"I'm beginning to believe I get my kicks from being hurt." - Johnny Rodriguez and Tom T. Hall

Saturday, June 9, 1973. Co-written by Johnny Rodriguez and Tom T. Hall, "You Always Come Back (To Hurting Me)" was the Number One song played on the radio. At that time, the tune made Johnny Rodriguez the youngest Country Performer to place a Number One Hit on the Billboard Hot Country Songs Chart. "You Always Come Back (To Hurting Me)" became the unofficial theme song of the legion of miscreants who dwelt in Hermitage Hall, myself included.

I yearned to be incarcerated by the freedom of the road and escape the "prison" that confined me. Cocooned snug, life would be grandiose on the trifled ribbon of highway to terra incognita, or anywhere else. Anywhere except for where I was forced to exist.

I'd often considered this perspective and came to the same conclusion. This wayward vagabond would ramble the forbidden journey long past the time Hell froze over solid and loosed its vile furies. However, freedom was not my forte.

The cards I'd been dealt screamed, "You don't hold the winning hand, you pathetic L-O-S-E-R!"

Therefore, try as hard as I may, it became harder and harder to build anything on the grit shifting through my outstretched fingers. I stared down at the splintered cracks in the dirty sidewalk, and made my way to nowhere in a syncopated rhythm of movement. Left foot, right foot, left foot, kick.

A crumpled Pepsi can sailed out from underneath my scuffed Tony Lamas. Alleged to be low fat, and good for growing boys, the imitation crab meat I'd been served for dinner the night before still did not sit well in the pit of my churning stomach. On top of everything else, I felt I could go postal.

Butt glaucoma afflicted me. This ailment meant I could never see my tail end returning back to Hermitage Hall. I allowed my mind to scatter as I rounded the corner of the McSherry's Used Furniture Outlet. Like many businesses of that era, the now defunct retailer succumbed to stagflation and the stock market crash of 1973. In its heyday, McSherry's housed the largest selection of somewhat-used accessories needed to adorn any home. All at a reasonable cost, no less.

Remember lava lamps with their boluses of colored wax mixture and incandescent light bulbs? Associated with the hippie culture, these decorative lamps were the rage back then. They worked by reducing the wax's density and the liquid's surface tension. In turn, this caused the wax to rise through the liquid, cool, and lose its buoyance. At that point, the wax fell back to the lamp's bottom in a continuous cycle suggestive of the smooth and billowy, ropy surface of pahoehoe lava. Thus their name.

The other excitement of that day occurred in the wide world of sports, particularly thoroughbred horse racing. Secretariat won the 105th Belmont Stakes by the widest margin ever at the track against four highly overmatched opponents. The super horse also set the American record on dirt of a staggering two minutes and twenty-four seconds for the mile-and-a-half distance. Twice A Prince, My Gallant, PVT Smiles, and Sham proved no competition in the battle I happened to watch on the Black and White in the Recreation Room of Hermitage Hall.

Much more of a day-dreamer than a television watcher, especially in the fulfillment of wishes and hopes, I recalled something I'd heard Macdonald Carey state on NBC. Truer words were seldom spoken when he proclaimed, "As sand through the looking glass so are the days of our lives." The famous lead-in described me to a tee. A bluebird chirped overhead. The high-pitched utterance made me pine to fly away with him. I knew I couldn't, and continued my trek.

I crossed what became a Nashville landmark, the Shelby Street bridge. This was the first bridge in the United States to contain concrete tresses. If you know anything about Country music, you should be familiar with this National Register of Historic Places bridge. Video appearances for the structure have included Dolly Parton's "Together You And I", Big and Rich's "Save A Horse (Ride A Cowboy)", and many others.

The span took me over the Cumberland River. A white beard, with psychedelic flip flops hung on his stubby toes, held a bamboo fishing pole. Its line dangled from the edge of the bridge. An unbuttoned jacket, with a Vietnam War Veteran patch sewn on the sleeve, draped his shoulders. Ragged shorts revealed his protruded knocked knees. A sudden jerk indicated he had a nibble. Probably a catfish. I strolled by him like the apparition wasn't there and bee-lined against the light.

A prehistoric Smilodon's foreleg and fang had been found two years earlier not far from where I stood. This relative of the saber-toothed tiger was unearthed in a cave system beneath the construction site of the First American National Bank building on Deaderick Street. The fossil's breaking news story made the headlines of the paper and became fashionable in Downtown Nashville. In 1998, this detection evolved into the logo of our town's National Hockey League team, the Predators, and its mascot, Gnash.

So, the age old question remained of where did life begin? I've always believed at conception. You know, the physical coalescence of a male and a female in the act of reproducing another human. If you cared to google this information, current statistics indicated there are approximately seven billion or so such creatures roaming the face of the Earth. They come in diverse shapes and sizes, as well as a multitude of different hues and tones. They also contain a vast assortment of other qualities, some more desirable than others.

I never catered to fate. Destiny did me no favors, at least, not positive interactions. The morning sky did not open up, nor did a voice out of the blue confront me. Marginally more than a street urchin, and a hooligan to boot, this young scamp's misfortunes soon turned forever on a chance encounter.

While he purchased woofers inside Galante's Music Store in Franklin, the man who adopted me looked me in the eye. He always did. Over time, he taught me to do the same. His one simple question, "Do you want me to be your friend or your dad?"

For those who don't know, woofers reproduced bass frequencies and he needed them for an upcoming show. Unexpected, his fortuitous proposition struck me like a bolt of lightning. (Yes, I know. Shoot it! It's a cliche. But, can you think of a better way to express his loaded probe?) Energized, my immediate reaction was to give him an intense bear hug. I was one excited little tyke.

My days filled with trying to navigate my way in an unforgiving existence, I was not much more than knee-high to a grasshopper. I'd seen the underbelly of frogs. Santa Mouse never once came down my chimney. What chimney? Given the chance, I would have liked to hit that big, bad, wolf in red right in the middle of his "Ho! Ho! Ho!" with a bunch of big snowballs! Christmas sure was not a holly jolly time at Hermitage Hall.

Dusty West always stood by my side no matter what predicament I finagled my way into. I will present a few examples in my autobiography for you to enjoy. Sometimes he even stood behind me with a thin piece of wood in his hand. The words "Heat For The Seat" emblazoned in red letters across the blade of the educator. Usually camouflaged by blue denim, or snow-white Fruit of the Looms, over the course of time several infernos inflamed my hearth. Vibrant impressions in my vivid remembrances.

Curious, and a little apprehensive, I'd first met Dusty West at the Wal-Mart in Gallatin about six months earlier. As I leaned against the tailgate of his pickup truck a red-tailed hawk soared overhead. It was from my strategic vantage point I observed him place several bags containing a variation of goodies into the bed of his powder blue F150. Among them were a fifty pound bag of Purina Dog Food, two loaves of Wonder Bread, and a leg of lamb. I also scouted a bunch of yellow bananas, at least a dozen ears of corn, and an assortment of Libby's canned vegetables.

I wondered,"What army do you feed and can I enlist as a foot soldier? Hup, two, three, four!"

Dusty West did not respond, so I attempted another tactic. With regular food consumption an all too unfamiliar habit for me at the time, and frequently not much more than a morsel hither and yon, this little panhandler ambushed his target, "Nice day ain't it? Got a ten-spot you can loan me? A growing boy's gotta eat."

I figured with a truck bed full of provisions he could spare at least a little bit of pocket change. Dusty West did not know me from Adam, and to my chagrin, refused to place as much as one solitary greenback in my hand.

Okay, I'll admit, I shouldn't have silently thought to myself, 'Cheapskate!' But, I did.

When he spoke, his firm response caught my undivided attention, "I will not give you one red penny. Not one cent! However, if you are hungry, I will take you to McDonald's across the parking lot and feed you an Eggs Benedict McMuffin. They run, oh about, about ninety-nine cents or so I'd say."

He didn't ask me where my parents were or why I harassed him. All he told me was, "Take my offer or skedaddle."

I am no fan of the golden arches. But, when you're hungry that concept does not even cross your mind. My belly stayed that way most of the time. In fact, I was more than grateful for the grub. Besides, my empty breadbasket told me I couldn't refuse his offer.

We made our way to McDonald's. The thought of him being a pedophile, or anything of the sort, never crossed my mind. Not afraid to use the weapon should the need arose, I carried a switchblade in the pocket of my filthy, ratty, jeans. Although plenty of terrifying dangers lurked around every corner you encountered, when you lived on the streets as I did, you aren't scared of anything. If you are, you won't survive.

I left Dusty West to clean up the mess we made at the table after we finished lunch. I never thought I would rendezvous with him again. But, I sure enjoyed the ice cold Pepsi I washed that McMuffin down with.

"Adieu. Adieu Parting is such sweet sorrow," I paraphrased the bard to myself as I walked away. Not once did I peer behind me at the man who'd shown me this kindness.

Fast forward six short weeks later and that blade I told you about would become the bane of my first tail-feather plucking session with Dusty West. The lesson he taught me: young boys do not play with knives. Little did I realize what he actually did was steer me down the straight and narrow. A path I quickly learned to navigate. I knew full well what the consequences of permitting my misdeeds to deviate me off the trail would be.

I remember what Dad used to ask me in those situations, "You going to get your act together now, sprout?"

Through teary, diamond-blue eyes, I promised, "Yes, Sir!" And, you better believe I meant each word I said.

Slowly but surely, with Dad's proper guidance, and his steadying, firm, loving hand that was hard as steel when I done wrong, I eventually accomplished that goal. I finally belonged to someone I was extremely proud of... the dad I desperately needed.

However, the difference between right and wrong wasn't all Dad taught me. Not by a mile. He instilled in me my love of Country music, particularly Buck Owens and the Bakersfield Sound style of the sweetness I still enjoy today. "Love's Gonna Live Here," "Act Naturally," and "Under Your Spell Again," all standards in the West house. There were many others as well.

650 am always played on the radio be it Hank Williams, Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, or any number of the other greats of the genre. Dad worked as a stage rigger for many live musical performances all over Nashville. I've wandered unattended through such venues as the Nashville Palace, the Nashville Night Life, the Bluebird Cafe, the Ryman Auditorium, and the Grand Ole Opry House on Music Valley Drive.

Through his gigs, I met many of the Biggest Country Stars of the day. Some I remain friends with such as "Whisperin'" Bill Anderson and Jimmy Fortune. He referred to himself as "The Litlle Guy In the End".

By placing a pencil and a writing pad in my hand one dreary rainy afternoon, though I fought him tooth and nail in another story to be told later, Dad introduced me to the wonderful world of creative writing. This remained a lifelong precious gift I dearly treasured. How did he know I'd grow up to become a Freelance Writer?

"My word!" Far and away Dad's most favorite expression of all. I must have heard the exclamation at least ten gazillion times.

One accounting certainly could never paint the picture of how Dusty West became my Dad. Therefore, I decided to pen this autobiography. I understand what I have created here only begins to scratch the tip of the iceberg. There's so much more to be told. For you see, as they say any man can be a father. Not every man can be a Dad. And, make no mistake about that concept, there is a world of difference between the two. Every time I look at my son, Danny, I hope I can be half the Dad that Dusty West did not have to be. That would be the crowning achievement of my life.

Sixteen years, that's how long you have been gone, Dad. It might as well have been yesterday. Although I know that we will be together again some day, another invaluable lesson you taught your wayward prodigy, I love you and miss you more with each passing day we are apart. Needless to say, now is the time for my hero's story to be told.