The

The I'm I'm going to be. I'm I've been playing country music for almost 40 years now, in bars and honky

tongs from Shreveport to Kalamazoo.

Music has always been my first love, but my second is people.

And part of the fun of playing music is getting to meet

some of the folks who appreciate it so much. After all, their hard-earned dollars keep gas in

our tanks, food in our bellies, and strings on our guitars. So I figured the least I can do is

accept a beer or two when they offer to buy and let them tell me all about their favorite Hank song.

And every so often you meet a truly great American, and there's some folks out there I'll remember for the rest of my life.

But then sometimes you meet someone who makes you glad to be leaving town the next morning.

We were in a college town called Brookings, up in South Dakota. Nice place,

and for the most part, nice people, too. We played for three and a half hours at a joint called

The Wild Hair. They had a good bar and a good crowd and served alcohol until two in the

morning. So after the show, we pulled up a stool, ordered some bar food, and then nursed a few beers

with the locals until closing time, selling CDs and shirts and whatever else we could

hawk to him. But it wasn't just about making a few extra bucks. You shake a guy's hand after playing

his favorite song, and he's twice as likely to come back and see you the next time you're in town.

Anyway, about 1.30 in the morning, most of the bar's patrons were steadily making their departure,

and even some of the band had called it a night and headed back to the bus. In the end, it was just

me sat on a bar stool, and our drummer, Larry, trying to convince people to play

around a pool with him.

I was getting ready to head out when some old-timer slumps down in the stool next to me and

...