it. I decided while under the influence of some serious “herbs” that I’d had enough of their making fun of me.
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Determined to shoot something, I took aim at the next rabbit the dogs jumped. But my buckshot didn’t hit the
rabbit. It hit one of my family’s prized hunting dogs in the behind.
After about three flips, that poor dog never was the same again! Needless to say, my family stayed off my back
about shooting animals from then on. I still went hunting with them every Thanksgiving, though. I even bought
all the camouflage clothes, gear and boots. But I only fired my shotgun one time in about 20 years.
After those famous hunting trips, famished from tramping up and down the Tennessee hills all day, we returned
to another homemade feast, fresh from the farm. We’d gorge again until we were all in pain and Aunt Maude
brought out her famous banana pudding. When we were too stuffed to swallow another bite, we’d meander out
to the front porch just to breathe and rest while the women cleaned up the kitchen.
PICKIN’ ON THE PORCH
That’s when the time tested routine, the ordinary moments that would have such an extraordinary effect on the
rest of my life, would begin. Somebody would pull out a harmonica, a banjo, or a mandolin, and the magic
would start. Because music was at the core of our family, almost every member played some instrument. One
distant cousin brought his big bull bass all the way from California, strapped to the top of his old woody station
wagon. As everybody began tapping their feet to the hillbilly rhythms on that hollow wooden porch, it sounded
like the best drummer in Dixie to me.
The less experienced musicians would start these “picking and grinning” sessions. Once they played for a while,
my father, his brother, and the other really gifted players would pull out their axes: fiddles, guitars, twelve
strings, mandolins, and an accordion. The result was some of the best Gospel bluegrass music you ever heard.
Good doesn’t even begin to describe it. Or then again, maybe it does. There, on Aunt Maude’s porch, without any
blaze of glory, I heard sounds so good they captured my heart. And in the Tennessee twilight as the stars began to
shine, I made a decision that would end up taking me places beyond my wildest dreams: I’d spend the rest of my
life making music.
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CHAPTER THREE
CHURCH BOY
THE POWER
Everybody’s running
Where do we think we’re going
And what is everybody thinking of
Is that the wind we’re chasing
Our memories erasing
Have we denied the power of Love
Don’t deny the power
This is the final hour
So don’t deny the power of Love
Life is so demanding
And what is understanding?
And can you really, really trust your mind
That’s why I’m shouting out the warning
He could be coming in the morning
Are you afraid of what He’s gonna find
Please don’t deny the power of Love
Lyrics by Mylon Le Fevre
Angel Band Music/Dayspring Music
Used by permission
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Most kids don’t commit the unpardonable sin in church before they’re 10 years old. But I did. Or so I thought.
The best I remember, it was a sweltering day in August during a typical Sunday morning service. With no air
conditioning to cool things off, funeral-home fans were waving frantically throughout the church. My
granddaddy’s voice, rising in its familiar, song-like rhythm, had inspired the congregation, and the weekly jumping
and hollering had commenced.
The scene was familiar to me. I saw it all the time. But I was caught off guard when one elderly gentleman who
usually slept in church woke up. Realizing he hadn’t hollered yet, he screamed so loud it scared me right out of
my seat. When "hollering-man" screamed, then "running-man" took off around the pews. That was
"chicken-woman’s" cue to do her thing and all I can tell you is, it was on!
I don’t know what her real name was but all of us kids called her “chicken-woman” because when Granddaddy got
wound up, she would jump to her feet, whooping with her elbows out like wings, and bob her head back and forth
just like a chicken! When I inquired as a child why people did stuff like that in church, the Holy Ghost always got
the blame. So the Sunday Momma heard me say “Look out, here comes chicken-woman!” I found myself in major
trouble.
Momma told me not to make fun of the Holy Ghost because it was blasphemy. I asked what blasphemy was and
she said it was the unforgivable sin. That freaked me out. I thought, Oh Lord, it’s too late, I’ve already done it!
I wish I’d known then what I know now: that God is so good, He’s already granted forgiveness to anybody who
will receive it (including little boys baffled by what they see in church); that the Holy Spirit is wonderful not
weird. I guess my parents didn’t know how to explain those things to me. Or maybe they thought I was too young
to
