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      Determined to shoot something, I took aim at the next rabbit the dogs jumped. But my buckshot didn’t hit the

      rabbit. It hit one of my family’s prized hunting dogs in the behind.

      After about three flips, that poor dog never was the same again! Needless to say, my family stayed off my back

      about shooting animals from then on. I still went hunting with them every Thanksgiving, though. I even bought

      all the camouflage clothes, gear and boots. But I only fired my shotgun one time in about 20 years.

      After those famous hunting trips, famished from tramping up and down the Tennessee hills all day, we returned

      to another homemade feast, fresh from the farm. We’d gorge again until we were all in pain and Aunt Maude

      brought out her famous banana pudding. When we were too stuffed to swallow another bite, we’d meander out

      to the front porch just to breathe and rest while the women cleaned up the kitchen.

      PICKIN’ ON THE PORCH

      That’s when the time tested routine, the ordinary moments that would have such an extraordinary effect on the

      rest of my life, would begin. Somebody would pull out a harmonica, a banjo, or a mandolin, and the magic

      would start. Because music was at the core of our family, almost every member played some instrument. One

      distant cousin brought his big bull bass all the way from California, strapped to the top of his old woody station

      wagon. As everybody began tapping their feet to the hillbilly rhythms on that hollow wooden porch, it sounded

      like the best drummer in Dixie to me.

      The less experienced musicians would start these “picking and grinning” sessions. Once they played for a while,

      my father, his brother, and the other really gifted players would pull out their axes: fiddles, guitars, twelve

      strings, mandolins, and an accordion. The result was some of the best Gospel bluegrass music you ever heard.

      Good doesn’t even begin to describe it. Or then again, maybe it does. There, on Aunt Maude’s porch, without any

      blaze of glory, I heard sounds so good they captured my heart. And in the Tennessee twilight as the stars began to

      shine, I made a decision that would end up taking me places beyond my wildest dreams: I’d spend the rest of my

      life making music.

      20

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHURCH BOY

      THE POWER

      Everybody’s running

      Where do we think we’re going

      And what is everybody thinking of

      Is that the wind we’re chasing

      Our memories erasing

      Have we denied the power of Love

      Don’t deny the power

      This is the final hour

      So don’t deny the power of Love

      Life is so demanding

      And what is understanding?

      And can you really, really trust your mind

      That’s why I’m shouting out the warning

      He could be coming in the morning

      Are you afraid of what He’s gonna find

      Please don’t deny the power of Love

      Lyrics by Mylon Le Fevre

      Angel Band Music/Dayspring Music

      Used by permission

      21

      Most kids don’t commit the unpardonable sin in church before they’re 10 years old. But I did. Or so I thought.

      The best I remember, it was a sweltering day in August during a typical Sunday morning service. With no air

      conditioning to cool things off, funeral-home fans were waving frantically throughout the church. My

      granddaddy’s voice, rising in its familiar, song-like rhythm, had inspired the congregation, and the weekly jumping

      and hollering had commenced.

      The scene was familiar to me. I saw it all the time. But I was caught off guard when one elderly gentleman who

      usually slept in church woke up. Realizing he hadn’t hollered yet, he screamed so loud it scared me right out of

      my seat. When "hollering-man" screamed, then "running-man" took off around the pews. That was

      "chicken-woman’s" cue to do her thing and all I can tell you is, it was on!

      I don’t know what her real name was but all of us kids called her “chicken-woman” because when Granddaddy got

      wound up, she would jump to her feet, whooping with her elbows out like wings, and bob her head back and forth

      just like a chicken! When I inquired as a child why people did stuff like that in church, the Holy Ghost always got

      the blame. So the Sunday Momma heard me say “Look out, here comes chicken-woman!” I found myself in major

      trouble.

      Momma told me not to make fun of the Holy Ghost because it was blasphemy. I asked what blasphemy was and

      she said it was the unforgivable sin. That freaked me out. I thought, Oh Lord, it’s too late, I’ve already done it!

      I wish I’d known then what I know now: that God is so good, He’s already granted forgiveness to anybody

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