by Robert Hicks
The story behind the hearse seemed to change a little bit with each telling, but the gist of it was basically that Farmer had bought the hearse from the funeral home after it was used to transport his beloved wife to her place of eternal rest. The fascinating part of the story is the fact that Farmer had personally dispatched her and an amorous friend to the hereafter. Apparently it was and may still be legal to do that in Texas (I think since Bush was governor the law now stipulates you have to say “Sorry, hun” before you pull the trigger). However, the resulting guilt was something a man of Farmer’s ilk just could not avoid. Talk about your crown of thorns, that big black baby sat right next to him while he worked every day, reminding him for the rest of his life of his (and his dear wife’s) unfortunate choices. If I had ever had the nerve to talk to him, I would have asked him if he would have been better served by just killing her lover and scaring the bejesus out of her but allowing her to remain alive. When I think about it, though, I realize that if Farmer had not killed her too, it probably wouldn’t have qualified as a legal shooting. It would have been more of a crime of convenience and less of a crime of passion to do it that way. Texas laws are funny like that.
To the boys in our bike posse (think Opie Taylor with cigarettes and small-bore firearms) that hearse was the Holy Grail of used cars, and we all had nightly fantasies about somehow buying it and making the world’s greatest hot rod–show car out of it. We talked endlessly of the rarity of that black beauty and all pictured ourselves on the cover of Hot Rod magazine sitting at the wheel. Alas, somewhere in the next couple of years the hormonal Mack truck of puberty crushed the fragile dream into a million pieces and only now does a thought of that time resurface.
After all these years I can’t help but wonder where that hearse is. Did it take Farmer to his grave when he passed on? I would like to believe it did, but I don’t think life is that neat. I also wonder what happened when Farmer got to heaven (I know he went there because he was such a just killer). Were his wife and her lover waiting for him together, or had they been separated when they arrived? Did his wife appreciate his having kept the hearse, or did she think it was stupid? (You just never know what women will think.) Did he have to take the hearse with him for all eternity? (No one has seen it for a long time.) Did the preacher at the Methodist church tell Farmer he thought the hearse-at-work would be a good idea, or did Farmer come up with it himself? Did it really make Farmer feel better, or did it just make him more miserable? Or did he do it to ensure there would never be another woman in his life? If that was the reason, it sure worked. Did the in-laws seek retribution, or did they think she deserved it too? (You just never know.) There are so many unanswered questions.
One thing, however, is for damn sure. If all us aging bike posse guys got together, that hearse would be the main topic of conversation. And I have always believed, no matter how far-fetched it might seem, that people’s imaginations develop in an inverse proportion to the amount of color stimulus found in the place they are raised. Our little town produced an inordinate number of really imaginative people who went on to do stuff like invent Styrofoam, dance on the Carol Burnett show, and, yes, even write a pretty good song or two. But it was Farmer Brown who painted the masterpiece in my hometown.
Don Cook
San Antonio–born Don Cook never wanted to be anything but a songwriter. He kicked off his career at the age of fourteen playing with his acoustic folk group in Houston coffeehouses, and he showed up in Nashville three days after graduating from the University of Texas. His early writing incuded such songs as “Tonight,” a top-five hit for Barbara Mandrell, and “Lucky Lay Down,” which was recorded by John Conlee and became Don’s first number-one hit. In 1990, Cook cut some demos for Kix Brooks, with whom he was cowriting, in his home studio. The demos led to Brooks teaming up with Ronnie Dunn for Brooks & Dunn’s debut album, Brand New Man, which sold six million copies. Don had eight songs on the album, including the title cut.
Cook has since coproduced thirteen number-one singles for Brooks & Dunn and successful albums with the Mavericks, Alabama, Olivia Newton-John, Shenandoah, Lonestar, Tracy Lawrence, Joe Diffie, David Ball, Rick Trevino, Conway Twitty, and others. His songwriting hits include “It’s Getting Better All the Time,” “Only in America,” “That Ain’t No Way to Go,” and “You’re Gonna Miss Me When I’m Gone,” by Brooks & Dunn; “You” by Mark Collie; “What I Meant to Say” and “On a Good Night” by Wade Hayes; “Now I Know” by Lari White; and “Small Town Girl” by Steve Wariner; in addition to cuts by Conway Twitty, George Strait, Keith Whitley, Vince Gill, Alabama, Waylon Jennings, and many others.
In 1994, he was named senior vice-president at Sony/ATV Tree, and four years later received the title of chief creative officer, unprecedented honors for any active songwriter anywhere. In 2004, he retired from the business side of publishing to focus on his family and songwriting.
He Always Knew Who He Was
Hazel Smith
We’re at the airport, fixing to leave for the White House, when Bill shouts, “Hold on, I forgot my briefcase on the bus.” Bill’s manager, accustomed to undoing Bill’s messes, quickly assesses the damage and tells the frazzled woman at the United counter: “Here’s the situation: You have before you the Father of Bluegrass Music, Bill Monroe. He’s on his way to receive an award from the President. He left his tickets on the tour bus, so you can either hold the plane for about fifteen minutes while I go and get them or let him and his companion board without them.” To my surprise, she says: “We’ll hold.” The manager runs to retrieve Bill’s briefcase with our missing tickets and returns shirt untucked, bathed in sweat, and out of breath. He hands the tickets to the woman at the counter, a cart whisks Bill and me to our plane, and we are sipping cocktails in first class fifteen minutes later.
We land in D.C. A limo driver greets us at the gate with a MR. MONROE sign, grabs our carry-ons, and delivers us directly to the front door of the White House. The limo driver opens our door, walks us up the steps, and cordially hands us over to the majordomo standing in the foyer.
“Greetings, Mr. Monroe. The President and Mrs. Clinton as well as the entire staff are honored to have you. Let me briefly fill you in on our presentation schedule,” the smiling majordomo says.
“You are the second honoree to arrive. Once all are present, President and Mrs. Clinton will join you for cocktails; they will then escort you to the estate dining room, where you and other dignitaries will dine. After dinner, the President and Mrs. Clinton will escort you to the East Room for your performance. Before I lead you to the Blue Room, where you will meet the other recipients, may I take your coat?”
Bill just stands there.
The majordomo asks again, “Mr. Monroe, may I take your coat?”
“Sure, you got a claim check?”
“But Mr. Monroe, this is the White House.”
“I always get a claim check no matter where I am.”
“Mr. Monroe, we’ve never lost anyone’s personal effects.”
“All the more reason—you’re due. I’m not going to be the first one.”
For the first time in my life I feel like I could kill Bill for being Bill. The majordomo turns on his heels and marches to a desk near the back wall, opens a drawer, retrieves a piece of White House stationery, creases an inch off the top of the sheet, tears off a three-by-one-inch rectangle, and writes:
THE WHITE HOUSECLAIM CHECK 0001
He abruptly turns around, marches back to us, extends the rectangle to Bill, and says, “Mr. Monroe, your claim check. May I take your coat?”
“Where’s the stub?”
For the second time in my life I feel like I could kill Bill for being Bill.
“But Mr. Monroe, this is our only claim check.”
“Every claim check I’ve ever seen came with a stub, son. It’s no good without it.”
At this, the majordomo, sighing audibly, returns to his desk, folds and tears a one-by-one-inch square from a fresh sheet of
white house stationery, and writes:
THE WHITE HOUSECLAIM CHECK 0001
He walks back looking a little less friendly and hands Bill the stub. Thank you sweet Jesus, Bill finally relinquishes his hat, coat, and briefcase, but looks like he’ll bite the MD’s arm off when he reaches for his mandolin. The MD is not about to get into another tussle over that. With another audible sigh, the MD passes us off to an aide who escorts Bill, mandolin tucked under his arm, and me to the Blue Room.
The room’s empty except for a shortish, fattish elderly man in a tuxedo and what very well could be a toupee. The elderly man turns around to reveal the aging face of Frank Sinatra. With a grace he’s not known for, he glides over, hand extended and all smiles, saying, “Mr. Monroe, I’m Frank Sinatra. When they told me you were going to be one of my fellow honorees, I told Barbara that now I am doubly honored. I may not be able to say I am your biggest fan, but I can honestly say there is not a Bill Monroe album I do not own. You are the only man alive that created a whole music genre.”
“What’d you say your name was?” Bill asks.
Crestfallen, Frank sheepishly answers, “Sinatra.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a singer.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Sinatra . . . Sinatra.”
“You know, I think I heard of you.”
For the third time in my life, I feel like I should kill Bill for being Bill.
Luckily, other honorees and guests begin to swarm into the room and we get a brief reprieve from the icing chill wafting off Frank. Sure enough, the President and Mrs. Clinton eventually show up, just as the majordomo outlined. They work the room, shaking hands with each of us, and then lead us all down to the dining room for a big, fancy supper. The food is good, but we spend most of our time trying to figure out which utensil in a long line of spoons, knives, and forks we are supposed to use. Seems like a dishwashing nightmare to me. Bill pretty much just stabs everything with the biggest knife he can find and mutters to himself a bit. After the last plate is whisked away to our right by the army of white-coated servers, the Clintons lead us to the East Room for the performances.
The first honoree to perform is some world-famous violinist I’ve never heard of. I don’t catch his name, but I think they say he’s from Israel. He stands up on a little six-foot riser and just plays the heart out of his fiddle.
When he finishes, Bill figures Sinatra, the lesser known, will be next, and Bill will close the show. Maybe it’s because the drinks are on the house, but Frank has been pounding down scotch since before we arrived and by now he’s in no shape to sing, so Bill never gets a chance actually to hear what he sounds like. That makes Bill the second honoree to play. He whips out his mandolin, hunches over, and flails away on the standards he wrote like “Blue Moon of Kentucky” and “Walk Softly on My Heart.” He howls in that ghostly, tattered tenor of his and beats the tar out of his battered Gibson F like a man forty years younger. In the middle of “Uncle Pen,” Bill shouts out to the Israeli violinist, “Fiddler, do a break.”
The fiddler looks around and behind him to see whom Bill’s shouting at. Bill nods at him, so there’s no doubt whom he’s addressing. The fiddler looks horrified and clutches his old fiddle close to his chest. Bill shouts all the louder, “Fiddler, do a break, do a break.” The fiddler shakes his head and scoots back as far as he can in his seat. Bill shakes his head in disgust as if to say “If I want something done right, I got to do it myself” and beats that poor Gibson all the harder.
After Bill’s show, the Clintons say good night and we are all escorted to separate black Lincoln Town Cars. I can tell Bill is a little hot under the collar.
“Sorry I got you into this mess.”
“What are your talking about, Bill?”
“I’m talking about this was suppose to be some kind of big deal.”
“Bill, this is a big deal. This is as big as it gets. The White House, the Kennedy Award, the President and his wife. What are you talking about?”
“I tell you what I’m talking about. How can it be such a big deal? The singer can’t sing and the fiddler can’t do a break. I gotta dang near beg to get a proper claim check for my property.”
I tell him he’s just feeling ornery and he cools down for a bit and we get a good night’s sleep.
The next day, everything goes as planned. They pick us up early and shuttle us from the luncheon to a banquet and then another big gala award ceremony. The fiddler, steering clear of us, does the same song he played last night. Bill plows through a half dozen of his hits in a flurry of pickin’ and singing. He’s just getting warmed up when the President joins him onstage to address the crowd. Bill receives his award first because he’s already up there. The fiddler and Sinatra are next, and it’s obvious to me that they are trying not to stand too close to Monroe; it’s equally obvious that this arrangement is just fine with Bill.
We’re at the airport bright and early the next morning when Bill’s briefcase goes through the security X-ray machine. You’d think that it was the day of rapture or hell had indeed broken loose. Alarms blaring, security people running, Bill pinned against the wall by a policeman while three others start fussing with his case. Inside the briefcase, swaddled in a Crown Royal bag, is a Colt revolver.
“Mr. Monroe, where did you get this gun?”
“A fan gave it to me.”
“Somebody in the airport asked you to carry this gun?”
“No, you fool—a fan at a show in Little Rock thirty years ago.”
“Why are you carrying this gun with you?”
“I won’t take two steps without it. I always carry my gun. In my business, a man never knows when he’s going to need a persuader like this.”
“Mr. Monroe, did you realize this gun is loaded?”
“Well, it ain’t worth a dang if it ain’t.”
“Mr. Monroe, can you tell us where you have been while in Washington?”
“The White House.”
“The White House? As in the residency of the President of the United States?”
“Well, what other White House do you think I’d be talking about?”
“Mr. Monroe, do have any proof that you have been to the White House?”
At which point Bill reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled rectangle, on which is written:
THE WHITE HOUSECLAIM CHECK 0001
There is a pause while all the security personnel gather around the torn scrap of paper and talk in hushed tones. Finally, the one asking all the questions says, “I’m sorry, Mr. Monroe, you are going to have to miss your flight. We have some more questions to ask you.”
“Whoa, son, wait a minute. I’m Bill Monroe. I’m the Father of Bluegrass Music and I’ve got to play the Opry tonight. I’m getting on that plane.”
Well, I guess that’s the thing about Bill. He may not know who Frank Sinatra is but he always knows who Bill Monroe is.
Hazel Smith
Hazel Smith moved from Caswell County, North Carolina, with her sons and her “stuff” in a pickup truck to Nashville in 1970. After about a year of doing “anything she could find to feed them,” she found work in the music business, eventually in the employ of Tompall Glaser, whose partner was Waylon Jennings.
In 1973 Smith coined the phrase “outlaw music” to define the self-produced, hard-driving music Jennings, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, and all the hat-bearing cowboys were recording. The name stuck, and in 1976, Wanted! The Outlaws, a compilation record by Jennings, his wife, Jessi Colter, Nelson, and Glaser, became the first certified platinum record by country artists. A songwriter in her own right, Smith was also the subject of Bill Monroe’s “Walk Softly on My Heart.”
For thirty years, she wrote a column for Country Music magazine until its demise, when she began writing for Country Weekly and, more recently, for the weekly “Hot Dish” column on CMT.com. She’s authored a cookbook, Hazel’s Hot Dish: Cookin’ with Country Stars, a
nd has appeared on Emeril Lagasse’s Emeril Live, and on more episodes of The Ellen DeGeneres Show than any other guest. Smith has been heard daily on WFMS Radio in Indianapolis for fourteen years, and twice weekly on KUSS in San Diego. She currently hosts the CMT television show Southern Fried Flicks with Hazel Smith.
In 1999 Smith received the highest award in country music journalism when the Country Music Association (CMA) named her recipient of the Media Achievement Award. Smith calls this her proudest moment.
Curtis Loach
Charlie Daniels
I’m a man who has done a pretty good bit of traveling in his day. I been to New York City, and I been to Miami, Florida. I been to Charlotte and Richmond and Greensboro. I mean, I ain’t just some feller you’d see on the street and say to yourself, “I bet that feller has traveled a lot.” I ain’t wearing no travel stickers on my forehead or nothing, but I was even in New Orleans, Louisiana, one time.
I also ain’t trying to say that I know everything in the world they is to know, but I have been out of New Hanover County a couple of times. I guess what I’m trying to say is, of all the people I’ve seen (Oh! I went to Atlanta to a baseball game, too, a major league baseball game), in all them places I’ve been, I’d have to say that the downright damnedest man I ever did see was Curtis Loach.
He used to do and say the beatingest things of anybody in the world.
I mean, you take the time that his youngest son was born. Curtis claimed to be part Cherokee Indian. (I never did believe he was.) Anyway, Curtis said that he was gonna do like the Indians used to do and name his baby for the first thing he seen after the child was born.
Well, the first thing he seen was a can of paint, so he named the poor little boy Hi-Glo, Hi-Glo Loach. How would you like to drag that name around with you for the rest of your life?
