Hey, Tootler:

Just goes to show the power of suggestion. While I've written a couple of tunes in my life that I never added words to, it is not my gift. First of all, I am a very primitive reader of music, and can't "write it." I can tell when notes are supposed to go up and down and can usually figure out the sharps and flats, but I don't even consciously think of the names of notes when I work out an arrangement. For years, when I played banjo, I had to stop and think for a minute to remember what key I was playing in, because I never played with other musicians.

But last night, I had an even more unsual dream. I was at a college somewhere and there was an informal band playing in a cafeteria (much like at folk festivals.) The leader of the band came over and asked me to play with them, but I didn't have my guitar with me. Just as well. But, when I looked down on the table in front of me, there was a carved, wooden plaque with a map on it that looked like a simplified version of a Tolkein map. As the band was playing, I noticed that if I followed the flow of the river on the map, I could see the melody and harmonies they were playing. It was "Sheet" music in the form of a river. The melody was unfamiliar to me, but I started to hear the harmony, and was singing along in harmony to the melody. Very, very strange that I would be sitting at this table, looking at a carved map, singing harmony to a melody that doesn't exist.

And Ebbie: I really liked the lyrics you posted, expressing sorrow over the pain you/I have caused others. Growing often hurts... not just ourselves, but those around us. That's why forgiveness was invented.

And Patrish: I thought that your description of your Father was wonderful. Like you, I had to piece together my Father out of memories of others, as much as my own. I think that it's a great gift that in writing my and my family's memoirs, I am coming to know my Father better, even though he passed away 9 years ago. I'm just thankful that I saved letters and short notes about conversations we'd had over the years. They are pieces of the puzzle who was my Father. In the process, I've grown in love for him.

And keep at it, Rap: Those first two lines left any number of potential story lines for a song. I haven't gone any further, as much as anything because we've had a wonderful Thanksgiving week, which still isn't over. My wife and I are driving down to Brooklyn (an hour and forty five minute drive) this morning to the ordination of our sister-in-law on Ruth's side's ordination as a Deaconess. She and my brother-in-law are always supportive of my music, and the Gospel Messengers and come up here for anniversaries and concerts, so we want to show our loving support, in kind. Like most of us, my time here on the computer has been limited, and I've continued to keep writing on the memoirs. I don't want to lose momentum on that, so other things get set aside. I've passed 100 pages now, and still have a good head of steam. The revelations are totally unexpected. Many years ago, I wrote a song about a ne'r-do-well dog named Roscoe, who was the "black sheep" of the family. If a dog can be a sheep. You'd always "find him hanging 'round the railroad yard, or keeping bad company." Rosco would go on midnight prowls, and if your bitch heard him howl, they'd be off and running for a rendezvous. Typing the lyrics to the song, I realized that the song was as much about my Father as a dog I made up. I could just substitute my Father's name, Elmer, and the song would fit him just fine. But then, I wouldn't want to offend our friend Mr. Fudd.

Jerry