Chicken Soup for the Country Soul

by Jack Canfield

  When Mom presented that music box to Josie on her seventh birthday, my sister fell in love. She fell in love with dancing. She wanted to be that ballerina on a pink horse. Josie begged and pleaded with Mom for lessons. And our mother—never one to deny her daughters anything—said yes. To my great surprise, Josie approached ballet with a focus and a fervor that could only be described as true love.

  While other kids were out playing, Josie was in dance class. And when she came home from school, she would go to her room, wind up the music box and dance some more. Sometimes her girlfriend, Anna, would come over. Anna would help Josie with her regular school exercises and lessons, making sure my sister didn’t stop until she got everything right. And when Josie was feeling down, Anna was there to offer encouragement and kind words.

  They were the best of friends.

  Anna was always a nervous observer on those occasions when Josie chose to practice her balancing act on the high rail fence near our house. The height of the fence seemed to increase Josie’s excitement, and the narrow width of the rails provided a welcome challenge to the limber, self-confident athlete. One day, several of Josie’s schoolmates were also on hand to watch the high-altitude performance. Eager to demonstrate her skill as the kids egged her on, Josie attempted some of her most difficult maneuvers—including one where she placed the arch of her left foot just above the knee of her right leg while pirouetting. But she wasn’t wearing her toe shoes at the time. And she wasn’t performing in the safety of her bedroom or the practice hall. She lost her balance, tumbled to the ground, twisted her knee and was unable to get up. Soon afterward, Josie made the trip to our community hospital by ambulance with our mother at her side.

  Now, Josie was lying on a hospital bed in traction with a cast around her leg. Today, the doctor was coming in to tell her when the cast was coming off. My sister was impatient; she wanted to be in her toe shoes and back on the dance floor.

  Josie shivered with excitement when the doctor finally entered the room. But he had bad news. The X rays confirmed that her leg would heal fairly well, but she could never dance again. He said her knee could not take the pressure, nor would it support the agility needed for ballet.

  Josie was stunned. She stared at the doctor in disbelief. His news had wounded her more than the fall. With the thought of never dancing again, her heart fluttered to the ground like a wounded bird.

  The first night home from the hospital was spent in a deep sleep. But morning brought no relief. The first thing Josie saw when she awoke was the music box. She picked up the fragile porcelain and threw it against the wall—hard. It shattered into a thousand pieces. For the first time since the doctor had spoken to her, my sister cried.

  Josie stayed in her room for the next few weeks. Inconsolable, she wanted no sympathy or help from anyone. When Anna came to visit, Mom had to turn her away. For the rest of the summer, friends phoned and sent get-well cards. The calls went unanswered, and the cards were left unopened on Josie’s dresser.

  Finally, September came and it was time for school. Josie would have to leave the sanctuary of her room. Now, even though the cast was gone and she wore a temporary knee brace, Josie was still on crutches.

  Mom bought her a new dress in the hope of cheering her up, but to no avail. Josie felt lost and abandoned. Without her dream, there was no joy in her heart. So, with her backpack slung over her shoulder, Josie grabbed her crutches and left the house. Mom and I watched as she walked toward the school bus. Anna was there, waiting on the corner.

  Josie had turned Anna away during that long summer, but now there was a strange attraction. You see, Anna had worn leg braces and used crutches most of her life. The polio virus had crippled her when she was only five. Anna had always dreamed of becoming a runner and competing in the Olympics. But as her disability grew worse and there proved to be no cause for hope, Anna was still a happy person. Deep in her heart, Anna knew she was a runner. She always had been and always would be.

  As the two girls drew closer, they both started to cry. Then they began laughing—right out loud! They laughed until they cried. And for the first time since the accident, Josie smiled. Like Anna and her dreams of running, Josie knew she could never dance again. But deep inside, my sister would always be a ballerina on a pink horse. She always was and always will be. With that thought, her heart took wing and soared.

  Barry Ettenger

  6

  THE POWER OF

  A SONG

  Music has a way of reaching into the hidden corners of the mind and heart and stirring a soul.

  Reverend Robert Schuller

  Achy Breaky Heart

  Don Von Tress wrote “Achy Breaky Heart” in early 1990. At that time, Don was hanging wallpaper for a living. He began the song while driving around in his van from one job site to another. As Don tells it . . .

  I spent about 80 percent of my time on the road driving between jobs. Most of that time was spent writing. I remember singing the chorus of “Achy Breaky Heart” into a little tape recorder and thinking I had some thing pretty good. When I got home that night, I pulled out my new guitar and amplifier I had gotten for Christmas of 1989. The new guitar had really inspired my writing, some thing I had been pursuing since 1963 with little success, and the signature guitar riff on the song came pretty quickly. When I finished the song that night, some people may think this is crazy, but I distinctly remember having a clear vision of little kids singing and dancing. It was overwhelming and I felt then that “Achy Breaky Heart” was going to be special.

  It was ravaged by the critics. Travis Tritt said aloud what many other country artists were whispering under their breath—that this song did not represent country music, nor did Billy Ray Cyrus have any right to call himself a country artist.

  But Billy Ray’s fans didn’t care what the critics, or Travis, said. They turned out in droves at his concerts and at the record stores. The Some Gave All album soared past platinum sales of 1 million and continues selling today with a total sales figure of close to 10 million.

  In the letters we received from Billy Ray Cyrus’s fans, they spoke of how “Achy Breaky Heart” had miraculously helped cure physical ailments, end lonely bouts of depression and even served as the impetus for one woman’s one hundred–pound weight loss. Many people wrote that they had never been country music fans until they heard Billy Ray and were converted by his rock-tinged, “twang-less” vocals. Scores of young people from toddlers to teenagers, traditionally not a prime listening audience for country music, were infected by the “Cyrus Virus.”

  One of these new young fans was eleven-year-old Brooke Gall of Susquehanna, Pennsylvania.

  Brooke hung Billy Ray posters all over her bedroom, where she spent hours listening to his music. She wore Billy Ray T-shirts and watched CMT (Country Music Television), eagerly awaiting each time they would air a Billy Ray video.

  Brooke Gall was like millions of other preteen girls—a Billy Ray fanatic. But unlike most of the other young girls, Brooke was different. She was indeed a special fan—for Brooke has Down’s syndrome.

  One of the more serious characteristics of Down’s syndrome can be heart defects. Brooke had her first heart surgery at sixteen months of age when doctors repaired a hole between the chambers of her heart.

  Her second heart surgery took place on September 24, 1992, just three months after her eleventh birthday. Brooke had contracted a virus which attacks the heart. The virus caused scar tissue to form on the walls of her heart valve. Surgery was scheduled to repair the valve, or, if necessary, replace it. The doctors decided the valve had to be replaced. The procedure would be risky, with Brooke facing a fifty-fifty chance of surviving.

  Brooke traveled to University Hospital in Syracuse, New York, ninety miles from her home in Susquehanna. Her mom and stepdad, Mr. and Mrs. Scott Cooper, checked into the Ronald McDonald house near the hospital so they could be by Brooke’s side for support.

  The day Brooke was admitted to the hospital, she wor
e her favorite outfit. Not a lacy dress, or a fancy skirt and blouse, but her prized possession—a Billy Ray Cyrus “Achy Breaky” T-shirt.

  Her family anxiously awaited as the surgery began. Hours later, the operation was successfully completed. Brooke was placed on a respirator and given morphine. Now her family began perhaps the most difficult wait— to see if Brooke’s young body could survive the stress of the operation.

  Brooke was unresponsive the first day after the surgery. The second day came and went. Brooke remained on the respirator unresponsive. On the third day, still no signs of consciousness. Late on the fourth day following the surgery, the doctors grew increasingly concerned about Brooke’s failure to respond. They discussed doing a tracheotomy, another surgical procedure that would tax Brooke’s already fragile body. The doctors finally asked the family if they could think of something—anything— that the family could bring in that Brooke might possibly respond to. Brooke’s family had exactly what the doctor ordered. The Some Gave All cassette by Billy Ray Cyrus.

  On the fifth day, as Brooke was on the downside of her dose of paralyzer, her family watched as they started the cassette on “Achy Breaky Heart.” After not moving for five days, Brooke literally, in seconds, began to sway her arms in a dancing motion while still in her hospital bed on the respirator. Within an hour, Brooke was off the respirator, sitting up in the bed and asking for some of Ronald McDonald’s French fries.

  At 4:00 A.M. the following morning, Brooke was still wide awake and had all the nurses in the cardiac care unit enthusiastically “boogyin’” with her to Billy Ray’s music.

  A short time later, Brooke had recuperated enough from her surgery to leave the hospital. As she was walking out of the hospital, she was wearing yet another special T-shirt, one her family had custom-made for her during her hospital stay. The words they had imprinted on the shirt said what Brooke’s smile reflected—MY ACHY BREAKY HEART IS ALL BETTER NOW.

  Once Brooke had fully recuperated from her operation, she had one thing on her mind—meeting Billy Ray Cyrus in person. Brooke’s grandmother wrote Billy Ray’s manager, Jack McFadden, and told him the story of Brooke’s miraculous recovery. Billy Ray was to be in Binghamton, New York, on November 3, for a concert. Arrangements were made for Brooke and her family to attend the show and meet Billy Ray backstage.

  Their tickets were three rows from the stage, but evidently Billy Ray knew where his biggest fan was sitting that night. Brooke’s mom says Billy Ray spent 90 percent of the concert right in front of Brooke. He even tossed one of his coveted towels, used to wipe his brow, directly to Brooke.

  Afterward, the entire family went backstage. Brooke was beyond thrilled at meeting her idol, but she was not shy. She asked to sing “Achy Breaky Heart” together with Billy Ray. There possibly has never been a more touching duet. Brooke then presented Billy Ray with a rose she had brought to the concert. Billy Ray seemed genuinely moved. He proved it by asking, “Brooke, do you like flowers?” When Brooke replied, “Yes,” Billy Ray scooped up every rose he had been given that night by hundreds of fans and gave them all to Brooke.

  As Brooke left the arena that night, she was smiling just as she had been when she left the hospital a year earlier. She was once again wearing a T-shirt. A picture of Billy Ray Cyrus was on the front, and on the back was the title of her favorite song— “Achy Breaky Heart.” A simple, childlike song which had touched millions, but perhaps saved the life of one—Brooke Gall.

  Bruce Burch

  When life hands you a lemon,

  make lemonade.

  Reprinted by permission of Oliver Gaspirtz. ©1998 Oliver Gaspirtz.

  Just What the Doctor Ordered

  God respects you when you work, but he loves you when you sing.

  Cliffie Stone

  I’ve been asked a million times why I’ve chosen to put up with all the hassles and inconveniences of working the road all these years when I could have easily stayed in Nashville, written songs for a living, and enjoyed a peaceful and comfortable existence. My reply is now and has always been: Nobody applauds when you write a song.

  Applause surely must be the most powerful aphrodisiac known to mankind. The quest for it is a disease of the blood. Or, at best, a genetic disorder. What else would cause an apparently rational person of sound body and mind to pack his belongings and heedlessly ride away from his spouse and family in order to pursue such a nomadic and pointless existence? I mean, it’s not like entertainers cure cancer or anything.

  Or do we?

  I once rode all night and half a day through a blinding snowstorm only to arrive in the little North Dakota town where we were booked to perform to find our concert had been canceled because of the weather. A handful of people hadn’t heard the news, however, and had managed somehow to brave the elements and make their way to the auditorium.

  Normally, under such circumstances, no one would expect the entertainers to perform. All performance contracts contain an “Act of God” clause stating that if something out of human control occurs, the contract becomes null and void.

  The promoter was under no obligation to pay us for the date. Likewise, we had no obligation to go on stage. We were cold, tired and hungry. The endless miles on a narrow, snow-swept highway had taken their toll. But there was something in the eyes of those few fans who had shown up that told us how badly they wanted to hear the music they knew we could play if only we would.

  A small kitchen was off to the side of the auditorium, and the promoter offered to cook us some food. We warmed our hands by the steaming heat rising off a small group of antiquated radiator coils in the corner of the hallway and talked the situation over. There was certainly no place else for us to go. The entire town was held prisoner by the storm. Why not drink some coffee, fill our bellies and pick a little country music?

  Which is exactly what we did. I told the audience they’d better treat us real good, though, because we had ’em outnumbered. We gave them our time and our talents and, in return, they were more than generous to us with their applause.

  When our show was over, we stood around for a while and signed a few autographs and visited with the people. An elderly lady, wearing a heavy coat that had obviously kept her warm for many long winters, her head wrapped in a faded blue scarf, approached the stage where I was standing.

  “You don’t know how much this evening has meant to me,” she said, reaching up for my hand and looking deeply into my eyes.

  “Well, we’ve enjoyed it, too,” I replied, smiling and giving her hand a slight squeeze.

  “My husband just passed away,” she said sadly, lowering her head. “I haven’t been out of the house since he died except to go to the grocery store and to church. I didn’t really want to come here today, but my daughter insisted on bringing me. My husband and I had lots of your records, and we used to enjoy so much watching you on TV.”

  I smiled and thanked her.

  “I’m so glad to get to meet you,” she continued. “Thank you for playing and singing for such a small crowd. Today is the first time I’ve smiled since my husband died. Your music has helped me to forget my problems for a while.”

  Okay, so entertainers don’t cure cancer. But maybe, every once in a while, we cure some other things that are almost as important.

  Whisperin’ Bill Anderson

  It’s Not the End of the World

  If you find it in your heart to care for somebody else, you will have succeeded.

  Maya Angelou

  I’ll never forget one cold night in Michigan while I was on tour with Alan Jackson. A security man handed me a note passed along from a lady in the audience:

  I am here tonight to hear one song, “It’s Not the End of the World.” My son bought two tickets for this show, and he loved this song. He also bought these tickets a long way ahead of time be fore we knew he was sick with advanced cancer. He passed away last month after a very short illness. This song made him happy until the end, and that made me very, very happy. Tonig
ht, I sit here alone with an extra ticke t—so please make us happy and play our song.

  Before I received this note I was so pumped up and excited for the show. But the note just floored me. I gave the note to my manager and asked him to arrange for the lady to come backstage to my preshow meet-and-greet area. Soon, I spotted her walking up the hall toward me. She was so happy, her face was lit up with a thousand-watt smile. It was wonderful! I sang the song to her before I went on. The lady was so happy, and I thought perhaps I understood what she was feeling. In her heart, she knew her son was living a better life and that made me feel good in my heart.

  Because of the emotion of that song, none of us will ever be the same again. I believe that song completely changed three lives that night. To the boy who had left and was looking down at us, it helped him find his way to the next life. To the mother, it allowed her to feel a certain acceptance and gladness for his leaving and eased the pain of her loss. And it taught me that it’s okay to be excited and high about being an entertainer privileged to bring happiness and gladness into people’s lives. It also taught me never to forget to keep my feet on the ground. . . . and to always remember the things that come from the heart.

  Emilio

  I Will Always Love You

  Your talent is God’s gift to you. How you use it is your gift to God.

  Country Saying

  Some time ago I was in an airport in Somewhere, U.S.A., when a lovely, well-dressed lady came up to me and said, “I hope I’m not intruding on your privacy, but I could not let this moment go by, as I feel that it was God’s will that I see you today. I want to thank you, on behalf of my family, for writing, ‘I Will Always Love You.’