A Guitar and a Pen
Page 6
In addition to his Grammy-winning records with Delbert McClinton, who has recorded twenty-fi ve of his songs, he has produced records for the Judds, Wynonna, Pam Tillis, T. Graham Brown, Chris Knight, and others. His songs have been included in many major motion pictures and on television. Gary and his wife, Barbara, live in Nashville, Tennessee, and have four sons. You can visit his Web site at www.garynicholson.com.
Cybersong
Bobby Braddock
Dear Glamnash:
I enjoyed our little IM chat last night. Like I said, I’m not in the habit of going to singles chat rooms. I’m not in search of a mate—there are two or three people I go out with occasionally—but I’m certainly open to knowing new people.
As I told you last night, I teach history at Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College, locally known as ABAC, in Tifton, a small town in South Georgia. I’m 41 and divorced, have a twelve-year-old son who lives with his mother in Atlanta.
How about exchanging pictures. With a screen name like Glamnash, you must be pretty hot. Ha. Do we tell each other our real names?
Take care,
Agprof
Dear Agprof,
Let’s don’t exchange pictures. How we look, that sort of thing is superficial. I’m not saying that you are superficial, but I think it’s nice for people to get to know each other from the inside out. Too often, it’s the other way around . . . we like the exterior, only to find disappointment with the interior. And we’ve already exchanged names; you’re Agprof and I’m Glamnash!
I am very interested in history; I read history all the time. Do you have a specialized field, i.e. American, world, ancient? And what are your other interests, hobbies, etc.?
I told you I have a modeling agency in Nashville, hence the screen name. Although I’m thirty-seven, I still do some modeling myself. I was married five years and I’ve been divorced six years, no children but I just love kids.
Okay, Mr. Agprof. Tell me more about yourself.
Your friend to the north,
Glamnash
Dear Glamnash:
Well, ex-cuse me for being shallow! Ha. No, you’re right about getting to know each other on the inside first. But I’m not going to tell you that I’m an ugly man. I don’t want you to think I’m some nerdy-looking professor.
OK, I teach U.S. History. I love to read, naturally . . . the same old American history over and over, but also fiction, especially American literature from the 1920s and 1930s, such as F. Scott Fitzgerald, Sinclair Lewis and Thomas Wolfe. I’m a film buff and like to watch videos and DVDs while I’m doing my two miles on the treadmill (I’m a big fan of the old Alfred Hitchcock movies). I love music: classic rock from high school days like Styx and the Eagles, but in the past few years I’ve really gotten into country (red flag? Ha!) My favorite is Alan Jackson. My hobby? Playing my old Martin guitar and writing songs, country songs. And I’m not even a country boy; I was raised in Atlanta. Marietta, actually, just north of Atlanta.
By the way, you write a really good letter. No clues about what you look like? Hair color? Height?
OK, it’s time to feed my dog somebody’s homework, ha. Look forward to hearing from you if you get the chance to write.
Your cyberpal,
Agprof
Dear Agprof,
If you’re wondering why I haven’t written in a few days, it’s because I’ve been in a state of shock. I did write you once, but luckily we’re both on AOL, so I managed to unsend it. I didn’t want to sound ridiculous.
Okay, here goes. First, I love American history; I’m just finishing the John Adams biography by David McCullough and I’m starting one about Benjamin Franklin by H. W. Brands. My favorite book of all time is Look Homeward, Angel by Thomas Wolfe!!!!! Can you believe that? But wait, Agprof, there’s more. I love the Eagles but I too now love country, and my brother knows Alan Jackson—he built his swimming pool!!!!! You may think I’m making all this up, LOL. But I’m serious. What are the chances of this?
I have no doubt that you’re nice looking. You want to send me a picture so bad you can’t stand it LOL. And you wanted a few hints about me? FYI I was voted best looking female at Hillsboro High School in Nashville and I am exactly the same weight now that I was then. Feel better? And I’m a strawberry blonde and five foot seven.
Your turn, Bubba.
Glamnash
P.S. I really like the old Hitchcock films too, especially Psycho.
Dear Glamnash:
Actually, this is pretty amazing, isn’t it!? So tell me: on what long trip did John Adams take a family member along, who did he take and at what time of the year were they traveling? And just curious, you tell me, what are your politics and your religion?
In utter amazement,
Agprof
Dearest Agprof,
Well, obviously you’re the teacher giving me a test, or, more frankly stated, you’re the detective giving me a lie detector test. Okay. John Adams took his son John Quincy with him to Europe and they sailed in the dead of winter . . . which proves nothing, I could have run to the library to look it up. But why? What would be the point? Why would I be trying so hard to impress you? Maybe I should send you a picture of me, I’m definitely not chopped liver.
Okay, Ag man, my politics? I’m an independent, I probably vote Democratic more, but sometimes I vote Republican too. Religion? I was raised a Southern Baptist and still consider myself a Christian, though I don’t go to church regularly. So if that doesn’t match up with you, what are you going to do, stop e-mailing me? LOL
As I roll my eyes,
Glamnash
Hold on there, Glamnash!
Hope I didn’t make you mad. Sorry if I sounded cynical. I am amazed, your politics and religion are identical to mine, even down to the backsliding Southern Baptist!
Okay, we’ve got to meet. May I drive up to Nashville this next weekend and take you to lunch? We could meet at a restaurant in broad daylight, just in case you’re afraid that I’m the Georgia Strangler, ha.
Listen, why don’t we talk about this on the phone . . . break the ice . . . and if you feel good about it, just tell me when and where to meet you. My daytime phone number is below. And my name is Kevin Babcock (so now you know, ha!).
In anticipation.
Agprof
Dear Agprof,
No, no, no. You’re breaking the rules with the name and the phone number. I don’t even want to think about them. But yes, I would love for you to drive up to Nashville to meet me. That would be so cool. We’ll talk about John Quincy Adams, Thomas Wolfe, Alfred Hitchcock, the Eagles and country music. This coming Saturday would be perfect. At noon. There will be a little safety factor involved, with which I’m certain you will concur: My brother will be along, but he’ll leave if and when I tell him to. You may be sorry you asked me to meet you, LOL.
You will be coming into Nashville on I-24. When you start getting close to the city, look for the Haywood Lane exit; the next one after that is the exit you take, Harding Place. Heading west on Harding Place, you’ll come to a busy intersection at Nolensville Road. Keep going west on Harding Place for over a mile, and you’ll see a convenience store and strip mall on the right. Just before the convenience store is a little restaurant called Mama Mia’s. It’s a really good Italian restaurant, and we’ll meet you there. If you don’t like Italian food, let me know, and I’ll give you some other directions. As I told you, I am a strawberry blonde, five foot seven, and to be honest, I look like a slightly older Britney Spears (if she were a strawberry blonde). My brother is about my height, has real closely cropped hair, slightly graying, and a beard about the same length as his hair, and he’s very muscular (so don’t try anything, LOL).
Let me know, ag guy!
This is so weird but so-o-o COOL!!!!!!!!!!
Glamnash
P.S. If you have a CD of some of your songs, maybe my brother could give it to Alan Jackson.
P.S. Again. Please confirm that this is on for Saturday, and plea
se describe yourself.
Glamnash!
I am so danged excited. I probably shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to take you up on your Alan Jackson offer. I’ll be bringing a CD with three original songs, and you should listen first and be the judge of whether your brother gives it to Alan or not.
I’ve been to Nashville several times and have a pretty good idea where you’re talking about. I think it’s just before the I-65 intersection.
OK, I’m about 5'6'', not extremely obese but a little pudgy, a tad bald with reddish hair in a ponytail. Hey Glamdoll, I’m messin’ with you. I’m actually just under six feet, I weigh what I’m supposed to weigh and my full head of hair is medium brown and curly, covering the tip top of my ears. My eyes are blue. I’ll be wearing a bright red shirt so you can’t miss me.
I’m planning on having lunch with you, but I don’t have to be back to Tifton until late Sunday night (about a seven hour drive?) so if we find each other irresistible, who knows? Ha! Just in case . . . . I’ve made reservations at a nearby Holiday Inn and I’m bringing along a nice suit. Maybe, just maybe, someone will want me to take her to dinner at a fancy restaurant and spend the night in Nashville.
SEE YOU AT MAMA MIA’S, SATURDAY AT NOON!
The agman cometh,
Agprof
P.S. I drink in moderation, I don’t smoke cigarettes and I haven’t used marijuana in years.
Hey you, Agprof,
Why, of course you’re a social-drinking non-smoking reformed pothead. Just like me!!! Honestly. I think we’re so similar that we’ll hate each other, LOL. No, not really. I think it’s wonderful.
Don’t forget that Nashville is in the Central Time Zone, so noon my time is one o’clock Georgia time.
Big guy, I cannot wait to see you. Mama Mia’s, Saturday at noon.
Love,
Glamnash
P.S. Please drive carefully.
Dear Glamnash:
What a day I had in Nashville. I thought I’d share my impressions with you. I get to Mama Mia’s about 11:55 . . . I go inside and look around . . . I get a table . . . I look around . . . I walk around . . . I even see a couple who could possibly fit your description.“Are you expecting someone from Georgia?” I ask. No luck. I go back to my table and sit and wait . . . and wait . . . and wait . . . then I start walking around the restaurant again.
Over in the corner sat an Asian boy wearing big thick glasses. He looked to be twelve or thirteen years old. He was sitting alone, eating lasagna. He asked if I was looking for someone, so I described you and your brother. He said he hadn’t seen anyone who fit that description. We small-talked a little, then before I knew it, I was deep in serious conversation with this engaging young man. He said his name was Ronald Reagan Kim and his parents came to America from Korea in 1985, a few years before he was born. This guy must have an IQ of 200. He knew more American history than I know. He talked about physics and Einstein’s theory of relativity. He talked about natural science and marine biology and astronomy, you name it. He told me that kids his age would be the first ones to make contact with extraterrestrials and that it would all take place online. So I was thinking, even though I had been stood up by some cyberflake, it was almost worth my nearly 900 mile round trip to meet this little wizard. I was also thinking it would take a teacher to fully appreciate this precocious and brilliantly sagacious little fellow.
I insisted on paying for Ronald’s lunch. He had actually gotten you off my mind for a while. Funny, a kid that age, eating lasagna all by himself at a restaurant on a Saturday. Such a grown-up boy, I thought.
As we walked out of Mama Mia’s together, I looked at my watch and it was 1:15, Nashville time. I thought I’d go back inside and wait another fifteen minues before heading back for Tifton. I bade Ronald goodbye, and he quickly crossed the street, heading toward some apartment complexes. I was still standing at the restaurant door when he turned around to me and yelled, “AGPROF! GLAMNASH!” then turned and ran as fast as he could. I stood there puzzled for a few seconds before I realized I had never shared our screen names with him. Then it hit me all at once.
“You little asshole,” I screamed. For just a second I wanted to break your neck, Mr. Ronald “Glamnash,” but of course I wouldn’t lay a finger on a kid. I was plenty ticked off, though. I was still fuming as I pulled onto I-24 a few minutes later. By the time I was halfway to Chattanooga, I was smiling. As I crossed the Georgia state line, I was laughing hysterically.
That was pretty smart of you, assuming that a Georgia boy might well have been raised a Southern Baptist and, being a history professor, maybe I wasn’t as apt to be a regular churchgoer. And you thought “independent” might not be too far off for my politics, Georgia now being heavily Republican but again, I’m a college professor, so maybe I’m a tad more liberal than the average Georgian. Yes, you had me thinking that Glamnash and I had everything in common. And that crap about Alan Jackson’s swimming pool. Ha. You little jerk. And I was all excited about this mature version of Britney Spears.
I’ve heard that a lot of these urban legends are started by pubescent computer nerds like you. If you can make an underpaid history teacher take a 900 mile round trip to see someone he met online who claims she looks like Britney Spears, then just think what you can do someday to ease pain and suffering in the world, to say nothing of getting us off on the right foot with creatures from outer space.
Good joke, good luck
Agprof
P.S. As soon as I send you this e-mail, I’m changing my screen name.
Bobby Braddock
In a career spanning four decades, Bobby Braddock has left his mark in almost every facet of the country music industry. Having grown up in rural Central Florida during the latter days of the Jim Crow era, he began his Nashville years in the road band of the late-great Marty Robbins. From the mid-1960s to the early 1980s, Braddock was a recording artist for five major labels, but it was as a songwriter that he would enjoy quick and continuing success.
His string of thirteen number-one songs (-thirty-three in the top ten) includes such classics as Tammy Wynette’s “D-I-V-O-R-C-E” in 1968 and George Jones’s “He Stopped Loving Her Today” in 1980, both of which he wrote with his friend and mentor Curly Putman, as well as the Jones-Wynette duet “Golden Ring,” which he wrote with Rafe Van Hoy. Bobby’s hit streak continued through the 1990s as a solo writer with smashes like “Time Marches On” and “Texas Tornado.”
Inducted into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame in 1981, he is the two-time winner (five-time nominee) of the CMA Song of the Year Award, and has received various other accolades, including Grammy nominations. In 2001, he wrote one of the biggest hits of the new millennium, a major crossover and country’s only number-one rap song, “I Wanna Talk About Me,” made famous by superstar Toby Keith.
As a producer, he worked with Blake Shelton with great success—the ultimate result of this collaboration was three albums with sales totaling in the millions, and twelve weeks at the top of the country singles charts.
His memoir Down in Orburndale: A Songwriter’s Youth in Old Florida, cowritten by Michael Kosser, was published by Louisiana State University Press in spring 2007.
Gathering Together
Robert Hicks
I was eight when I wandered into my grandmother’s living room and met up, for the first time, with my great-uncle Willis Phinnaeus Buford, over on the sofa. Though I had never actually seen him before, he needed no introduction.
I panicked. There before me was the bane of my family.
My brothers and cousins and I had been painfully aware of Uncle Willis’s presence at all family gatherings, as far back as any of us could remember. Yet, while the older ones often claimed to have seen him, I don’t believe that any really had—before I encountered him there on my grandmother’s sofa. My great-aunt Willie never went anywhere without him, but was not one to parade him around like the freak he had become. When we dared ask our parents why Aunt Willie never
let us see him, our parents told us, “She cares too much to have y’all gawking at him and asking uncomfortable questions”—as if such an answer could be enough.
And so he remained the unseen visitor at every gathering: a presence never addressed or spoken of, except in whispers, when Willis and Willie were out of earshot.
To my grandmother, Mattie Louise Talmadge Fort, both Aunt Willie and Uncle Willis were black marks against—and embarrassments to—our clan. Only blood—our family’s and Jesus’—made their presence in the least bit tolerable.
My grandmother considered many things to be black marks against our family: for instance, she didn’t care for us to be in any way linked to the more famous Talmadge family of Georgia politics. They, too, were a black mark on our good name. If someone asked her if we were kin, she would smile the smile of Southern women and say, “Now do we really look like Georgians?” as if somehow Georgians looked different from those who hailed from west Tennessee. In truth, she could have cared less that those Talmadges were from Georgia; it was that they were the worst kind of politicians—those who scared poor ignorant white folks into voting for them by talking about the “Colored Threat.”
Our own brand of racism, like everything else in our family, was far gentler and had grown softer with age. We were secure in our position in this world, and loved “our people” as our people. My grandmother loved the colored families that surrounded her and made her life click along smoothly in its place; she probably loved them more than she loved her white family. She prayed for them, fervently. She longed to be in their company in this life, and looked forward to being with them for eternity in the next.
Grandmother was far more confident that she would be spending eternity surrounded by those she loved than she was with the knowledge that her young sister, my Aunt Willie, and her husband, my Uncle Willis, would be with her.
Aunt Willie was weak. She was timid, helpless, and made poor choices in life. I knew all this by the time I was eight. Southern women act weak—they always have. They’re supposed to act weak. But acting is never to be confused with being. It’s all part of their role. While they acted, they sent their husbands and sons to war, ran the farms and stores, kept their families together, nursed their children and their people’s children and their wounded when it all went bad. They were the ones who buried their dead, who fought off the invaders, who put life back together afterwards. They were the ones who kept the sacred memory of the heroic past. And they did it all without ever giving up the act.