I listened to my parent’s car radio as a kid with a different set of ears than when I listened to my stereo as a teen. The same is true now when I listen to new music through my iPod. I am obviously the same person, but the passage of time and my refinement as a musician has changed the way I hear music.

I was transported into another world through an imaginary portal inside the AM radio next to my bed. I turned it off just before I fell asleep–and when I woke up the next morning–I would switch it back on. I can tell you the release date of many of the songs from that era based on the years I had that little bed-side box. I didn’t hear with a critical ear back then–I simply listened to songs as a whole. I wasn’t concerned about stereo, just moved by the songs as they rolled out over the static and into my head and heart.

Now, with the search for those recordings on the internet to recapture that emotional experience from the AM radio days, I am disappointed. It’s hard to ignore the out-of-tune vocals. The drums sound like dull, cardboard boxes, and the liberal use of reverb seems to make the mixes sound cloudy and dark. I want to re-connect with the way those songs once made me feel. Maybe the youthful wonder has been spoiled by knowing too much about the process of making music.

I remember hearing Black Sabbath’s Paranoid and Deep Purple’s Machine Head for the first time. Without realizing it, I was delving into the beginnings of of heavy metal music. I was mesmerized. I was blown away by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young’s Deja Vu. The Beach Boys probably had the greatest emotional effect on me. When I listen to these records today, it’s hard to dismiss the flaws.

Flaws or not, those records changed my life. Today, many a vocal is tuned to keyboard-like perfection, drums are scooted around and tightened up, and the recordings are hiss-free and crystal-clear. I have learned that these changes don’t necessarily make for better records. I’ll always cherish that little AM radio. Static and all, it introduced me to the fantasy that I am living today.

Just yesterday morning on Facebook my sister-in-law posted that my nephew Peter had an eye exam. They found out that he was half blind. Brenda shot back a reply and said we found out the same thing about Betsy when she was in school. In Betsy’s case, poor eyesight was handed down through me and my dad. Who knows how far back this malady goes in my family? I shudder to think what she missed all those years that we were unaware of her ablepsy.

Glasses have been plastered to my face since I was 13. The month my braces were removed, following a 2-year tangle with the orthodontist, an optometrist took his place with my diagnosis of near-sightedness. I remember borrowing a friend’s glasses and being surprised to behold vivid colors and solid lines replacing the fuzzy, undefined shapes I was used to seeing. I had a terrible headache one Saturday after going to the movies, so my dad booked a visit to the eye doctor only to confirm what he already suspected.

Brenda’s eyesight has always been perfect until recently. Only a few years ago she began to need a little help from readers to enjoy her beloved Kindle. Joshua takes after his mother in that his eyes have needed no assistance whatsoever in seeing the world around him. I have never known a morning when I woke up without patting down the bedside table in search of my glasses. In fact, I have an over-sized digital clock next to me so I can see the time without them when nature calls in the middle of the night ( a whole other story for another time!). For a decade I have carried reading glasses to accompany my contact lenses. It didn’t seem fair when my doctor told me I’d have to wear both. That revelation sucked.

I guess the only remedy would be surgery. It makes me cringe to think about that. I can’t stand the thought of someone dragging a knife across my cornea. Trifocals do the job pretty well for me these days, as do contact lenses when I play on stage. So, to add to a challenged prostate, failing teeth, ear hair and rosy cheeks, glasses will continue be a constant companion.

Merle Haggard has an extraordinary way with words. He has crafted many a hit that still find their way, via his greatest hits releases, into my iPod. As a master songwriter, his material should be studied by future songsmiths. Today I was listening through his new release called, I Am What I Am. In his 76th album, this 73 year old sings about love from an old and wise perspective, and says in a recent interview with American Songwriter magazine , “I’ve seen it all, and I’ve seen it go away.” His wife Teresa joins him on many of the tunes, one of which caught my heart when I first heard it:

Pretty When It’s New

Love’s always lovely, when first two lovers meet.
Hand in hand, arm in arm, walkin’ down the street.
Always seen together, in everything they do.
Love is always pretty, when it’s new.

Love is always special, especially to the heart.
When it’s love on sight, and all is right, and there’s no doubt from the start.
Before it starts to crumble, there’ll be many shades of blue.
Ah, but love is always pretty when it’s new.

Love is always pretty, when it’s new.
Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, “We’re through.”
Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true.
Love is always pretty when it’s new.

It’s a sad commentary on our society when the statistic remains that half of all marriages fail. I heard that warning a lot when I was dating Brenda. People would say, “You better be sure before you take the plunge.” The truth is, we all go into marriage with a bright hope for tomorrow, and plan to grow old and gray together. Somewhere along the road, some couples just find that life will be better splitting up and heading in different directions. Haggard’s song says it well, “Love is always pretty, when it’s new. Hey, there’s nothing bad about it, ‘til your lover says, ‘We’re through’.” The only advice I can give potential partners is that marriage is a series of decisions made along the way in the interest of staying together on the same path. Feelings don’t always accompany those moments of decision, but they will follow if given time. I heard it said that there’s no better mate than the one you already have. That sounds rough to those in a marital crisis. But when you bring your old baggage to a new marriage, and factor in the blended family with all of it’s challenges, you are better off working at sticking together.

I’ve been a witness to a 50 year love affair between my parents. Brenda’s folks celebrated their 50th last December. Yes, love is exciting and invigorating when it’s shiny and new. But, as the song implies in it’s closing stanza, “Old love’s even sweeter, that old saying’s really true.” As Brenda and I reach our 25th anniversary this December, I can say, “Amen,” to that, Mr. Haggard. I am still madly in love.

My mom went to be with Jesus 13 years ago, April. Every once in a while, usually by way of a song, a whiff of dinner cooking, or simply a change of season, her memory comes to life. When mom was alive, I must have taken her for granted. Today, as the fall slowly continues it’s transformation on the landscape, I am reminded of just how much color and beauty she brought to me. She was a quiet person, generally, until Aretha Franklin records played on the stereo. Man, she could dance! But when she settled down from her occasional funk-fest, you barely knew she was there.

Mom was small–right at 5′-2″ when she stood up straight. But nothing ever got by her and she would wield a belt like no none else. I never saw her run or hurry anywhere except to defend her three boys if there was a hassle at school or if we were falsely accused of something. I remember the time I was assigned to a sixth grade teacher that my brother Rob had three years earlier. My mom must have deeply disliked this teacher because she yanked me out of Pacific Drive School altogether and put me in Mr. Neal’s sixth grade class at Orangethorpe Elementary.

My mom was tough. But she had a soft spot in her heart and a deep love for my dad. She had to endure much as a little kid. Her own father left the family for another woman which caused her mom to uproot she and her younger brother from Clarksville, TN to Evansville, IN to worked in a cigar factory. Even before her father eventually returned to the family, my mom dearly loved and defended him. His drinking annoyed her, though. As an infant, her dad would take her to sit on the bandstand while he played trumpet in a jazz band. One time my mom, her brother and mother sat in a car at the curb waiting on her dad to collect money for a painting job he had done. The debtor, standing in his front doorway, refused the polite request to pay and my mom, hearing the exchange, leaned out of the car window and screamed, “You son of a ____!” She was fierce, protective, loyal and had a fiery temper!

My mom wasn’t perfect. She had issues with trust. Money, or the lack of it, really tugged at her security blanket. But she taught me to stand up against what was wrong. She was an advocate for those who were shoved into the shadows–like the mentally handicapped she worked with for several years. She detested liars and often shined a light of truth on their dark deeds.

No one wants to hear the dreaded news. It came on a Saturday, just hours after I told her I loved her. She was gone–stolen from us way too early by a brain hemorrhage. Powerful things come in small packages. Mom made a powerful effect on my life. The changing season makes those memories seem so real today–almost like she never left.

Mom at age 17

Tennessee is in my blood. Both branches on my family tree lived in this state for a couple of hundred years before moving west to find work, right around the depression. My father’s relatives hail from Centerville and spread out to Franklin and Nashville. Middle Tennessee is Harvill territory. My mother’s people, the Ryes and Hudspeths, hail from Clarksville, right at the border of Kentucky where my grandmother was born. Even though I was born in southern California, I was raised in a decidedly Southern fashion. Bacon grease was considered an herb in my home. Meat was consumed at every meal, and we didn’t shy away from the succulent fat that outlined and marbled each piece.

I learned to grill as early as I learned to cut the grass. My dad gladly handed over the reigns to me. The smell of the coals as they burn off the lighter fluid still gives me reason to choose briquettes over gas to this day! I learned early that the best tasting meat wasn’t cooked to death. I still can’t understand how people can eat “shoe leather” steaks. My preference is medium-rare and my cut of choice is a rib eye, no less. Our health-conscious society frowns upon the marbled fat that ribbons it’s way through a righteous rib eye. Though I have made serious changes in my diet, I will still kill for a rib eye every few months!

Barbecue is a staple of the Tennessee diet. Our ancestors–well, slaves to be more accurate–cooked outdoors, over an open flame, the discarded cuts of pork rejected by the main house, and used smoke to cure the winter’s portion of meat. It is a poor man’s food turned into a gold mine for many a restaurateur. Barbecue is as foundational to the Tennessean as a killer Mexican dinner is to the native southern Californian (I am a serious Mexican food fiend, too!).

When my Aunt Judy and Uncle Jim flew out from Orange County to visit us last year, they graciously took time to attend Betsy and Adam’s wedding. When I was taking them back to the airport, they wanted to grab a bite to eat before their long, 6 hour, food-barren flight. I suggested a barbecue place right off the interstate. When our orders arrived, our salivary glands were teased by the sizzling, smokey delights that were placed before us. I asked Jim and Judy if they eat much barbecue. They went on to say that barbecue isn’t big in SoCal. “What????,” I screamed as the other patrons turned to see me pound my fist on the table (this is a fictitious outburst, of course, but the surprise was not).

Californians, according to my aunt and uncle, just don’t have the hankering for smoked meat like we do here in the South. I suspect that it is for health reasons. But even so, the delight we spend millions on each year, this peasant food we call barbecue, will always have a cherished place in our Tennessee hearts and stomachs. I’ll take mine with barbecue beans, cornbread and corn-on-the-cob with iced tea and lemon, thank you! Mama taught me well.