the prisoners. The convicts looked back at him expectantly.
&n
bsp; “One song, and that’s it!” the superintendent said. “One song, Barber; do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
I began strumming the guitar and singing the song I’d written with Bea in mind, “My Only Friend,” describing the unconditional love of a mother. My guitar playing still wasn’t great, but I was at least able to accompany myself by now. As I played and sang, I noticed several men listening with tears trickling down their faces. That could be dangerous because in prison, tears are a sign of weakness. But the men didn’t seem to care.
Adult men began to groan as I sang. Others cursed. But they all missed their mamas. I understood. So did I.
After the song, the convicts applauded, not so much to thank me but to break the tension. As other men filed out of the room, some saying good-bye, others nodding in grudging respect, Ron, one of the toughest cons in the prison, approached me. Ron had been on death row and was now serving a life sentence. As he neared me, he reached in his back pocket, and I immediately was on alert. I thought, He’s reaching for a shank—a homemade prison weapon.
An unwritten but generally known rule among convicts requires that a convict keep a six-foot distance between himself and an officer when talking to the guard, so other convicts can hear what they are saying. Otherwise, the convict will be accused of snitching, and in prison, snitches get stitches.
Ron violated the six-foot rule and got right in my face. But instead of a weapon, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket. He opened it and removed a photo of a woman.
“Here, will you sign this?” Ron asked, as he handed me the photo.
“Your mother’s picture?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said quietly.
I paused momentarily and looked into Ron’s eyes, and he looked into mine. In some incomprehensible yet very real way, we were brothers. I took the photo and carefully signed the back of it, then handed it back to him.