Dear Mrs. Cooke,

After eight years of parochial school my parents cast me into the less civilized environs of public middle school where two bullies trapped me in a corner of the hall and demanded my lunch money in return for “protection” from other bullies. If I refused, they warned, I would take a beating from them personally. I deftly escaped with my money and my skin, but I’d lost innocence. Humor had always been my antidote for pain, so I stepped it up. I entered your English classroom, and all the other classrooms, with an enlarged commitment to clowning.

You would discipline appropriately when I disrupted class, then take me aside and encourage me to consider a career in stand-up comedy. Your candor and nurture set you apart, but you were, nonetheless, a teacher, and I had almost no interest in academics. Show business had caught my eye at a very early age and I’d locked down on a one track to fame and adulation.

As the year progressed you saw in me a talent for writing. Your encouraging shifted from stand-up comedy to a future in writing. I felt complimented, but little else. Making barely passable grades suited me fine and your approval did not matter much. We had our last one-on-one after you graded final exams and, on that day, you caught my attention.

As the deadline for our final papers loomed I’d not written a word. Feeling desperate I plotted excuses in lieu of hammering out an outline. Then suddenly, I got a break. Crinkled up in a desk in your classroom I found an essay review of a controversial new movie called “Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner” written by a prior student, turned in and graded by you. Editing would be easier than creating, so I chose to plagiarize.

It would be tricky. I would need to rewrite thoroughly, telling the story in my own voice. Altering the plot would throw you off, too, and I would change the ending entirely. Finally, I would need a failsafe if you called me on the carpet. So, I decided, I would disavow any knowledge of the movie, declare my work as original fiction and stand on the lie to infinity. You did call me out, of course, and I got over on you. Or did I?

I held out, unflappable, as you grilled intensely. In the end you accepted the work as mine and even gave me an A. You knew the paper was a lie, but you chose a higher road. For the price of one exam and one final grade, you elevated a student.

From that day forward my disdain for academics continued intact. I loafed, deceived and clowned my way to a high school diploma, always with my eye on stardom. But I had a newfound confidence in my ability to write; you stuck it on me as I streaked by. Thank you.

I have no idea where you are or that you’ll see this letter. I can only hope to pay forward the life-gift you’ve given me.

With love and respect,
Steve Goetzman

There are dozens of people in my life who helped change and enrich it immensely – a suggestion made, a helping hand, an introduction – but none influenced mine as much as did K.W. Lee.

The Charleston Gazette was an amazing place to work in the early 1960s when I was there as a fulltime entertainment editor – my main duty was compiling the daily television logs – during my final two years as an undergraduate student at nearby Morris Harvey College. The Gazette was to the political left of what passed for being liberal in those helter-skelter years of rebellion, though it was not totally socialist in its editorial policies. And it generally lived what it preached on those editorial pages. Among our editors and reporters were women, African-Americans, immigrants, atheists, socialists and not a few raging alcoholics.

What kept me from fully enjoying this environment was, as a newly married man, I was desperate to get into graduate school with full financial aid as I could not pay my own way. Moreover, I wanted to avoid the military draft and thus Vietnam, and my local draft board assured me that graduate school on the way to teaching youth would give me a deferment and keep me away from military training in the swamps of South Carolina, at least temprarily.

The University of Virginia was my brightest prospect if I wanted to major in political science, but there was no funding available. I was scrambling around looking for alternatives, but had nothing remotely promising.

Enter K.W.

K.W. – I forget what the initials stood for – was born in South Korea and, newsroom legend had it, was in line for his own mandatory training by the occupying Japanese, in military school en route to being a kamikaze pilot, before the war ended. K.W. never denied it. He had a certain swagger and self-assurance that I liked – after the Japanese, what is there to fear? – which served him well as the beat reporter for the small-city governments that ringed Charleston. He would get off the phone howling with laughter at first-time callers who assumed that the byline “K.W. Lee” must be owned by a Virginia-bred gentleman only to find that the man who wrote such beautiful English was berating them in pidgin English with non-stop questions.

For some reason, K.W. liked me. More than once as I entered the newsroom I would hear this loud voice, “Ahhh, here come Roger Morris, goddamn BMOC!” And when K.W. heard my plight, he started telling me I needed to go to the University of Illinois’ Communications School, his own alma mater. At first, I thought he was just joking, but he persisted. Not gently, but constantly. Ever reason why I didn’t think it would work – I had never traveled farther from West Virginia than to Virginia and Ohio and was far from sophisticated – K.W. would knock it down.I gave in, at first reluctantly and then with gratitude as K.W. walked me through the application process for a teaching assistantship and backed it up with phone calls to the head of the school. I soon found myself saying goodbye to West Virginia and the Gazette and hello to Champaign-Urbana.

The year at the UI taking grad seminars in communications and political science was one of the mostly intellectually alive periods of my life. I also graded papers and taught labs. And two professors I worked for connected me to a teaching job as an instructor at Arizona State University the following year by way of a former colleague of theirs who headed that program. Three years later, in 1970, when my wife Ella and I were ready to head East, another Illinois professor gave me shelter for a couple of weeks in Washington, D.C., and steered me to a job at George Washington University. And so I was off.

I did go back to the Gazette a couple of times while I was in Arizona. There were friendly smiles and slapped backs, but newsrooms are not heavy on nostalgia when deadlines are approaching. I thanked K.W., I remember, but I can’t remember what else we discussed. He was pleased that I had done well at Illinois, but he wasn’t overly sentimental, either. It would probably dull his well-honed edge.

I never saw K.W. after that. And, when the military draft ended in 1973 when I was 30, I had never seen Vietnam either.

Dear Ray,

For years, I’ve wanted to get in touch with you to thank you for what you’ve done for me and my family. It’s rare that you can trace back so many fruitful careers to a single source.

After you connected me with Billboard, I corresponded for the magazine for the next several years, seldom making more than three or four hundred dollars annually. In the late ‘70s, the editors there began hiring me to write for specials, particularly the music publishing and country music editions. Then, in the summers of 1979 and 1980, they invited me to Nashville (I was living in Bowling Green, Ohio, at the time) to fill in during staff vacations. When Gerry Wood, the Nashville bureau chief was made editor-in-chief in 1981, I was brought in as a full-time reporter. The family remained in Ohio.

After our daughter Erin’s first year at Bowling Green State University, she moved to Nashville to live with me and to finish her degree at Belmont College. She was hired as an editorial assistant at Billboard during this period and wrote a few articles for it and other music magazines. People at RCA noticed her talents and hired her in the publicity department, where she worked for the next 10 years.

After our son Jason graduated from high school, he also moved to Nashville. He worked for a long time as a waiter and bartender until he discovered what he really wanted to be was a songplugger. He’s been one since the early ‘90s and is now co-partner in his own music publishing company.

My wife Norma wrote college textbooks while she was still in Ohio and stayed with that racket until the beginning of the ‘90s, when she too decamped to Music City. Our youngest daughter, Rachel, who is married and has four children, is the only member of the family not working in the music business. But she’s living in Nashville, as well, working as a surgery scheduler at a local hospital. Her husband is a songwriter.

Erin is now married to Pete Huttlinger, the former lead guitar player for John Denver and a standout performer and recording artist in his own right. You sparked Erin’s interest in a music career when she was in the _______ grade by giving her front row tickets to a John Denver concert in Charleston. She and Norma have their own entertainment publicity company now, with a client list that includes Vince Gill, Ralph Stanley, Exile and The Time Jumpers. Erin has two kids.

I finally rose to the post of country music editor at Billboard in 1990 and remained there until 1995. Since then, I have been a music writer for CMT.com. Had you not given me that first connection to put this family train in motion, we might still have had happy and prosperous lives, but I’m certain they would not have been in the music business. So we all thank you. Be well and bring me up to date on what you’re doing these days.

Ed

Mr. Kauffeld,

I was 12-years old when I read your book, Snakes and Snake Hunting. It opened a whole new world for me.

I can remember going out with my father’s old fireman’s boots, a noose stick and old pillow cases to hunt for and collect snakes, always remembering your tales of hunting snakes in the 1930s.

It has been 52 years since I discovered your book in the Florence, Alabama pubic library. I still re-read it. It has never lost its charm for me.
I have begun a Karl Kauffeld Memorial Snake Hunt every July to commemorate your death in 1974.

Thank you from that little boy and the old man he has become,
Warren

Dear Edward,

Before we’re each overtaken by dementia, I want to thank you for a few things. “For what?” you must be thinking. “What have I ever done to please him?”

Well, for one thing, your ever-present sense of humor somehow became infused in mine, and that has proved to be a strong asset in my life’s evolution. Not only has that given me an inner grounding, but it’s been a real strength in my social interaction. I can still remember some of the parodies, quips, and jokes you conveyed in our youth.

Also, your domination of much of my early play and leisure activities have enriched me throughout the years. I don’t recall any boring days we spent together, as a child or a teenager. You taught me a great deal about survival in the outdoors, including the many beauties of the area around our home. They’ve provided a comparison for the many I have seen around the world.

I have additionally benefited from your generous nature, propensity to challenge authority, and aversion to heavy labor. Thankfully, much of my response to your “outlaw edge” has served me well—just do the opposite!

For these and many other things, I want to thank you. I could not have invented a better big brother. Well, let me think?

Love,
David

Dear Pete,

You were my first guitar teacher. I was seven years old and it was 1969, Rockville, MD. Classical and Flamenco were the styles of choice. We also delved into some Fingerstyle Blues. My parents discovered you. I don’t remember how. They both loved your playing, especially the “Pete Gutterman Blues.” I still play that song today.

You planted a seed my friend. It was slow to germinate but you gave it good roots.

I mostly put the guitar down in High School, taking only a few group lessons taught by the school and playing briefly in a home grown band (named Sweet Poison if you can believe it). In college I met my best friend, Bob Slowey. He liked to sing and I could play well enough to accompany. I learned to sing and harmonize as well. We entered a Gong Show contest and won. We won the second semester as well, and they paid us to host round 3.

We’ve been touring, recording, singing and playing ever since, full time for five of those years.

I wanted to say thanks for your inspiration and I wanted to let you know that things turned out pretty well. I began teaching guitar 7 years ago. I’ve had a couple students who have gone on to college on music scholarships. More than a few are gigging regularly. Your inspiration lives on.

I’ve played the “Pete Gutterman Blues” hundreds of times over the years, especially when my parents were in the crowd. It’s evolved quite a bit. I think you intended it as a fingerstyle exercise, but it’s become much more. I hope you don’t mind.

I’ve been fortunate enough to play with some of my heroes of guitar, Pete Huttlinger, Tommy Emmanuel, Frank Vignola, Stephen Bennett and more.

It was your little seed, planted so long ago that has led to my lifelong passion. It is appreciated and I’m thankful that my parents found the right guy.

Jeff Auen

Dear Ben,

It was a pleasure and an honor to meet to meet you on Long Island at your niece Christine’s wedding reception in 1969. She was a classmate of my then girlfriend Taffy at the College of Steubenville in Ohio. Taffy and I had been writing songs and singing songs with high hopes for two years and were having some difficulty beginning our professional careers. The advice and help you provided us proved to be invaluable.

Chris had asked me to bring my guitar and for Taffy and I to sing a few songs. She also said “You have to meet Uncle Ben.” After we sang our songs for anyone who chose to listen we were introduced to you and treated to a remarkable conversation of stories which you told of your years in the music business; receiving the first gold record on your retirement from CBS for your recording of “Dardanella;” your role in helping start Muzak and so many other events.

You asked what was going on in our musical lives and we told you our sad story.

Two years before, we had had our first paid singing engagement at a black-tie eve-of pre-Redskins game party at the Watergate hotel in Washington DC. The party was attended by young successful professionals. I had a tuxedo from my college glee club days at Georgetown University. Taffy found a dress at a thrift shop and dyed some shoes to match. We were sort of hippie-ish still but we tried to appear respectable and did a short set of mostly originals. Much champagne had been served and our music went over well. Afterwards we had a conversation with a young stockbroker, George Fellows and his attorney, Bob Dougherty. They liked one song in particular which we said was going to be a hit (it never was) and asked what it would take to record it. We told them it would take money to make a really good demo and then try to interest a major company to release us. They asked how we were living and we said that was a problem too.

The following Monday we had a meeting with Bob in his office and set up a company, Fat City Productions that would fund us in exchange for half of the publishing. They would advance us fifty dollars a week.

We wrote and practiced and recorded making fruitless trips to New York only to receive rejection after rejection. Then one lucky day we found a producer who decided to take a chance on us. His name is Dick Weismann and he was in New York producing for a new branch of ABC Records, ABC Probe. He introduced us to the president of the company who welcomed us to the label and said a contract would be mailed to us. We were elated.

Then the contract arrived. It awarded all the publishing rights to ABC which would violate our deal with Bob and George. Bob and I took a train to New York to discuss the contract with the company’s attorney. After discussion we realized the publishing portion was non-negotiable. We rode home disappointed and I discussed the matter with Taffy. I believed our loyalty belonged to the first folks who believed in us and helped support us. We declined the much coveted recording contract.

You listened to our tale and then offered advice from your years of experience. You said we never should have turned down the contract: that it was very difficult to get a start in this business; since we had no clout we were in no position to bargain for anything. You said if we had some success our opportunities would be different and there would be many more chances to better our position. You appreciated our loyalty to our backers but suggested there had to be alternative ways to fix that arrangement since fifty percent of nothing was still nothing. I said that I’d already turned down the deal and nothing could be done.

You asked what label it was and who was president. I said “ABC, Joe Carlton.”

“Joe Carlton? He worked for me. I gave him his start. If you’d like, go talk to your people and if you want to reconsider rejecting the contract I’ll call Joe on your behalf and write him a letter of endorsement for you. You need to get your foot in the door. After that it’s up to you.”

We did as you suggested. Bob agreed that we would make an exception for this one record and future deals would include Fat City Productions (which they did). You wrote an elegant letter, ABC sent us a new contract (same terms) and we went on to record our first album, Reincarnation by Fat City.

The album was not a hit, but now when we played the small clubs in DC we could put the cover in the window and say “ABC Recording Artists” which set us far apart from other local acts and laid the groundwork for what was to come.

Taffy and I wrote a song about Dick Weismann called “I Guess He’d Rather Be in Colorado” which John Denver heard us sing in a local saloon. I’d known John when he was in the Mitchell Trio and I was a student working at the famed Cellar Door nightclub as lights and sound guy. He did not know I sang and wrote songs but when he heard it he asked if he could record it. (He lived in Edina Minnesota at the time). He played it for Milt Okun producer and owner of Cherry Lane Music and for Mary Travers who also recorded it. Milt called and asked to publish it with an ample advance.

The Mitchell Trio and its later versions had broken up and Denver was now a solo act. As a solo he was not a big draw because folks din’t know who he was. Taffy and I as Fat City were getting to be a good draw in local clubs. One of the Cellar Door owners, Sam L’hommedieu, suggested putting both acts in the week between Christmas and New Years 1970. It was that week that we showed John the nearly completed “Take Me Home, Country Roads” and he said “Can we record that?” We did.

It’s an interesting chain, Ben, but it became much stronger when you made the impossible possible.

Thank you so much.

Eternal Peace and Love,
Bill Danoff

Editor’s Note: CLICK HERE to read the Wikipedia entry for Ben Selvin.