Tara Kristin

My bicentennial baby.

Hope you like your name. You know, named after the most important character in GWTW. And Kristin. Well, it just sounded so Germanic to me and our heritage and all that. Besides I thought Kris with a "k" would make a great nickname. Not like all those plain-Jane "ch" Chrisses.

I think it takes a newborn a little time to develop their own look and personality, to kind of be their own little person even though their mamas might each think her baby is just the most unique, outstanding child ever birthed.

You yourself were a very cool little baby even at 6 weeks old, not minding as I toted you around on my hip at Harve Free's July 4th fish fry over in Lexa. He served buffalo, which I had to thoroughly clean of tiny bones before I could feed you little morsels, which I could tell you enjoyed, though like babies do, you had to wallow it around in your mouth a bit before swallowing half and spitting the other half out. Your mom was annoyed, though I can't understand why. It seems to me you enjoyed the taste of fried fish like a true Southern girl and continue to do so to this very day.

So you survived the fish fry with no problems but the Incident of the Shaken Baby was quite a close call. A few months later, your Pepaw Tolar, Red Paul and I were working at the tractor shed maybe thirty yards in front of the Old House. One of the John Deeres was running so I couldn't hear anything but caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye. Your mother and Memaw Tolar were standing on the back porch shaking you. Panic was obvious in their demeanor so I ran immediately toward the house and leaped the last several feet (so it seemed) onto the porch. Snatching you from whichever one of them was holding you, I administered a sharp slap to your back and you started crying. Which was good because previously you had been making no sound but turning some scary shades of red then blue. I handed you back to your mother and walked back out to the shop.The shaking the baby to make her stop choking? I have no idea. Ask your mother.

You were the quiet one, it seems to me, not as talkative as your sisters at first. Quiet also in a sneaky way. You had the guerilla thing down, moving in the shadows (so to speak), getting into and maybe getting away with, stuff.

In a house full of talkers, you seemed to grow out of the silent phase. And your conversation became a flow of stream of consciousness which was very entertaining. One day, at the Old House and you were maybe five or six, Ozzy I think it was came on the stereo and you commented on his devil "we-shopping" tendencies. I was inspired to write a song on the spot: "We shop for the devil, how else does he buy his tennis shoes?" You found that very entertaining I remember.

Later on when I was living on Moon Lake, you met my friends Buddy Furniss and Cub, whom you promptly christened "Bug and Hug", never mentioning one without the other. Bud found that highly entertaining and remarked, "Little kids is a trip."

It is always strange I think to remember your babies as babies and little children when you experience them as adults. Maybe you have found it so. I hope you do because to remember you little guys while observing the women you've become is one of the joys of this life.

Pictures are good but the memories, so vivid, so clear are the things we cherish. I remember you, with your dutch boy(?) haircut, your mischievous smile, your sweet demeanor.

I am so glad and so proud that God has blessed you with a loving husband and kids and grandkids to gladden your heart and make you smile. Some people change as they grow older. Some need to. Not you. I still see in you that tranquil nature you had as an infant and a little child.  How proud I am of who you are and the joy you bring into the lives of your loved ones and all who know you.

I love you, Tara Kristin.

Andrea Nicole

 I selected your name with great care for the way it would sound when spoken aloud, pleasing to the ear and I think in that way you grew up in that name, bringing happiness to others, sometimes by merely being you.

I think maybe you were the reason I remember our home as peaceable, at least as far as you girls getting along. Don't get me wrong, there were squabbles (What? A houseful of females fussing?). But as these things usually go, the sibling rivalry just was not an issue as nearly as I can remember.

Again I think it had to do with your relatively laid-back personality (don't know where you got it from). Kim was the more assertive, and you were like, "Its cool." You were Zen.

Which was odd because you were not happy as a baby. Not any health problems that I recall. Maybe because until you were 1 or a little older, your mom and I argued a lot. In front of you guys, I'm ashamed to say.

Maybe after that point in your life she had resigned herself to the fact that music was going to be a important part of my life and things calmed down a bit. Ask your mother. She probably remembers it better than I do.

Such a sweet nature and I recall that even after Kris was born and you might have been jealous, you weren't. In fact one of my favorite stories concerns you two. She couldn't have been much more than two so you were probably around six or seven  and I heard your voice one day from the next room, yall's bedroom:

"Do-o-nt, Krissy do-o-nt." And again. And again. I won't be mean and call it a whine but that's what it was. It was plain to anyone listening you were being tormented in some awful way by your little sister.

Well, enough of that became enough fairly quickly, so I rose from whatever I was doing, strode into the room, swatted Kris on the behind and said, "Quit aggravatin' your sister."

And that settled it. Or so I thought. It wasn't long before I heard you sobbing. Your mama came in  and related the following conversation:

Mom: What's wrong with you, Niki?
Nik (in the midst of packing): I'm running away from home.
Mom: What? Why?
Niki (renewed sobbing): Daddy was mean to Krissy.

Never did find out what Kris was doing to you. Maybe she remembers.

I think Pepaw Tolar pulled all yall's front baby teeth. The two in front, that leave a cute gap in a little girl's smile until the adult ones come in. As nearly as I can recall, you were terrified of having them pulled even though they seemed about to fall out by themselves. He called you over to himself saying, "Let Papaw see, baby." And you dutifully opened your mouth and Pepaw grasped the tooth between his thumb and forefinger and wiggled it experimentally while talking to you about this, that or the other thing. Next thing you know, he showed it to you having pulled it out while he was talking. Gotta say, I was jealous, He always tied a string around mine which wasn't nearly so relaxing. Got his technique down over the years, I suppose.

There's a picture somewhere, your mom may have it, that I took of you when you were maybe five(?) or maybe a little younger. You were just getting over chicken pox so you had stayed home from church that Sunday. You guys and your mom always went to LBC every Sunday with your Memaw and Pepaw.  I was sitting in my recliner, watching the pre-game show I think and I can't remember how the conversation started but that it was about nothing in particular, just a girl hanging out with her daddy. I remember your face, with one or two remaining scars from the chicken pox but your mouth mostly and how the expression of your face was just like that of your mama's when she and I first met and you talked, like she had done, about mostly nothing and your hair was wispy and blonde and you had on this little maroon turtleneck that was one of your favorites and somehow the camera was nearby and I snapped a shot of you as you talked, a polaroid which is probably all faded by now which is a shame because I would give anything to look at it and see if it matches the memory I have of you that day just talking and hanging out.

The last time I remember talking and hanging out with you was in your Memaw Tolar's carport. You were a grown woman then with your own family and the feeling of kinship that we feel with those nearest and most dear to us is the thing I recall of that time. That and a sense of peace between us which I hope was as real to you as it was to me.

You know, some might look at your life and say, "What a shame. She never had a chance to be all she might have been."

They are wrong. You were exactly what the Lord your God made you to be. You were a sweet and loving sister and daughter, a faithful, supportive wife and a kind and gentle mother to your curly-haired little girl. You carried your smile wherever you went, even on days when you might not have felt like smiling, and brightened people's hearts with it.

There is a verse of Scripture I think of, which comforts me greatly: "The righteous perish...the faithful are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil."

I hope to see you one day, blue-eyed little girl, resting in the arms of Jesus.

I love you, Andrea Nicole.

Kimberly Ann

Your mom picked your name. It is odd to me that people are rarely called by the names they were born with, but some variation (Kim) or even a nickname picked up in childhood (Kimbo, and please don't hate me).


I mention this because Kimberly Ann was a very popular name the year you were born. And perhaps the year before and the year after. No movie stars of that name (I do remember a couple of "Kims") so maybe it was a character on a popular soap opera.

Anyway I accused your mother of having no imagination and she was suitably annoyed and may have even suggested that I name the next child. Or maybe I insisted that I be allowed to do so. You should ask your mother.

I digress. You wondered about "our" story and this is part of that, leading up to the main event, as it were.

You were the first grandchild on either side and heavily doted upon. In fact, and you must hide this from the other girls, you were definitely Memaw Tolar's favorite.

Not sure about your Pepaw, cuz he was so good at not showing such prejudice toward one or the other child. I'm sure he favored you though since he loved the underdog (being one himself) and whose heart would not go out to a little girl who had me and your mama for parents!

You have told many great stories about your childhood. See, the insanely competitive Tolar gene gets all the notice, being so spectacular in action, but there is the storyteller gene as well. Pepaw Tolar had it. Aunt Deb has it. You have it.

It's the ability to relate an event "with advantages" (as  Shakespeare would have it).

But here's one you may not remember.

We had just gotten the 4430 and I was disking with it behind the house. Your mom brought you out and indicated you wanted to ride on the tractor. She lifted you up and I pulled you onto the seat between my legs, the big steering wheel practically in your lap.
In fact you placed your little hands on the wheel and helped me drive as we made a round and pointed back toward the house. There was still a barbed wire fence there from the days when the field had been a cow pasture. You didn't know it but with a brake on each wheel the John Deere would literally turn in its own tracks. So I rolled up to the fence and spun the wheel, jammed on the right brake, raised the power lift then lowered it again, all while not even grazing the fence. In fact the only distraction I suffered was when you grabbed my leg in a death grip, apparently convinced that we were not only about to crash through the fence but on through the house as well. I think I still have the scar.

It was cool taking you guys to a restaurant when you were little (I especially remember Pancho's) because you were so well-behaved and people always commented on it and your mom and I would get all swelled up because we were doing such an awesome job raising yall.

About that. I think I gave you a piece of paper quite a while back folded into a booklet telling your mom how much you loved her. Except when she made you mad. Then you made a list of the things you didn't love about how she oppressed you. And this is the strange part: somewhere in the midst of this you called Niki a "dumb ace". Or maybe that was in a different writing of yours. You should ask your mother. I only remembered being appalled at such language from my little girl and to this day, I cannot imagine where you might have learned it.

Finally, on to "The Two Mrs. Williams (es?)". Mrs. Williams (or maybe it was "Miss") was your math teacher in perhaps the third grade(?). And no doubt, being fresh out of teacher's college (they used to have those), she was anxious about teaching her first group of students and maybe even a little overwhelmed at interacting with white children for maybe the first time in her life. Such were the times we lived in. One of her first acts was to send you home with an "F" paper. Your parents were upset. This parent was even more upset when I checked your work and found that you had not given any wrong answers at all! Well maybe one. Or two. Still an "A" paper. Looking back, I can only think that stress fuddled her thinking and she confused addition with subtraction. Or something.Your mom declined to go and discuss the problem with the teacher so it fell to this redneck to go and parley with this woman who had mistreated my child. I wore my sternest visage as I pointed out her grading errors in soft, low tones that nonetheless expressed the desire to not see this error repeated.

You know the thing I really remember about this was Mrs. Williams eyes and how wide they were as we spoke. After all, she was black and I was white and we were in the South and all that implied at the time. Looking back. I'm glad I wasn't mean but I'm gladder that Mrs. Williams is/has been a valued colleague of yours.

It makes me proud of who that little girl has become, all that she has accomplished professionally, but even more than that become the matriarch (again please forgive me, but it IS true) of this clan you so love and faithfully nurture.

Way to go, you.

I love you, Kimberly Ann.

If I Loved You

“I’m pregnant.”

Of course, I already knew this. She had told Jobie and he had told me. Still, not the kind of news a single man wants to hear from a woman he knows only casually and is not even sure he likes.

I wasn’t really in the market for a family. I had thrown away a perfectly good one. Musicians are notoriously unreliable husbands and dads.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I’m going to have the baby.” She said this defensively, as if expecting me to pressure her to have an abortion. Actually the thought had not occurred to me. To my shame, I must admit I would have been open to the suggestion had she made it.

“And you’re sure it’s mine (once more, to my shame)?”

“I haven’t been with anybody but you.” She was still defensive and a little upset at the implication of my question. I didn’t press it.

She was young, 23, when we first met, kinda skinny but with a cute butt. I usually tired of women quickly but there was an innocence about her that had nothing to do with age or experience. I found this attractive somehow. Not what you ordinarily see in the nightclubs.

So I said, “Okay, we’ll see,” and she kept coming around all summer to the Old House, the converted shotgun house where I had spent most of my childhood and where I was living my bachelor’s existence.

She brought herself, when she came and whatever party goods she could lay her hands on. The price of admission, I guess you’d say.

As I mentioned, I had some hard experiences with women, most of them of my own making, and really didn’t care to have one around on a steady basis. Plus, she was pretty messed up the first time we met and it later came out she was a junkie.

I quit seeing her for a bit but she was quite persistent and I wasn’t seeing anyone else at the time. Or looking for anyone else.

So she would show up at the Old House two or three times a week, always calling ahead, although I could hear the ’63 Mercury she drove squeaking and rattling from a mile away. My brother and me and our friends would party at the Old House and she would show up. Everybody began to know her name and talk to her, especially the girls. It was taken for granted that the baby growing in her belly was mine.

By early autumn the band was playing again at a couple of clubs. She came to hear us play and sat at the band table. She and Alma, the guitar player’s wife and our keyboardist, became as thick as thieves. She was swelled way out there by then. Wayne, the club owner, would always joke when he saw her that he would probably be the one to deliver the baby, there in the club.

The baby arrived in January. Her sister called me that afternoon and asked if I would like to travel to Memphis to see my new daughter. Amazing, isn't it, how a newborn child with her tiny squished-up face can so closely resemble the family from which she comes. Sandy was the the spitting image of my dad with his round face and chubby cheeks.

Amazing as well, how one accustomed to and desiring a solitary existence can begin to desire something more.

Motels became part of our weekend existence for the next several months as the Old House in winter was not a good place to keep an infant. And we were a family on those weekends; mom, dad and baby in her dresser-drawer bassinet.

In June the confirmed bachelor became a family man when I moved Joyce and Sandy in with me.

We made it official in November of '88, mom and dad becoming wife and husband. And so we remained until one night almost thirty years to the night we met, she died in her sleep.

It strikes me, as I reflect on it, how some seem born with kind and loving hearts while others of us must be taught to reach outside ourselves, to love. What a sweet, beautiful lesson it is to be so taught. What a mercy is such a blessing to one so undeserving.

And I would say that, other than my salvation, it is the greatest kindness my Lord and God has extended to me.

And so Joyce Wanda Tolar, if you were here I would kiss you and wish you happy anniversary. That not being possible, I'll have to wait on that kiss and say, “See you soon.”

What Are You Doing?

...and he does according to his will among the host of heaven and among the inhabitants of the earth; and none can stay his hand or say to him, "What have you done?" -Daniel 4:35


Billy quoted a line from the film Sergeant York in Sunday's sermon: "The Lord sure do work in mysterious ways."

Mysterious.

Perplexing.

Beyond my ken.

Over my head.

Not the trials, temptations or tribulations. Jesus said those would come and I am certain that I may not understand those this side of glory other than the general rule that these things grow our faith.

No, I refer to what some might call a lucky or fortuitous circumstance, but what  you or I would call "providential."

And we want to know what is going on, or I do.

Something astounding is happening or about to happen. That feeling; you know it?

It has to do with prayer, I think. A lot?

You know those things you've asked for. Not bad in themselves, but maybe not for you at this particular time. That's how I read God's "No" or what seems to be "No."

I am in the midst of a thing. I thought I had heard God's "no" and moved on.

But now something is going on. I won't be specific because I might be mistaken, but this has come up again after several months in the most amazing way.

So I'm saying, "God, what are you doing.?"

Not complaining, you understand, or questioning his wisdom, but out of sheer mystification.

Deuteronomy 29:29 talks about the "secret things" of God.

Maybe this is that.

I can be sure of Romans 8:28: "for my good."

And for his glory.

I can hardly wait.

Peace

Grace, mercy and peace from God the Father and Christ Jesus our Lord. -1 Timothy 1:2b


How do you pray for someone you don't know, of whose need you are not aware?

Who are these names on our prayer lists?

They are real people. I must remind myself that someone I know and love made this prayer request.

But what are their needs specifically?

To pray specifically seems needful. Not just, "Lord, bless so-and-so."

Which might be my tendency.

Peace.

This is something all humans desire?

Even those who seem to live for and live in the melodrama?

What about the lost?

"The way of peace they have not known."

They are at war with the God who made them, Paul says.

In each of his letters, Paul opens with a prayer, as it were, for God's peace upon his readers.

"My peace I leave with you," Jesus said.

Peace for you and for me, for all who turn to him in faith.

Peace in the midst of heartache, in times of temptation, in sickness, when there is turmoil all around.

Peace at the hour of death.

Peace that passes understanding.

Peace be unto you.

Coulda Had Fun Sometime

For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison. -2 Corinthians 4:17

Thinking about Sunday's sermon this past week.

Suffering.

1 Peter 4:12-19 is not the only passage in the Bible that addresses Christian suffering and our proper response to it.

I have suffered.

Because temptation is suffering.

You now, the urge to reply in kind, to crush the other person with witty repartee, or in other words to be just plain mean because someone is being unkind to you.

That Tolar competition gene; you remember the one that spurs me to win at all cost.

But another thing from Sunday.

The session meeting.

This particular one lasted over two hours and we wrestled with many issues, some thorny, others not so much.

In the midst of it all was not a spirit of burden, but one of good fellowship and camaraderie.

See, I am blessed to serve with a group of godly, dedicated men who are also among the zaniest group of fellows I know.

And if you don't think godliness and nuttiness can co-exist, I invite you to think of the truly joyful Christians you know.

At the end of it all, Bro. Billy said a cool thing. He told us how he enjoys working with us and how he loves us and how we make serving Christ fun.

Thanks, Bro. Billy. We love you too, man and don't we just have fun?

I'm Trying, Wingo, I'm Trying Real Hard

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with your might....-Ecclesiastes 9:10a

Old and full of years.

That's me, I reckon. Though some would say "full of something else."

Full of blessings, I calls it.

Good health.

A wonderful church family and the ability and opportunity to serve alongside people who set such an example of dedication and love.

A little something to keep me busy.

You must have noticed that we each have been given a mission field to witness in.

One of the reasons I will work as long as the LORD gives me health.

So I drive this company's truck the 50 or so miles to Murray, KY each morning and return to our various customers with the parts they need to do their jobs.

A chance to renew old acquaintances. And make new ones.

As Karl Childers once said, "He coulda had fun sometime. Ummm-hmm."

Thanks. I believe I will.

To Do What Is Evil

"I have found you, because you have sold yourself to do what is evil in the sight of the LORD." -1 Kings 21:20b


This is NOT a political diatribe.

I browse facebook mainly to keep up with what is going on with friends and family, especially those I don't get to see all that often.

I did see something interesting today. I friend of long standing and one whose intelligence I greatly admire shared an article positing that there may be instances of demonic possession in the U.S. congress.

And while I tend to believe that there are "things goin' on that you don't know," I have one quibble with the notion put forth in the article.

This may be just me being nit-picky, but I understand the idea of possession to be an involuntary thing. Filmic images of poor innocent Regan or Emily Rose or countless others ( there must be thousands of these productions) come to mind and each of these is being victimized by the forces of evil.

If you will allow the premise that there IS demonic activity in the halls of Congress, then I believe what we have here is another thing entirely.

Could we begin with the understanding that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart is only evil all the time?

Heard a great sermon this past Sunday wherein the pastor informed us that marriage is not a competition, but the uniting of a man and woman into "one flesh."

Power and control. Is this not a temptation for the best(?) of us?

How much more so, do you suppose, in a place where these have become idols?

And one thing we know about the worship of idols is that it involves a conscious choice. As in the story of Ahab's confrontation
with Elijah.

Choices were made.

And here is my quibble: in the article, the spirit of Jezebel is cited as the source of the wickedness in high places. Yet the 1 Kings account sets forth a constant chain of conscious decision-making, each step leading to the next and so on to the end of the story.

You may say that Jezebel was possessed by demons, but it seems more likely that she was ruled by the desire to control her world.

A self-destructive tendency, in our personal situations as well as in the public realm.

And so we pray. And we vote. And we have these discussions, though it seems that personal contact is preferable to the public forum.

I do have one political observation after all, if you will allow it: would it not be beneficial to our legislators if we removed them, on a regular basis, from the temptations we have mentioned?

Clean Sheets

...the LORD gave and the LORD hath taken away; blessed be the name of the LORD. -Job 1:21b

I put fresh sheets on the bed yesterday.

I cannot help but think of my wife whenever I do this and her delight in such a simple task and always (really, ALWAYS) exclaiming, "Clean sheets, Junior!"

I cannot see her face in my mind.

But there are pictures, many pictures. And memories so vivid of acts of kindness and loving care. And laughter.

Small things, you might say, but precious things that bear me up throughout the days.

And hope.

How do people do it, I often wonder, who have no hope of the resurrection? What good are the memories of good times past without the sure and certain promise of the life to come?

I cannot "only imagine."

But I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.

We shall meet again.

Signposts on the Road to Salvation: Friendship

...and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.-Proverbs 18:24b

"There's no explaining the chemistry between two people," I heard a man speak concerning a nearly 60 year friendship.

I met Frank Dalton in the early '90's. We worked together, then lost track of each other until around 2000, when he came to work where I was.

And the talks began. Peace talks, as it turns out.

But not peace between Frank and I. There was already that, though he laughingly informed me that I was the same age as his dad.

This would be a peace of a different kind and, early on, he offered to share it with me.

It seems odd, doesn't it, that we can tell (for the most part) those who don't possess that peace. I long now, as he did then, to share that peace with beloved family and friends.

Knowing what peace consists of, he began to invite me to his church. And I would offer some excuse. And he would smile and continue the conversation, never forgetting, on another day, to extend the invitation once again. And so it went.

The rest of the story is for later, since all this seemed to occur in stages, first one step, then another.

Some things never change however, and now I am the same age as the granddads of the friends where I work.

And I seek to share the peace that has been given to me.

Signposts On the Road to Salvation

We were discussing dreams.

We all have them. Not all of us remember them.

Do they all mean something? Possibly not.

Could it be, do you think, that these seemingly random wanderings of the subconscious mind have (at least part of the time) real significance?

The song lyrics quoted above are from a dream I had some months after my dad died. An audio dream. No visuals at all, just this song as if I were hearing on the radio.

Rodney and I sat up all night playing music on the night our father died. "Wish you were here" seemed to have special import to us and we played it twice.

But it was the first line which haunted my dream, months later.

As though I could hear my dad's voice repeating that line as it played.

I was an infidel, you see.

That line reverberated like a warning; do you really think you can tell "heaven from hell," you who know so little (if anything) about either?

You may call me a mystic or merely superstitious. I call it a beginning.

Within a few more months, my friend Frank came to work at Union City Ford and we began to talk.

There is this verse which may or may not have meaning for this situation. I think of it often:

"...your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions." Joel 2:28b, Acts 2:17b

Are you hearing this song, Little Brother? Wish you were here and I pray the Lord that He send you a true friend.

3-16-19

On this Saturday past, I stood at the highest point in Maple Hill Cemetery, overlooking the Mississippi River as it flowed past Helena, Arkansas.

Gathered there with my oldest daughter and myself was a small group of people come to pay tribute to Patrick Ronayne Cleburne on the day before his birthday.

Though a son of Ireland, he was also a son of the South and so akin to the sons and daughters who had come to remember him.

The speaker related Cleburne's life story and his service to his adopted home. But he also spoke of those traditions and values which bind us together.

My mind wandered and I reflected on the reasons I had come home; to renew old acquaintances, to see the old places once more, but most of all, to strengthen and renew family ties strained (if that is the right word) by time and distance.

The next day we worshipped in the church where I grew up, sitting in the pew with a memorial plaque bearing my father's name.

God blessed this past weekend, as He often does, above and beyond what I had asked or expected.

I am grateful for the home where I have lived for the past thirty years and all those who are and have been part of my life there.

But I am so thankful also for the place from which I came, and the people who made and continue to make that place special in my heart.

As the song says, Old times there are not forgotten.

Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

I had cool aunts and uncles, growing up, especially on my mom's side.

You've heard me say how Mom's sister, Aunt Ona, and her husband Uncle John got me back into playing music.

One of Mother's other sisters lived in Whitehaven, MS. Every summer, my sisters and I would visit for a week with Aunt Norma and Uncle Billy and their daughters, the two oldest of whom were about the same age as Brenda and Deb.

You have heard tell of the fabulous adventures of Jack and Susan, so you know that I was OK hanging out with the females, you know, pretending to be a monster and such like.

But guys, being guys, need to hang out with guys sometimes and this is where my Uncle Billy was so cool. He would sit and just talk sometimes or we would play chess (which he would nearly always win, but that was cool too).

I think my favorite thing was that he would let me sit up late and watch the Carson show with him, something I was not allowed to do at home.

Which brings me to my favorite Uncle Billy story, the one where we saw the Beatles before they came to America.

The summer before I turned 14, we were sitting in the Shelton's living room in Whitehaven, MS (a suburb of Memphis) watching The Tonight Show Starring Johnny Carson.

John's first guest that night was Jack Paar, former host of the Tonight Show. After the usual pleasantries ("how ya doin?" "watcha been up to?"), Jack shared that he had been in jolly old England where he had seen a most unusual sight.

He then showed a Super 8 (the VHS of the 60's) film of this rock group playing in a large theater or something in London. He remarked on how the girls (or young women, if you prefer) would go absolutely insane at theses concerts, screaming their heads off, weeping, fainting, and other such hysterical carryings-on. Quite amazing really.

And so it was. You could barely hear the band over the noise, though the lads, a quartet of long-haired (for back in the day) young men neatly dressed were giving it their all. "She Loves You" I think was the song and if I had been on Bandstand, I would have scored it an 85, "cuz you can dance to it."

John cracked a few jokes about the whole scene and went to a commercial.

Uncle Bill turned to me and asked, "What did you think of them?"

"They're okay I guess but I like the Four Seasons better."

Thus music criticism in the early 60's.