Chapter 49 – Mom

In the summer of 2001, I was guiding her wheelchair down the long corridor of Nashville International Airport. Donna, Jonathan, Daniel and two year old Morgan by our side. Mom was frail and, although she could walk, it seemed easier for her to be in that chair. We kissed goodbye at the gate (yes, you could still go all the way up to the gate then). The attendant wheeled her away. She turned around and tearfully smiled and waved goodbye.

Living at Susan’s house in Nichols Canyon, Mom was trying to keep a brave face. But behind that slightly shaky voice, a voice she tried to emit well being and good spirits, I knew she was not doing well. I tried to look beyond it—so did she. I was involved with writing my screenplay, reading “how to” books and taking classes. Too busy, or too much in denial to notice Mom slipping away. I got the call from Susan in mid-April to come home to L.A. Susan still thought of Los Angeles as my home although I had been in Tennessee for almost seven years. She said that our mother was dying.

Susan had pleaded with Mom to tell her when it was time. Mom said she would let her know. The night of April 12 was a bad one and Susan didn’t want to call 911 thinking it would take too long for the paramedics to arrive in the hills of Hollywood, so she decided to drive Mom to the hospital in the BMW. She gently helped her into the back of the car and drove like a maniac to Cedars Sinai Hospital in West Hollywood.

“Is it time, mom?” she asked?

“It’s time,” the last words she ever said. After she arrived at the hospital they stuck a tube down her throat and she could not speak. Her eyes told the story. Susan was beside herself with panic and anxiety. They always had a great relationship, honest and open. She was not only Susan’s mother but her best friend, spiritual advisor and confidant. Mom was like that with me, too. I could tell her anything and she would listen without judgment or attitude.

I booked the first flight out of Nashville on the morning of the 13^th scheduled to arrive around ten am. Somewhere over Colorado I got an electric ping in my heart. I didn’t want to believe what my brain, my psyche was telling me. Robbie was supposed to meet me at the baggage area but when I saw Carol, my sister-in-law, at the bottom of the escalator I knew that Mom was gone. She died while I was over the Rocky Mountains.

I might have gone to the hospital. But I was in such a state of shock that I don’t really remember. Now that I think about it I must have. Susan who was waiting for me in the lobby told me Mom’s body, removed from intensive care, was now in the morgue waiting for interment at Mt. Sinai next to my father’s site. I hugged my sister and we both cried. I drove her BMW back to Nichols Canyon. She made some tea and we talked about Mom for hours. She told me the story of her last day on earth. I was sorry I missed it.

In the Jewish religion, the recently departed’s burials are quick. No beating around the bush. I think it was Monday the 15^th or Tuesday the 16^th. Probably the latter since we needed a little time to make arrangements and get the word out to her friends and the rest of the family. Robbie, Susan and Shauna, my sister’s best friend and roommate handled all the details. I called Stephen, Blair, Paul Downing and a few of the people who would help support me in my hour of despair and need. Mom had always been kind to my friends and had given them shelter, food and good advice. They loved her. Stephen said she was more of a mother to him than his real mom.

The rabbi was a Grateful Dead-head right out of rabbinical school by the name of Michael Ozar. He gave a stirring and hippy-dippy tribute to my mom (something I think she would have appreciated). He said that she was blessing out on the other side now. Robbie and Carol rolled their eyes wishing that Susan would have chosen a more traditional rabbi to conduct the service. It was all right with me. The Hebrew reading or parashah for her ceremony was Chayei Sara which customarily is in November, but Chayei Sara was my mom’s Hebrew name so it was fitting. The parashah tells the stories of Abraham’s negotiations to secure a burial place for his wife Sarah and his servant’s mission to secure a wife for Abraham's son Isaac. There was standing room only. Everyone whose life my mom had touched and vice-versa was there. It was truly beautiful.

My mom. How do I explain how wonderful a person she was? All my spiritual qualities, my quest for knowledge, my love of art, music and literature I got from her. I got my work ethic and acting ability from my dad…music too. But mom showed me how it was possible to do the thing you loved most in the world and be happy in a relationship too.

Standing at a monumental 4’ 11 and 1/2’’, she was the original Peter Pan with her short red hair in a pixie cut. Born in Brooklyn, New York in 1927, she was the younger of two children. Her older brother, Norman, was her protector and if anyone ever said a cross word or looked at Helyn Sylvia Graff a little too long they would know about it in a hurry. When she was two or three her father, George, had to leave New York in the middle of the night and head for Detroit. To this day I am not sure why but I think it had something to do with the mob. George was a colorful flim-flam man, a Damon Runyon character who, besides my mom was my favorite person in the whole wide world and Helyn was the apple of his eye.  As far as he was concerned, she could do no wrong. She was an ingénue, cover girl and total knockout, the queen of Central High School class of 1945.

Just before Christmas of 1948, she went on a date with a dilettante to a night club in downtown Detroit to see an up-and-coming comedy act called Sears and Haymer. She fell in love with the young Haymer at first sight and said he reminded her of an energetic Dean Martin. They were married three weeks later.  As a wedding gift Mom got a beautiful Cocker Spaniel with long golden hair. They named her Rapunzel—Punzie for short.

Helyn and Johnny Haymer bought a starter house in Roslyn, New York, out on the Island; it was where they were living when my sister, Susan, and I were born. Since my father spent a lot of time on the road and Roslyn was too far from Queens where George and Ida Graff lived, they sold the house and moved to Kew Gardens in the same apartment complex as her parents when I was three. When my dad was in town, he wasn’t so crazy about the idea of being so close to his in-laws, but it made him feel secure that in an emergency, they could be there to help.

On February, 3 1959, the same day the music died, Johnny and Helyn bought a house in Jericho, Long Island. Dad was working theater in the round and industrial shows and was gone at least half the year. Mom didn’t really mind. She had her three kids to raise and entertain. It was a labor of love for her. We would put on shows together, make up stories and when it rained we got the book, Things to do on a Rainy Day down from the shelf. It was our bible.

Mom was famous in Jericho for driving her white Cadillac convertible into the left post of the garage not once but twice. She made the local papers. When I was in the fourth grade Punzie was getting old. She was blind as a bat. Mom was in a hurry one day, backed the Caddy out of the garage, and inadvertently ran over her beloved Punzie. She was beside herself with sorrow and guilt. I’ll never forget that day. She came to my school, took me out of class and told me that Punzie was dead. We sat in the hallway of that school and cried. She knew how much I loved animals and how I was the only one that could understand what she was going through.

Mom was the consummate hippy, without the drugs, beads and sandals. She did adopt the philosophy of make love and not war. When I was a senior in high school she said there was no way her older son was going to fight in an unjust war in Viet Nam. She talked my dad into hiring a draft lawyer and paid $600 to make sure I never went in the armed forces. It was a moot point since I got a high lottery number, had flat feet and was colorblind.

Mom loved the music of the sixties too—especially The Beatles. She supported my endeavors and let my band rehearse in the living room at all hours bringing us sandwiches and Cokes. I can’t tell you how many of my friends lived in the back room when they needed a place to stay. Mom and dad were like surrogate parents to them all. I remember the all-night talks about everything and anything with her. She was the most unbiased and understanding person I have ever met. I could come to her with any problem and she would listen, really listen without judgment or preconception. Whenever I would bring home a stray dog or cat, Mom would be more than willing to share in the responsibilities and love of those creatures—and there were many. I always knew there would be a safe haven for my pets when I had to go on the road. If mom had a fault it was that she was too generous with the almighty dollar and a little overprotective. She was my patron of the arts and even though I did have many delivery jobs in my teens and early twenties, if I needed some extra cash to buy a guitar or strings, whatever, she would be right there with her open checkbook. She spoiled me, it’s true, and added to my sense of entitlement I still have trouble with. I guess there could be worse things.

My mom and dad had the best marriage I could imagine. I only hoped my marriage to Donna would be as fruitful and inspiring. So far so good. I knew when my dad died a big part of my mom was lost too. She was never the same. Her health slowly deteriorated. She had taken a terrible fall in Crown Books after tripping over a stack of books haphazardly placed in an aisle. She tried unsuccessfully to sue Crown Books. Sure it would have been nice to have been financially compensated, but it wouldn’t have helped her back. She lived in constant pain after that. She was a breast cancer survivor, had heart problems and a failing pacemaker, back pain, anemia, you name it—she had it. I knew when Donna and the boys  and I went to L.A. in January for Emily’s Bat Mitzvah it was bad. Mom tried to get out of bed and get dressed but couldn’t. She just wanted to stay in bed. That was it. She had given up and, even though she had three grown kids, five grandchildren, all who loved her so much, she was ready to go and be with her loving husband Johnny somewhere in the cosmos. After the Bat Mitzvah we went back to Susan’s to say good bye to Mom. I had a feeling it would be the last time I ever saw her alive.

The Shiva, which is like a wake, was immediately after the service at Susan’s house. Susan’s friend Julie Endelman had done a wonderful job preparing the food and drink. Stephen, Blair and Paul had followed me over and we parked the car on Nichols Canyon. While walking up the road we saw an old friend and band mate from Silverspoon, Miguel Ferrer. He asked why we were all dressed up in suits and ties. Stephen told Miguel that my mother had just died and we were having a wake. Miguel said he lived right up the street and would be right back after he changed into a more fitting attire.

Even though I was sober I was tempted to have a drink. I, of course, resisted that temptation. Miguel, who was now a well known actor, showed up a half hour later and was sorry he missed the funeral. We started talking about golf, of all things. I told that that I had recently completed a screenplay about golf and he said he wanted to read it. I felt a bit funny about promoting my screenplay at my mom’s Shiva but knew that she was watching over me and would like nothing more than to see me become a success in my endeavor. She always thought, as did I, that it would be in music, but if the screenplay took off, it would leave a door open for my songs. I think I had written over a thousand by then.

A week later, back in Tennessee I got a call from Miguel. He said he loved the screenplay and not only did he want to help produce it, he wanted to play the part of Mark Mulligan, the lead role. Mom was watching over me all right. Miguel said he had a writer friend who he thought would help get the screenplay in a more suitable form. I was okay with that as long as it didn’t get “Hollywoodized”. A month later I flew back to L.A. with Jonathan to meet with the writer. It was a two-fold journey. Susan was working on a new show called Wild and Crazy Kids and she got Jonathan a part as a contestant. I would take him to San Dimas where they would do all these crazy stunts in a lake. He would have a blast doing the show, and would get to visit my mom and dad’s final resting place at Mt. Sinai and I would get my screenplay in order. Two out of three ain’t bad.

I am happy that Jonathan and Daniel got to meet her, but Morgan was too young to remember her well. She spent six months out of the year here in Tennessee and most of that time she spent with me, Donna and the kids. She painted watercolors and read spiritual books. We had many discussions about some of the more esoteric subjects especially the afterlife.  It was upsetting to me that my mom didn’t believe in the afterlife. She thought that life went on through our offspring. It was all in the genes and chromosomes, although sometimes I think she leaned toward reincarnation. I hope she was wrong about the afterlife because when my time comes and I enter through the pearly gates or wherever it is, I hope Mom will be the first person I see welcoming me to the other side with open arms, and maybe a bagel and lox with cream cheese and onion. God, I miss her.

Chapter 48 – End of the Innocence

The upcoming turn of the millennium—the entire world in a panic over the time clock situation. Will all the computers in the world go back to the year 1900? People thought planes would crash banks would fail, and God forbid, Ebay and Amazon would be unavailable.  I made a decision of my own for the millennium:  I was never going to do anything that I wasn’t one hundred percent committed to again. That meant no more bullshit. Never again would I lie, cheat, or steal, if I could help it. I knew I would never do another sales job, never sell insurance and unless Mr. Whittemore gave me the raise he promised, I was going to have to quit my job at the golf course. I already had enough material stored away in my mind and on the mini-cassette recorder to begin my screenplay, Mulligan’s Tour, and I knew that was going to take a Herculean effort to complete.

I didn’t get the raise, so I walked off the course in the middle of June 1999. I had plenty on my plate—a new baby boy and his two older siblings to help take care of, a screenplay to write, and, thanks to the wonderful world of Ebay, I had guitars to buy and sell—an honest job in my field of expertise. I was still playing out in the local clubs trying to promote my new record, See You Around, which was doing fairly well. I was also making plans to begin a new record as soon as the bones of Mulligan’s Tour were in the books. What did I know about writing a screenplay? Not much.

I knew what I wanted to do, but I had no idea how to do it. I bought every book I could find: Robert Mckee’s Story, everything by Syd Field, Screenwriting 434, by Lew Hunter, Linda Seger’s, Making a Good Script Great, you name it, I studied it. It wasn’t until I joined a writer’s group, The Tennessee Screenwriter’s Association, did I get face to face, hands on help with my work in progress. Every Wednesday night I would drive up to Nashville and sit in a room with twenty to thirty other writers of all abilities. The first time I had to read pages from my story I was in a panic. I could get up in front of thousands of people and play a song I had just written but a screenplay? I was a babe in the woods, but I got through it relatively unscathed. A few people I gravitated towards knew a lot more than I did. John Macy was one. He had a few scripts already sold and was making plans to move back to Hollywood. I thought it was ironic that I would move from Los Angeles to Nashville to pursue songwriting and now wanted to write screenplays. I was regretting that decision (moving to Nashville). Macy had some great comments, some that I agreed with, and some that I didn’t, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and my inexperience. I listened to it all. Even though it was painful to find out some of my story wasn’t working, I toughed it out and, after at least fifty drafts, I completed it a year later staying sober the entire time.

The millennium came and went without incident. My mom was still spending six months of the year in the guest room and the other six months in Los Angeles with my sister. Her health was deteriorating rapidly and I didn’t know how much longer she could keep up the pace of shuffling back and forth. My finances were also taking a beating since my decision of no more BS.

Mom made plans to build a guesthouse in the rear part of the three -acre yard behind a grove of trees. I was all for it. She would be five hundred yards away—not too close to get in our hair and not too far, where we couldn’t help in an emergency. She had the idea of getting a log cabin and we got all sorts of information on log homes. We decided to go with Honest Abe Log Homes and got a price of $70,000 complete for a 1500 square foot dwelling. Then the neighbors, sticking their noses in, got in an uproar. They thought I was going to rent out the property and it went before the zoning committee for a hearing. Some of my neighbors spoke up in my defense, but others adamantly opposed. The judgment: the structure had to be 750 square feet or less. Not much of a choice. The day the bulldozers were pulling up the driveway to lay the foundation she said, “You know Jimmy, when I looked into the eyes of a cow and realized it was the only thing I can relate to, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back to L.A.”

I couldn’t believe she was serious, but she was. I made the best of the situation. I told the guy driving the backhoe to dig up that tree in the middle of the yard and move it back to the side. Oh and while you’re at it, could you dig me a bunker? Also lets grade the area in the back…make it level…add a few undulations. It was going to be my golf hole, putting green, and sand bunker. Why not? I had to pay them for their time anyway. In the summer of 2001, my mom went back to L.A. for the last time.

As I mentioned in a previous story, on September 10, 2001, I bit the proverbial bullet and got a job working in a phone room for a company representing the Red Cross. My job was to solicit donations. I hoped that it was on the level but found it very difficult to get back into that sales frame of mind. I just wasn’t there anymore. After drawing a blank, I drove home thinking I couldn’t hack it but decided to give it another try in the morning. After all, it was the Red Cross—a worthwhile organization. I wasn’t selling something people hoped they’d never have to use—like insurance.

The next morning I woke up early and Donna was already in the kitchen watching the news. That’s when I saw the burning building in New York. It was the World Trade Center and they said a plane had crashed into the north tower. I couldn’t believe it. Was it pilot error or a terrorist attack? Fifteen minutes later I saw the second plane hit the south tower and I knew, as everyone else did, it was no accident. I stood in the kitchen unable to move. Watching the twin towers collapse was the worst thing I had ever witnessed. It was worse that the JFK assassination, worse that John Lennon’s murder. I knew this country would never be the same again. I also knew that I wasn’t going to go into work selling donations for the Red Cross, especially since now people were giving hand over foot. They didn’t need my help.

When Jonathan and Daniel came down to get ready for school and saw the horrific scene on the TV, they thought it was a movie. There was no easy way to tell them it wasn’t any movie. It was real. There wasn’t going to be any school today and probably not the next day either. By the end of the week, Donna and I felt that it would be all right for the boys to get back to school and resume some semblance of normality. Like most of the country, I kept my eyes glued to CNN and listened to Wolf Blitzer’s (his real name) commentary on the gruesome events in Manhattan, Washington and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Nothing was ever going to be normal again.

Three weeks later, on October 2, 2001, Daniel’s fifth birthday, I thought I would take the Healey to Henry Horton Golf Course and play eighteen holes. I had to be back by three to pick Daniel up at school and Morgan at day care. Upon seeing a crowded parking lot, I knew something was up. There was a tournament, and that meant I had to venture on, I decided to go to Lewisburg, out in the sticks, and try Saddle Creek. I was a stuck behind a cement truck going twenty-five mph for a few miles. I had recently painted my Healey in the storage shed— a two tone blue and white. She was running great and being stuck behind this hulking, fully loaded cement truck was trying my patience. At the stop light on Highway 50, a mile from the course, I passed the beast. I sped ahead and soon realized I’d better slow down or I would miss the golf course entrance on the left, which I did. I drove on to the next street and signaled to make a left. It was a two-lane road with no shoulder, so I crept as close to the yellow line as possible. Unfortunately, the turn signals on the Healey are small and hard to see. I guess that IMI cement truck didn’t see it at all. As I waited for the oncoming traffic to clear, I went into my turn. That when I heard a roaring from behind and before I knew it, the 77,000 lb. cement truck was plowing into the driver’s side of my precious Healey. It was a like bad dream, an altered reality where everything is moving at half speed. Speakers flying in slow motion, wires floating in the air like feathers, steel and glass buckling, radiator water and brake fluid raining down, the battery catapulted from the trunk and sailed over my head with golf clubs, balls, spiked shoes, and tees. I saw the front end of that monster strike my door not more than two inches from my legs.

That’s it I’m dead, I thought, or at best crippled for life. I was dragged forward a good three hundred yards and when I finally came to a stop I ran out of the car towards the cement truck who had pulled over in a field next to a drive-in movie theater. I was going to kill the guy for destroying my beautiful little sports car, the same car I shipped to Tennessee after fourteen years of traversing the back roads and freeways of Los Angeles. I knew the car was never going to be the same no matter how much bodywork or mechanical repair I did. With fist clenched, I raced toward the driver. Then it hit me. Wait a minute; I just survived an accident with a fully loaded cement truck. I’m alive! That’s a good thing. I let go of my anger. I asked the driver what in the world he was thinking by passing me on the right. He said, as I surmised, that he didn’t see my signal and thought I was veering back to the median or was broken down. Cops came, got the report that I was speeding from a witness in a Ford Excursion. Even though I knew I wasn’t in the wrong, I was fucked. Here I was in redneck heaven in a fancy British roadster out to play the rich man’s game of golf. I didn’t stand a chance. Still, it was a miracle. I was not only walking, but no bones were broken, no cuts or bruises, only a sore lower back. Was it karma? Payback for the day I rear-ended my precious Healey in a fit of drunken anger? I think so.

When I got back home, the tow truck unloaded the heap in my yard. I called the school to say I was late, did the same with Morgan’s day care, and then called Donna with the news. She said she would pick up the boys. I guess she was nervous, think I was in shock. One accident was enough for one day. I called my friend Bruce Bradley. His father was a lawyer. I met with him the next day and we put a case together. He said he would know more after he got hold of the police report, which I knew wasn’t going to be good. I went back to the scene of the crime with my camera and took photos of the skid marks on the road, and every angle possible.

At my next meeting with the attorney, he advised me to stay at home, see a doctor about my back, and for god sakes no golf. They are spies working for the insurance companies that would love to see you active and well. That would blow the case. When the police report came in, it was worse than I thought. It read as if I was the one at fault. I decided right there and then to drop the case. There was no way on earth I was going to act like an invalid. Besides, no golf for a year? Forget it! I sold the Healey for fifteen hundred bucks to a guy who had a body shop in North Carolina. I watched in tears as the flatbed truck carrying my Healey, my baby, turned the corner, and drove away. Gone—Karma is a bitch.

Chapter 47 –Amazon Women and the Jewish Baptism

Backtracking a little, I must tell the story of how I met The Johnsons. One night, back in late ’98 or early ’99, I had a very strange dream. In the dream I was the size of Danny DeVito, maybe four and a half feet tall,  and I was talking with two Amazon women over six feet tall that towered over me. I felt inadequate and emasculated by my diminutive size. It was one of those dreams where it seemed to be happening in real time and you remember every detail—the colors, what people were wearing and whatnot. It stayed with me as I was drinking my morning coffee organizing my appointments for the day. There was only one—a husband and wife with three small children that live in a church—The Cloverland Church of some denomination or other. I thought it was going to be a waste of time, so I brought my golf clubs thinking I would get in 18 holes if they didn’t write the check.

That afternoon I pulled up the long gravel driveway and parked my car in front of the humble church that seemed neglected, maybe even abandoned—no cars outside—nary a sound but chirping crickets and warbling birds. I knocked on the door but got no answer, so I walked in. While walking on the yellowed linoleum floor of the anteroom I saw the peeling, dingy white paint, cracked windows, and I felt like an intruder. Making my way to the assembly hall and I thought it didn’t look anything remotely resembling a church; there were no pews, no alters, not even a cross or a wooden Jesus. I turned the corner past where the raised pulpit might have been ages ago. It was there I saw a pretty lady in her late twenties or early thirties with long, red hair sitting on a metal chair breast-feeding an infant. Two other children no older than four circled around them playing tag or some child’s game. With my briefcase in hand, I meandered up to them wondering if she thought I was from the IRS or the department of health and welfare come with an eviction notice or a summons. I said, “Excuse me— I came here about a card someone filled out—about health insurance. Do you know anything about that?”

“With a puzzled look, she said in a thick New Zealand accent, “No, but my husband Howard will be home soon. Make yourself at home if ya like.”

I noticed there was a console piano in the far corner of the room so I ventured over and began to play some of my repertoire. The woman carrying the baby got up and leaned over to piano listening to every note. She had to be at least six-foot two and it reminded me of my dream…but in the dream, there were two of them. Then another woman with dark brown hair just as tall, if not taller, came out from the kitchen and stood by the gargantuan redhead.

“This is my sister Serene and I’m Vange, by the way.”

I was awestruck. I told them about the dream I had the night before. They said it was fate and Jesus had arranged the entire thing and they believed it wholeheartedly. When I told them, I was Jewish—they became even more excited.

“I knew you were one of God’s chosen people the minute you walked in the door.” Vange said. I smiled without saying a word. I didn’t think they were ready for my radical beliefs about reincarnation, past lives and mysticism. If I told them I read Tarot cards and was into astrology, they might have banished me from the holy place.

After playing ten or fifteen songs, I took a break. We talked about our lives and I asked them how they managed to live in a church. Vange, short for Evangeline, said it belonged to a friend who was giving them a place to stay in exchange for cleaning and cooking for the congregation after the Sunday services.  Soon Howard, Vange’s husband came home. He said he was an inventor and a Jack-Of-All-Trades. We soon got into a discussion about the Bible and he, being a fundamentalist, believed that the earth was only ten thousand years old.  Now I can go for many Bible stories and take them with a grain of salt, but this particular one was too hard for me to fathom. Here was this intelligent man, a scientist to boot, who thought that the earth was slightly older than Mel Brooks.

 I knew I wasn’t going to sell them a policy but I didn’t care. They were the genuine article. Most Christians I meet in Nashville I can trust about as far as I can throw them, but not the Johnson’s—they talked the talk and walked the walk. We instantly became friends.

One day I brought Donna, Jonathan, and Daniel over to the church to meet them. In the back yard was a zip-line connected to two trees over a deep ravine. I was a bit concerned about the safety of the apparatus but they convinced me it was all right. We were all in Jesus’ hands. Everybody went for a ride—even me. I don’t know whether it was because I was the last one to ride the zip-line or if I was doing it wrong, but I was much too low to the ground. I must have been going about ten or twenty mph when I crashed into a large tree root sticking up from the rocky terrain. I thought I had definitely broken my back. Vange, Howard and Donna helped me into the church and got a few bags of ice and placed it on the small of my back which had swelled up to the size on an inner tube from a monster rally truck. I was scared. The Johnson’s laid their hands on me and prayed. An hour later, the swelling went down to half of what it was before and I could walk. It looked like was going to be all right.

A few months later Vange told me they had to move out of the church but weren’t worried in the least confident that, as believers ,they would never be led astray. Howard said they were looking to buy some acreage in a remote part of Middle Tennessee. Between Vange’s parents, Colin and Nancy, Serene and her husband Sam, they had about thirty thousand dollars saved. They wanted to build three separate homes on the property.

Jonathan and Daniel were going to Thompson Station Day Care owned and operated by Tommy and Patricia Smithson. Tommy had just gotten his real estate license and mentioned to me if I knew anyone who wanted to buy thirty acres in Hickman County, about fifty miles southwest of Nashville—way out in the sticks. I said yes. I put Tommy and the Johnson clan together and they bought the place. Tommy offered a small finder’s fee but I turned it down. The day care was so reasonable and I knew he wasn’t making much money on the deal anyway.

Vange’s grandfather who was a ninety-year-old champion sheep-shearer from New Zealand was visiting. He was also a preacher and one of the most enigmatic and remarkable men I had ever met in my life. He was still sheep shearing, pulling stumps out of the ground and was in better shape than I was.

It was a beautiful day in May and The Johnson family, friends and relatives all went down to the Harpeth River where Vange’s grandfather was preparing to baptize two young believers. Not a cloud was in the sky as I stood by the banks with my family watching the peaceful lapping of the waters over the flat rocks and branches. I thought about the song Take me to the River as the large crowd of over forty believers entranced by the ceremony looked on. It was like something out of a movie the way this old, but vital man spoke scripture with fire and conviction in his voice. He would say the prayer as he leaned his congregants down gently dousing them beneath the still waters as a symbolic gesture of faith and rejuvenation. Afterwards, Vange’s grandfather asked if there was anyone else in the crowd who wanted to partake in the baptism, I saw a man raise his hand. It was my hand. I didn’t know what in the world would possess a Jewish guy like me to do such a crazy thing. Overcome by the moment, it felt spontaneous, not to mention how much I admired Vange’s grandfather.

As soon as I entered the river, clouds formed from out of nowhere. The thunder boomed and the rain pelted down. A lightning bolt struck over my head. Was it an omen? Was God trying to tell me something or was it the usual dramatics that seem to coincide with my life—a visual and audio montage of biblical proportions. When I saw a pair of water moccasins slithering not more than three feet from me I stood frozen and thought that I was making a terrible mistake. Not wanting to disappoint the multitudes watching me with anticipation, I thought the show must go on. As my head dipped below the water, I imagined my father looking down with disdain, my mother cursing me, and the scornful faces of my brother and sister turning away.

 In less than five minutes, I was pulling myself out of the river. As I stood on the grassy bank, the sun broke through the clouds as if the storm never happened at all. The blissful congregation all hugged me or patted me on the back saying things like, “Jesus is with you now and will never let you go—you are reborn in the way of the Christ and your life will never be the same.” Donna stood there with her mouth open and a blank expression I wasn’t sure was shock or amazement. My children didn’t think it was out of the ordinary for their anything but normal dad. There weren’t any fireworks exploding in my head, no choirs of angels sounding, no tears of joy or calmness—only a little guilt for forsaking my Jewish heritage. Other than that, I didn’t feel any differently—except a lot wetter. Maybe it would hit me later, maybe not. I was questioning the sincerity of my impulsive actions.

If you want to call me a Christian, that’s fine. If you want to call me a Jew, or even a Jew for Jesus, that’s fine too. You can call me a Buddhist, a Spiritualist, a Humanist, an atheist, an agnostic; call me late for dinner if you want, I don’t care. They are all labels to me and I refuse to be labeled. The only thing I know I believe in, besides a higher power, is that I’m not sure what I believe in. The jury is still out.

Vange’s grandfather died at the age of ninety-four in New Zealand and I think fondly of him from time to time, especially when I see snakes and lightning. I’m happy to say, even though I don’t see much of the Johnsons anymore we are still friends. Vange is one of the most positive people I have ever met and has inspired a few of my song lyrics from our religious debates. Howard and Vange are still building the homes on their property and have ten children now and counting.

Chapter 46 – Divine Intervention

After the incident with my Healey in the rain and lightning, I slowed my drinking down. It didn’t last. My mom was living in the guest room, which she did six months out of the year—the other six months she spent at Susan’s house in Nichols Canyon. She had a dream one night—more of a vision really. She said she saw a mound of sand on the front lawn ten, maybe twelve feet high. The police had come to see about the enormous mound, they must have thought it was against some ordinance or I was planning to build without a permit. She told the police I was downstairs in the room under the house. There was no room under the house, only an old storm cellar, the kind they had in The Wizard of Oz where Dorothy tried to enter before the twister hit. I tried to explain to my mom that it was only a dream. She seemed to accept it until she asked, “What did you do with all that sand?”

Her mental state was getting me down. Her physical state was even worse—she was taking more pills than a pharmacy and had to buy a shoebox sized pill container to keep them organized. I began to drink heavily. There were times I would go to the liquor store, by a bottle of scotch, open it in the car, and keep it wedged between my knees. I couldn’t wait to get home. I saw the signs—I’d been here before. I was even hiding booze in the bushes and behind amplifiers, in places I knew nobody would ever look. I knew it meant trouble was just around the corner. It was like a scene out of The Lost Weekend with Ray Milland.

Donna, was pregnant with our third son (I didn’t know it was a boy at the time), when the obstetrician told us the baby had a high risk of being born with Down syndrome. I freaked out and said a prayer. “Please God— I’ll do anything in the world if you see to it that the baby is a normal, healthy child (I don’t know how I expected any child of mine to be normal, but I figured God knew what I meant).” Suddenly a voice like thunder on steroids echoed in my head. “STOP THE DRINKING NOW!” It was earth shattering. I knew I could have blown it off like a dream or an audio hallucination, but I didn’t.

I said, “Okay God, here’s the deal. I will quit the booze right now and I promise NEVER to touch another drop— but if he is born with any defects, any at all, I’m going right back and pick up my drinking where I left off.” I didn’t hear anything so I took the silence as a yes. That was December 8, 1998—eighteen years after John Lennon’s brutally murder at the Dakota. I liked the symbolism.

 I took every drop of alcohol I had in the house and poured it down the sink. I remember when my mom walked into the kitchen she asked, “Jimmy, are you drinking at this time in the morning?” I said, “No Mom, I’m never going to drink again if God makes good on his word.”  She was a little confused, but that was the norm.

When Donna came home from work I told her what happened. How I heard THE VOICE and all. I don’t know if she believed me but if it meant that my drinking days were over, it didn’t matter. Maybe part of the reason I made the deal was to show Donna that I had gumption, fortitude—that I could make a decision and stick to it. Knowing it was in the hands of a higher power, a power greater than I was, I had to comply. If I reneged on the deal, being the superstitious person I am, not only would I be breaking a solemn vow, but also something bad would happen to my child. It was beyond my own selfish ego. I didn’t really care what would happen to me as much as I cared for the life a loved one. It had to be that way for me to stop drinking and I knew it.

December to May passed quicker that I thought it would. Donna’s pregnancy seemed easier than the other two and I could be more help because of my sobriety. I got a gig playing steel guitar with Joey Fulco on bass, (the guy who I had margaritas with before I rammed my Healey), some twenty-something drummer and keyboardist backing up two teenage sisters, Ashley and Alexia. Joey and I, the elder statesmen of the group felt protective of the two girls, who were both very pretty in a dark exotic way—good singers too. Our first gig was in Lula, Mississippi and we played in a huge resort where one room was dedicated to country and the other blues. Unfortunately, our band was in the country room. Joey and I drove down and found the crossroads, gambled in the casino, but my favorite part was when we pulled over to the side of the road and picked cotton. Joey left the band and moved to Vegas with his wife and two kids but I stayed on for a few gigs. Their father was the manager, tour bus driver and bodyguard. He didn’t let any guys get within ten feet of his daughters.

On the way back from Columbia, South Carolina I found a yard sale and bought a stroller for the new baby to be and a strange electronic accordion for me. We were driving through East Tennessee when the girls wanted to stop by the Ocoee River, do a little rock climbing, and sun bathing. I was anxious to get home, so to pass the time I brought out my three-wood (I had taken my golf clubs with me and would play 18 holes in the morning and return to the motel before the rest of the band got up). I teed up a few balls and hit them into the river. Their father/bodyguard/manager got pissed off at me thinking I was trying to hit shots into his beloved daughters. I told him, “If I wanted to hit them they would be hit, but since I hadn’t gotten with fifty yards of them, I would say they are safe,” cocky bastard that I was. I knew I had to leave the band anyway since they were planning an extended tour and I had a pregnant wife at home who needed me. I would rather think they fired me for playing golf—looks better on the resume.

Now back in Nashville I had to find a replacement for my drinking. I became totally dedicated to GOLF.  In the early spring of ’99 I got a job as a greenskeeper at Nashville Golf and Athletic, a local golf course owned and operated by the cantankerous Mr. Charles Whittemore. It only paid seven dollars and fifty cents an hour but it allowed me to play golf for free on Mondays. An old Southern demagogue, Whittemore was a tyrant that ran the place with an iron fist and everybody at the course was in total fear of the man—everyone except me, that is.  I think he respected me for standing up to him. Now April, Donna was eight months pregnant and I knew I should quit the job and get something that paid a little better, but obsessed by Mr. Whittemore’s character, I was compelled to tough it out. He reminded me of the cruel, sadistic warden in the movie, In the Heat of the Night, the way he would stand over his crew in the hundred-degree heat rationing out water by the hour in tiny paper cups while he sat in the shade drinking lemonade. One good thing, he would come to the course after church dressed in his Sunday best and if he saw a weed on his precious green, he would get down on his hands and knees and pick it out. The guy did love his golf course—I could appreciate that.

I got an idea to write a screenplay. I would base it loosely on Damn Yankees, but in a golf setting. I had to stay on the job so I could really get a feel for his character—the Devil. That story eventually became Mulligan’s Tour. I will tell that story in a later chapter. It’s a good one, I promise.

I was getting really good at golf and had designs on trying out for the Seniors Tour (now called The Champion’s Tour) in four years time. I even bought a professional Jacobsen greens mower and planted a bentgrass putting green in my backyard. It was a nightmare because I could never leave to go on vacation afraid that if I didn’t water the damned thing it would burn up. I later switched it over to a Bermuda hybrid. I was dead serious about it.

On Monday, May 10, I was playing a round of golf—the only day of the week workers could play since the course officially closed for maintenance and whatnot. When I got to the seventh hole I got a call from Donna. She was breathing heavily and I knew something was wrong…or it was time. It was. Her water had broken and she was calling to tell me to come home and drive her to the hospital. She asked, “What hole are you on?” I said, “Seven.” She said, “Why don’t you finish nine and then come home.” That’s what I did.

I played the fastest two holes ever in my life and then rushed home. We got to the hospital around three p.m and I think we were in the same room where Daniel was born. There were no baseball playoffs or golf tournaments so she had my full attention. In the wee hours of May 11, 1999, a beautiful baby boy we called Morgan David was born. It’s strange how all three of my boys were born at two-thirty—Jonathan and Daniel in the afternoon and Morgan in the early morning hours. He was healthy and free from any defects that the doctor could determine and I was so ecstatic I felt like buying a saxophone and playing the theme song to My Three Sons. I knew my drinking days were over for good. I never went to AA, never had to. I was lucky—I had divine intervention. The deal was sealed and I would never welsh on GOD. Sixteen years later, I still haven’t touched a drop. Amen!

Chapter 45 – The Universe is Calling

“Hello, this is James Haymer from Universal Data Supply. Is this Debbie? How are you Debbie? Good.  I was just calling to let you know e have the balance of your order ready for shipment for your IBM Selectric II. You’re still using that machine aren’t you? You’re not? Well then, can you tell me what you have now? An HP Laserjet? You know we refill those baby’s. That’s right. You just keep those empties. That’s right; don’t throw ‘em out they’re as good as gold. You have? Great.  Just box em up and I’ll send a call tag. Should be there in a day, two at the latest.”

“Hi this is James Haymer calling from Universal Satellite. Is this Mr. Wells? We sent out flyers and I see you responded in showing an interest in our new and much more economical three foot dish? Right, a free demonstration. Would Tuesday morning or afternoon be better for you?”

“Good morning this is James Haymer from Universal Health and Life. Is this Mr. Wells? Did I ever sell satellite dishes? Well…it doesn’t work anymore? Have a nice day Mr. Wells.”

Good afternoon, this is James calling from THE UNIVERSE. Could you give me your name and the date of your birth? Misty Wells? August second? You are a Leo…the lion. Very strong sign. I see great things for you in the coming year.”

Then there was the 900 number I had. I gathered information from the country music Hot Sheet and recorded tips on what artist or producer was looking for what kind of song for two dollars a minute. I had read Guerilla Marketing. That was a money pit.

It was 1997 through 1998 and I had at least five different jobs besides writing and playing music. The craziest and most stressful was the phone psychic. I would log into the main phone system and then my telephone would ring. I got all kinds of strange people. Some looking for love, some money, some wanted to know if they would make it in showbiz, some just wanted to talk. Hey, at 99 cents a minute I could think of cheaper ways to have a conversation, but now that I think of it, maybe not. If you went to a bar, you would spend at least ten bucks on a couple of drinks. A hooker? That would cost much more than that. One time this woman called who wanted to know when her husband was going to be release from prison. She had ten kids and they all lived in a double wide trailer in Arkansas. She was as poor as dirt and I felt like I was taking advantage of her. I told her to hang up the phone since at a buck a minute, she couldn’t afford it. That was my last call.

Jumping ahead to September 10, 2001 for a minute. I got another phone job raising money for the Red Cross—at least I thought it was the Red Cross. Who knew? Then the tragedy of 9-11 happened and money poured in to the real Red Cross. It was a blood bonanza—a moot point. That job lasted four hours.

I had another job working for a music industry magazine selling advertising space. The one sale I made was to a CD duplication company. It was the old barter system at its best. I traded a half page ad for 300 full printed CD’s of my record which is called See You Around. You can pick it up on iTunes. At night I would go out and play at places like The Bunganut Pig, The Commodore Hotel, Douglas Corner and some other venues that don’t exist anymore selling my CD’s at ten dollars a pop. I wasn’t getting rich, but my name was getting out there and I would meet other singer/songwriters. My favorite and closest place was Ernie’s Smokehouse in Leiper’s Fork. It was a great scene with some of the best BBQ this side of the Mississippi. Later on Ernie sold out to a local entrepreneur named Aubrey Preston and he made it into a private playground called Green’s Grocery. It was the beginning of the end of the music scene in Williamson County.

 I had put away enough money to buy a Studiomaster console from Chas for fifteen hundred bucks—the one that used to belong to his brother Richard who died in 1985. I also had his skis. I then bought an Otari 8 track tape machine. No, it’s not the kind you put in your car and stuck those big old plastic cartridges in—this was a reel to reel tape recorder. I played all the instruments and sang all the vocals. A one man band. By the middle of ’98 I had thirteen songs down. It was time to release my first solo record.

My mom was staying in the guest room six months out of the year while the other six months she stayed in L.A. with my sister, Susan. Her health was starting to go downhill rapidly and her mind was getting a bit befuddled. I was drinking a lot. In fact it was getting so bad—I would hide bottles of scotch in the bushes, behind my amplifier and in the trunk of my car. Not smart. I had been here before ad could see the writing on the wall.

On the Fourth of July in 1998, the ten year anniversary of the day I met Donna, I drove up to Chas’ house in my 1958 Austin Healey 100-6. Chas wasn’t home but there was this musician friend, Joey Fulco, working construction and painting the palatial mansion. I talked him into making a pitcher margaritas. We both got wasted in the summer sun. Diving home with one eye closed so I could focus on the road the sky opened up. I had forgotten to bring my removable hardtop and was getting soaked to the bone. I pulled over on a back road and waited under a carport of a house with no cars in the driveway. As the rain started to let up, I figures I should get going before the owners of the house came home. I turned the key. It sputtered but finally started. I knew something was wrong since it was running a little rough. After turning a sharp corner, the car stalled. Then the rain started again. It was coming down in buckets as I was under the hood trying to figure out what was wrong with the Healey. Then came the thunder and lightning. I had to get out of there. I got a running jump and was able to push start the car. It went a hundred yards before it stalled out again.

I waited for a car to pass by; maybe they would stop and help. I was drenched and tried to jump start her again. This time I made it all the way to Snowbird Hollow, a small street about five miles from home that Donna would take sometimes as a shortcut to Highway 31. Of course I didn’t have a cell phone. Not many people did in those days. I was so exhausted and completely sober by the time Donna pulled up in her Jeep with Jonathan and Daniel in the car.  I was so irate and frustrated being out in the elements for hours on the Fourth of July, I shouted at Donna to get the kids out of the Jeep. I got in behind the wheel and rammed the back of my Healey sending it down the narrow country road. I immediately regretted that stupid decision. I watched helplessly as the car reached a steep grade and began picking up speed. It would have been terrible if another car came from the other direction. Someone could have been killed. I prayed. God must have answered my prayer. As soon as I unclasped my hands, The Healey veered off to the left and crashed into a barbed wire fence. The front wheels were buried in a ravine. It was scratched up pretty bad on the left fender and hood.

I got back in the Jeep and buried my face in my hands; ashamed of myself for acting out like a madman. What was I thinking? That was the problem, I wasn’t thinking—I was reacting. The kids were scared to death and Donna was giving me the silent treatment as she drove home. Who could blame her? I called AAA and they pulled the Healey out with a winch and flat-bedded it home. I don’t think Donna spoke to me for a week and the kids? Well, I tried to explain my actions but there really was no excuse for my aberrant behavior. The universe was calling. It was a warning and I knew my drinking days were numbered. I hadn’t hit bottom yet. In five months I would.

Chapter 44 – He’s Out?

Even though I was enjoying my time with three year-old Jonathan, being a house-husband was more work than I thought it would be. He was going to Thompson Station Daycare three times a week which allowed me to pursue my writing and co-writing with various Nashvillians the other four days. I hooked up with Sean Patrick McGraw, a songwriter I had met in L.A. a few years back. Sean is a very talented singer/songwriter who is now still out there on the road living the dream. He has a single out now called I’m That Guy, which is a rocking little country ditty. Unfortunately, it is the same cookie-cutter mold of most of the other country songs these days with lyrics about beer, trucks and girls in cut-off jeans and cowboy boots. Sour grapes? Maybe.

Sean and I wrote a few really good songs together, one in particular that I liked called Halfway to Linda’s House, a story-song of a first unrequited love—how the protagonist never got any further than halfway in the relationship. Even though the songs were good, I thought the songs I write solo were far superior. I started playing the Nashville circuit of writer’s nights and whatnot and was beginning to get a following. I knew it was time to make a record. First I had to acquire some recording equipment and that was going to take money. Universal Data was dying a slow death since places like Staples, Wal-Mart and Office Depot had the same things I sold at much cheaper prices. I couldn’t compete with the Sam Walton way of doing business so I hung up my entrepreneurial shoes.

I figured I would get an insurance license and go into selling health and life. If you had a license you were legit, right? I couldn’t have been more wrong. After passing my insurance test I got a job at United Benefits, another generic name of a fly-by-night company in the same mold as Central Supply, my old typewriter ribbon joint in Hollywood. If you ever saw the movie, Glengarry Glen Ross, written by David Mamet and starring Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon and Alan Arkin, you would have a good idea what United Benefits was like. Cutthroat lies and deception was the name of that tune. At least they provided leads, which, depending upon how much product you sold the week before determined the quantity of prospective customers. I usually got about ten. Some salespeople got as much as twenty-five. I would average about three hundred bucks a week, not the greatest, but it was enough to save for a tape machine and a console, maybe a couple of microphones. I had enough guitars—maybe seven at the time. This was a few years before I discovered Ebay. I was buying and selling stuff from the paper, The Tennessean, it wasn’t as good as The Recycler in L.A. but it was all there was at the time in Nashville.

I didn’t have as much time to devout to my songwriting now and my pedal steel playing was getting a bit rusty. I found myself booking all my appointments near golf courses. That way if the customer didn’t buy the policy I would say, “That’s okay, I’ll call you later,” and would book over to the nearest course. I didn’t get very rich but my golf game was getting spot on. I was thinking about going pro. I was forty-three years old and if I played every day I could maybe make the Senior’s Tour (now called the Champion’s Tour) in six and a half years.

On or around New Year’s 1996, Donna and I wanted another baby. We practiced a lot. But on that evening in early January after an intense lovemaking episode I knew. I was right, she was pregnant and the baby was due in early October. Being the old fashioned type, we again didn’t want to be told the baby’s sex. Surprises were good, as long as the baby was healthy. Donna had the usual morning sickness in the spring and the summer months in Tennessee were unbearable. Of course Donna kept working right up until the time her water broke.

She was admitted to Williamson Medical Center on the first of October. This was during the baseball playoffs and fortunately her room was like a suite at the Hilton with a refrigerator, hard wood floors and the best thing of all—a television. In the early afternoon of the second, she went into labor. The Cleveland Indians were playing the Baltimore Orioles in an afternoon game at Oriole Park at Camden Fields. It was game two of the American League Divisional Series. The Orioles won the first game ten to four.

While I was helping Donna with her labor pains by getting her ice chips and placing a wet washcloth on her forehead, I was sneaking peeks at the game. Why not? It was the bloody playoffs! In the bottom of the fifth the score was one to nothing in favor of the Orioles. Brady Anderson lead off with a solo home run to make the score two nothing. With two outs and Orel Hershiser on the mound, Palmeiro singled to right and then he walked Bonilla. Man of first and second, two outs. Ripken strode to the plate and promptly belted a single in the hole between third and shortstop. One run scored and there was man on first and second. The Eddie Murray stepped up to the plate and hit a towering fly ball deep down the left field line for a double. Bonilla scored easily but as Ripken was rounding third I knew there was going to be a close play at the plate. Even though Donna was panting and getting close to delivering the baby, my eyes were riveted to the television. When I saw Ripken slide into home plate and the umpire’s right thumb went skyward I couldn’t believe it.

“He’s OUT?” I shouted. Donna looked down over her enormous belly with confusion. She thought I meant that the BABY was out. At the bottom of the ninth, at two-thirty p.m. he was. I was beyond ecstatic and forgot all about the game—well, almost.  It was a beautiful baby boy we named Daniel Harrison Haymer. Jonathan thought it was cool to have a little brother even though he cried a lot and, at times, didn’t smell so good. By the way, the Orioles won the game seven to four and would advance to the American League Championship against the New York Yankees who eventually won the World Series beating the Atlanta Braves four games to two. It’s good to have one’s priorities in order.

Chapter 43 – The Distance

Long distance home-buying is not always the best course of action, but for us it was unavoidable. It was the real estate agent, the one with the racist cop for a husband, who put us in touch with, Tim Bailey, an independent mortgage broker. He told us he would get the best loan package available. The average mortgage rate at the time for a thirty year loan was about six to seven percent, and after putting down the customary twenty percent down payment, it would leave a balance of around a hundred-thousand dollars.

The closing was to be held at the law offices of Tom Jones (not the Welsh song-belter) in Franklin, ten miles north of Thompson Station. Donna was suffering from an ear infection and the swelling was so bad she could hardly hear out of it. We should have cancelled the closing, but it was one of those things that were written in stone. I was going to take her to the doctor later in the morning—if we could find a doctor in this one horse town—probably would be a veterinarian. While at the closing with the real estate agent, the lawyer and his junior partner, a sick wife and me, Jonathan was running around the long rectangular table, playing hide and seek or capture the attorney. While I tried to concentrate on the three inch stack of papers that needed to be read and signed, Donna tried to distract Jonathan with a grape soda or stale candy from the crystal dish in the reception area. He was on a mission to be as awkward as any two-year old would be in a situation as boring and tedious as that—it wasn’t exactly Magic Mountain of Disney World.

I finally grabbed him and sat him down on my knee while he struggled to escape my grasp, Donna and I tried to concentrate on signing the deal that would affect the next thirty years of our lives. When it came to the page where the loan details were revealed we saw that instead of the six or seven percent interest, it was ten percent, and it wasn’t a fixed rate, but an adjustable. This was bad. I called Tim Bailey’s office and his home number but he couldn’t be reached.

 We could have postponed the closing, but all of our stuff was in boxes in the living room of our new house and we didn’t have anywhere else to stay since Chas’ cabin was being used for a session. Besides, I had a sick wife and a rambunctious child to attend to and no parents, aunts, uncles or cousins in the area to turn to for help. In fact, Chas was the only friend we had in Tennessee.  I was beginning to wish I had never left Los Angeles in the first place, but as most people who know me say, “That Haymer guy can be a bit impulsive.”

When people ask me why I moved to Tennessee I usually say, “I made a wrong turn at Barstow and kept going, and then I ran out of gas and had no choice but to stay.” Another one I like: When you are at a store and the cashier says, “That’s gonna be five dollars,” I stand around and wait. They ask, “Is there anything wrong?” I say, “No I was just waiting. You said that it was going to be five dollars, I thought if I waited, the price might come down.”

Another one: When you ask for directions here they tell you to turn right or left at landmarks that don’t exist anymore or they’ll say, “You make a left turn at the red light.” Then I say, “Sorry I’m late but I was going to make a left at the red light, like you said, but the signal changed to green so I kept going straight.” I can be such a wise-ass too.

I told Donna we should go ahead and sign the loan and as soon as we could we would refinance. What else could we do? We never did reach Tim Bailey, and when I stopped by his office the next week there was another sign over the door. He had vanished.

We were settling in to the farm house and Donna was doing better now drinking lots of fluids and taking antibiotics. Thompson Station at the time was a one horse town without any restaurants or supermarkets. The closest Kroger was ten miles away and the only place to get a bite to eat locally was at the diner in the Goose Creek Inn five miles away. One night we thought we would give it a shot. It was your typical greasy spoon with yellowed linoleum on the floor, squeaky ceiling fans and a menu that featured pulled pork, hamburgers and two kinds of fish. Our gum chewing waitress came by with a pencil stuck behind her ear.

“Have y’all decided what all y’all are gonna have?” she said in an almost unintelligible Southern drawl. Donna decided she would try the fish and wanted to know a little more about her choice between the two that were offered.

“I noticed you have two different kinds of fish on the menu. Can you tell me the difference?” Donna asked.

The waitress thought about it for a moment and scratched her head with the pointed end of the pencil. After what seemed like an eternity she answered, “The taste,” which sounded more like “the taay-yest”. Welcome to bum-fuck Egypt, I thought.

Chas was producing a few tracks for my neighbor, Billy Ray Cyrus at the time when Miley was still running around in diapers. It was at Chas’s twenty-four track studio at the cabin where we first stayed when we moved to Tennessee. I was hired to play pedal steel guitar and sing background vocals on a track called, The Distance, an original Chas Sandford composition. Just two weeks earlier, at Christmas, I had come down with a nasty flu and was so sick I lost three days in a feverish malaise. I had no idea that we had a visitor who came to the door dressed as Santa Claus bearing gifts. I guess this particular Santa didn’t know that we had a boy, because when he opened the present it was a doll. Still it was a nice gesture. Who was this man dressed as Santa? It was our neighbor—Billy Ray Cyrus. I don’t care what people think about the guy, especially after coming out with the painfully banal song, Achy-Breaky Heart, and he won’t get any awards for father-of-the-year now, but after what he did that Christmas I could never think of him in a bad light—in fact, he is one of the nicest, most down-to-earth people in the music business. Well, the album didn’t get finished for some reason or other at the time, but Billy Ray held onto the song and it was just released as the title track to his 2014 record. He had gone the distance. By the way, my pedal steel is all over that record, and it is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. Way to go Billy and Chas!

Chapter 42 – T-Bird Trauma

About a couple of years earlier I was looking in the local paper for an old Thunderbird. I always like the 61-63 series after seeing the movie Palm Springs Weekend with Connie Stevens and Troy Donahue. In that movie there was a 1963 red T-Bird convertible. In the paper there was a 1961 white hardtop T-bird with red leather interior for $1200 in original condition. I had to have it, and for that price, if it was as good as advertised, I wouldn’t even haggle on the price—at least not too much.

Donna and I drove out to Pasadena with cash in hand to look at the car hoping it would be all that I dreamed of. After ringing the bell on the front door, a little old lady (yes from Pasadena) answered. She said the car used to belong to her husband who had died about a year earlier and she wanted it to go to someone who would take good care of her. I was her man. The car was in great basic shape for its age—sure it would need a paint job and a tune-up, but other than that it was good to go. I offered her $1000 cash and we agreed on $1100. Sold.

The most distinctive feature of the car was the highly touted “Swing Away” steering wheel and a 390 cubic inch FE series V-8 It was a real gas hog, but gas was a lot less than it is now a gallon so I didn’t sweat it. The main problem with the car was the brakes. If it was raining you had to be careful since the brake booster was very temperamental. Sometimes they would fail completely and you had to rely on the emergency brake to stop. I didn’t usually drive it in the rain and made sure only to take it out on the bright, sunny California days.

A year later I finally made the decision to have her painted. My car aficionado friend Paul Downing told me the place where I had my TR-6 painted had moved and were now downtown L.A. near Crenshaw and Addams. I would get a great deal. For $600, it would look as good as new.

While the car was in the shop, Donna’s cousin from Scotland Alastair and his wife Corrine, born in Mauritius had come to visit. Alistair looked a lot like a skinny John Lennon in his White Album days and Corrine a lot like Lucy Liu when she was in the Charlie’s Angels movie. They were taking the train down from San Francisco and we met them at the downtown Los Angeles train station near Olvera Street, the oldest part of the city. We did the usual tourist thing, ate taquitos and churros, those long sugary things that would rot your teeth in an Acapulco minute, and then headed back to our place on Vine Street. We chatted and they told us of their windsurfing adventures, exchanged photographs and after dinner we dropped them off at their hotel in Hollywood—I’m not sure which one, but it was probably The Hollywood Roosevelt.

On the day they were scheduled to go to their next stop, which was Las Vegas, we told them we would give them a ride downtown to the train station.  I would be killing two birds with one stone by dropping my TR-250 off to be painted teal and driving my freshly painted T-Bird back to pick Alistair and Corrine up at a friend of theirs in the valley—Van Nuys, I think. The five of us, Alistair and Corrine, Donna, Jonathan and me were cruising down the 101 on a Sunday morning headed downtown when I heard a strange grinding noise coming from the front left wheel. As I was pulling over to the right hand lane in an attempt to park it on the shoulder to check it out, the noise got louder and a second later I saw my front tire careen up over the hardtop off the car and go rolling across the median past the left lane. The T-bird skidded along the freeway and I could see sparks shooting on the road. I had the presence of mind to make a hard right and navigate the beast to the shoulder right before the Laurel Canyon exit. Thank God nobody was hurt, but I was afraid to look at the damage. I knew it wasn’t going to be good. Apparently, the body shop mechanics forgot to tighten the lug nuts on the front left wheel. Do I hear lawsuit? One thing for sure, there was no way we were going to make it downtown to the train station on time.

I got out of the car and inspected the damage. The only thing I could see wrong was a black tire mark on the hardtop. The front left brake drum looked a little suspect, but not destroyed. Since it was Sunday the traffic on the freeway was fairly sparse. I waited for an opening and darted across four lanes on the 101 and rescued my wheel. The tire still looked in reasonable shape. I waited again for the traffic to clear and bolted back to the car. If we would have had a cell phone, Donna would have called AAA, and I was nowhere near a phone box. Fortunately, I had a jack in the trunk and was able to jack the front end up and replace the tire to its proper position. I don’t think it took more than thirty minutes all told. I tightened the lug nuts and prayed that it would be road worthy. It was.

My mom still lived on Canton Drive which was only a five or ten minute drive from the Laurel Canyon exit. I asked Alistair and Corrine where the next train stop was and they said they thought it was some place called Simi Valley. It wasn’t that far. I said to them that if my mom was home, I could borrow the Mercedes, (since I didn’t want to risk going in the T-Bird until I checked it out, and I was pretty sure they wanted to avoid the death trap like the plague). The Mercedes was parked in the driveway. I introduced them to my mother and she told our visitors to make themselves at home. Alistair called AMTRAK and we had forty-five minutes until the train arrived in Simi Valley—no sweat. We all piled in the Mercedes and made it there in half an hour. They made their train and when we got back to Canton Drive I checked out the T-Bird. After I cleaned the skid mark off the hardtop, it was perfect. I guess I would forgo the lawsuit after all. It wasn’t worth the hassle.

Now two years later, after coming back from our trip to Nashville, we knew we needed a good family car and went shopping for a good used Jeep Cherokee. I wanted a good four wheel drive, but Donna didn’t care as long as it was in good shape and had low miles. We had about ten grand to spend from my father’s life insurance policy, the rest would be used for moving expenses and whatnot. The fourth or fifth Cherokee was a Gray 1990 with less than thirty-thousand miles. I couldn’t even remember if it was 4 x 4 or not. While Donna was at work and Jonathan was at the day care place run by an attractive Israeli woman out of her house in Canoga Park, I drove my T-Bird out to West Hills to get another look at the gray Jeep.

I wasn’t five blocks out of my driveway when the clouds burst open and a deluge poured down. I knew it was risky for the brakes in my T-Bird but I threw caution to the wind and kept driving. I made it to the house in West Hills and the owner and I had reached a tentative price on the car. I told him I would talk it over with Donna and let him know as soon as possible. I was driving down a side street heading for Northridge Boulevard when I applied the brakes. Nothing. There I was headed for a busy street with no brakes going forty miles an hour. I managed to step on the emergency brake but it was not doing anything but slowing me down and then I downshifted to low. Still rolling.  I was going around fifteen or twenty when I saw the intersection quickly approaching. I had only fifty feet left before I would smash headlong into a river of cross traffic. I had to think fast. I guess that I could have thrown the gear into park but that would have ruined my transmission. I knew there was another way.

I turned off the ignition key  but the car kept moving and now I had no power steering and the car weighed at least two and a half tons. I pumped and then pushed as hard as I could on the brakes hoping it would slow me down enough to make a hard right turn and then I would immediately get into the parking lane hoping there were no parked cars. When I got to the intersection I turned the wheel right as hard as I could and I was panicked to see a Toyota or Honda parked in the red not more than fifty feet ahead. I knew I was going to hit it but what else could I do? My front bumper collided with the black rubber bumper of the Japanese import and moved it twenty or thirty feet forward. I got out of the car and inspected the damage. I couldn’t see any at all. Not only was there no damage but I had managed to move the illegally parked car I hit into a proper space. I had an hour or two left before I had to pick Jonathan up at day care and I was stuck in West Hills with a car without brakes. I walked back to the house with the Jeep and told the guy I wanted the car on one condition. He had to drive me to the day care and then follow me to the bank. He did and I bought the car. I felt blessed and thankful for the reprieve. While driving the Jeep home I reached down to switch to four wheel drive. There was no lever. I had bought the one that was a two wheel drive. Oh well, less things to go wrong and we were about to embark on a two-thousand mile journey to Nashville. I wasn’t going to quibble over small potatoes. I was alive, the T-Bird was undamaged and I made it to day care in time. MAZEL TOV AND HALLELUJAH!!