AND NOW...A Fun Look Back at Some of the Highlights from My Musical Past ...The top 20 Count Down!

#20...1994 or so ....One day, I got a phone call from my friend, Phil Parlapiano. He was touring with John Prine as his mandolin, accordian, and guitar player. He asked if I wanted to come out and sing with John during his show. I was so PSYCHED! I had grown up listening to John, learning his songs, singing them at coffeehouses early on in my career. When I asked which song, Phil said, "Angel from Montgomery". I showed up at the Majestic in Dallas, ready to sing in the shadows. But, oh no! John asked me to come out and sing on the SAME MIC with him, right in the spotlight. Well, let me just say...it was one of the sexiest moments in my life. That Mr. Prine has so much electricity immenating from his person, that as we were singing together, I thought I was going to explode with joy and music and rainbows and sweat...you get the picture. And the next day, the Dallas Morning News ran a stellar review of the show, mentioning that very electricity about John and me. Oh, my!

#19 Spring 1990 ... I was flown to Miami to be introduced to the entire WEA (Warner/Elektra/Atlantic) system. They were having their yearly national convention, and it was HUGE. I was about to be signed to Elektra, and I had nothing to wear! Ha ha. I met people from all over the country that pushed the records at radio, the people who distributed the music, the people in marketing, even the helicopter pilot for the big wigs. We played volleyball. We ate fine food. I went deep sea fishing. The crusty captain of the boat kept telling me to stop throwing the bait out to sea (I thought I was saving little fish).I didn't know what the heck anyone at anytime was talking about. I was still trying to digest the fact that it was real and I was going to make another record...in a different way than I had with EQUAL SCARY PEOPLE. It was all very exciting. People were dashing. They all had New York accents. Anyway, on Saturday morning, I was taken into this huge ballroom and asked to sing some songs for the morning meeting, which would be 1500 folks. The best part was... I would be playing before AEROSMITH!!!! Ok, so imagine this girl with her guitar, right off a Texas back porch, wearing a simple, flowered dress with sandals...FREAKING OUT because she gets to play before AEROSMITH!!!! Yes, I said. Yes, I will sing the songs! Count me in, sir! Well, at this time, the Pee Wee Herman show was a very hot show on Saturday mornings, and I realized all of us would be missing the show. So, when they brought me out on the stage (let me say my knees never felt weaker), I decided it would be appropriate if we all had a SECRET WORD for the day. I chose "HENRY". I explained that whenever they heard "HENRY", they were to scream with joy! (For those of you who never watched Pee Wee, he had a secret word each week and you yelled whenever you heard it...all day long!!!) Henry was the President of WEA at the time, and I knew they would be hearing his name...over, and over...and over. The best part of this story is that I remember lots of laughter...I remember singing and it went great...I remember Aerosmith!!!!! coming out on stage, too, and dancing and dancing...and I remember hearing, later, that on a flight back to California, a passenger on the plane convinced the flight attendant to say "HENRY" over the p.a. system, and the entire plane started to scream...because Henry, himself, was on the plane. I made a friend that day!!!

18) My very first paid weekly gig! I was fifteen, and my dad had given me his tomato red Carmen Ghia for my birthday. It was Houston, 1978...I had gotten to see the group HEART live in concert, and I was stoked! I decided it was time to play live at a "club". Well, on a Friday night, I went to a little open barn type place near Montrose (at the time this was the artsy/gay area of Houston) called Munchies, and sat under a hot lightbulb with a microphone for my voice and another bonking into my guitar. I kept my eyes shut tight for fear people were going to throw their popcorn and drinks at me. I think I sang two songs (that was all you were allowed, or maybe just teenagers were told that!) I finished, climbed down off the tallest stool in history, and sat down next to whomever had the guts to go with me that night (a friend? my dad?) to minimal applause. I remember feeling really small, like I NEVER WANTED TO DO THAT AGAIN! Then, I think because of my step-brother, Frederick, I got a chance to get a real "gig" at his place of employment---the Chicago Pizza Company, also down in the Montrose area. (I mention this because I was living in Sharpstown and had to drive my little car all the way across the great expanse of Houston.) Well, I got the gig for $25 every Friday night for FOUR HOURS. But, I couldn't have been happier! I was thrilled! So, I learned a hundred zillion cover songs and practiced until my fingers got tiny ruts in the tips from the guitar strings. I even had my own tip jar! Someday I'll post a picture my mom took of me sitting in the corner (on yet another gigantic stool...what's with stools and singer/songwriters?) with my bare feet and eyes still closed. I remember watching people shove pizza and salad and beer in their mouths (when I would sneak a peek) and feeling like I was going to faint at the beginning and ending of each song (when no one clapped), but the middle of the songs...well, I was in heaven! I was singing, playing the guitar and getting paid to do what I loved, and no one seemed to mind. Then, one night while I was singing (and had my eyes closed), someone STOLE my purse OFF THE STAGE from next to my feet! Can you BELIEVE IT? And no one said a thing! I found the purse, later, behind the toilet in the "ladies" room, missing my wallet. I felt very alone and wanted to get home to my momma as soon as I could. That was a long, dark drive home that night, my friends!

17) My first year of college I was going to East Texas State University (Commerce, Texas). I was living in the art dorm, and one morning I went down to the communal restroom to practice my guitar. It was a giant, empty room with tan tiles that reverberated like a cathedral. I plunked myself down on the cool tile floor and started singing a song, when I felt the presence of someone in the room. Now you can laugh at this: I looked down and spotted a small, black cricket, poking her head up through a drain pipe in the floor. Her antenae were curiously wiggling, as if in time to my tune, so I gave her a concert for a whole forty-five minutes. She never left me alone. And when I was finally done, I looked up, and there was Alice French standing in the doorway, asking if that was me making all that noise, and those were my first two friends I made in college. ---- An aside: my second and third paid gigs were there in Commerce, that first year of college. One was Friday nights at, yet, another barn called Butch's Barn---they served Italian food---and Tuesday nights at the Pizza Hut during the buffet hours. I quit the Pizza Hut after two appearances because they stuck me right next to the kitchen door and I kept getting bonked by the swinging door. But one night at Butch's Barn I made a $125 tip from ONE MAN who asked me to come upstairs and sing songs for his private party of friends. It was one of the first times I was forced to open my eyes and smile while performing. All the folks were so nice, asking me questions, and they drew me out of my shyness. Whenever the gentleman asked me to do a song, if I knew it, he'd give me $25 bucks!!!!

16) Me and the Hell's Angels...1986 Well, kids, I was just taking over Commerce, Texas that year. This is an unbelievable little tale... Down on the town square, there was this pool hall joint called The Happy Armadillo. One night, I was all gussied up in my Sunday best, panty hose and high heels, walked in with my Fender amp and my microphones and my mic stands and my guitar with no case slung over my shoulder, trying not to fall off my shoes, and just as I got all situated like in the corner...well, in comes trouble. I was in the middle of singing some Seals & Crofts tune, when about six biker dudes and their gal-pals came sauntering into the establishment to play pool. They were in their Sunday best, too---black leather, fringe, riding boots, chains, lots and lots of facial hair, kerchiefs about their noggins...and here I was over in my little corner of the hall, singing like a sweet angel-bird. Well, the boys started playing pool, and things started getting loud, and I was bein' drowned out by the cavortin' and carryin' on when one of the dudes, the biggest dude you ever did see, almost slammed his pool stick into the head of another giant dude. Suddenly, the most MAMMOTH DUDE IN HISTORY hollered, "Hey! What the f***'s the matter with you? Can't you see the lady's tryin' to SING?!" And suddenly, all eyes were upon me in my lilac colored linen dress and my hair in golden locks (it was long back then). I thought I was going to be smashed like a cockroach caught on a sticky-bun. But, no, every single one of those people pulled up a chair in front of me, sat themselves down, and started to lean in and concentrate on what I was singing about...my forehead was a sweaty mess. I suddenly forgot was I was doing, but the MAMMOTH DUDE said, softly, "Do you know any Joni Mitchell?" and I whispered, "Y....y...y..." and he said, "Well, let's hear some then!" And I played and sang and by the end of the evening, they were clapping and whistling and singing along like kids at a Romper-Room show. They were very polite and each one had a funny name.

NUMBER 15 in the TOP TWENTY MUSICAL SARA HICKMAN MOMENTS: Symphony Square, Austin, Tx--1994. I had just moved to Austin, and was trying to find my place in this musical matrix. Performing on a lovely summer's eve, I was sitting outside in a long, yellow chiffon dress, plucking at my guitar, singing sweetly. Across from me was a kind audience, responding with fervor and enthusiasm. My only sadness was the fact that we were seperated by a MOAT, complete with a running stream, yet, thankfully, no gators. I felt like I was in Biblical times, seated in this stone mini-ampitheatre, the audience rising up above me on rock benches, caressed by the gentle breezes and branches of the swaying trees. Suddenly, in the midst of song, my guitar stopped working. It was completely dead. I finished singing a capella, the spot light seemingly growning hotter, as a friend whisked away my guitar to find another. Alas, there was no other. Fearless, I launched into another song, with only my voice to carry the night. As I attempted to keep the energy level high, a giant helicopter appeared out of no where, circling defiantly above my head in this darkest of nights,whipping my mouth with my hair, tormenting me with it's huge overpowering rotarized sound. I threw my empty hands to my skirt, trying desperately not to lose what I thought would be left of my dignity. Ah, a lesser performer would have left the stage by now, but not your friend and mine, Little Miss Sara. Ooh, ooh, no. She would not give in! She had made a commitment! She'd signed papers! People were expecting more of the unexpected so she would give them what they expected---more! What was a little wind and loud noise and no guitar? Hadn't Daniel defeated the lions with faith alone? Hadn't Sonny stood up to Cher? Haven't some frogs somewhere in this madcap world made it somewhere across some road?! Thankfully, the friend returned with a new guitar, a working guitar, a guitar that would bring comfort to the dear girl. She sat back upon the white stool, her valiant steed, and began what was to be her last song for this unusual performance. But, once again, fate was not finished twisting it's cruel tricks. It had to throw in a pat from Mother Nature upon our dear one's back...yes, it was time. THAT TIME. That time of the month. As Sara sat on the stool (did I mention it was white?), she realized, with horror, what was happening. She realized she was on a white stool, in a sheer yellow dress, alone, with no back up, no purse from which to desperately peruse, no girlfriend to ask for help, no ugly metal machine on the wall (which wouldn't have helped..she had not a dime to her name,) no sock upon her gentle ankle hiding an O.B. She did what any self-respecting woman would do---She decided to give the audience one more song. But first, she would have her say. She said, and I quote, for I was there: "Dear ones, whatever happens in the next five minutes, remember that I gave my all to you. That I love you. And I hope you will love me in return...no matter what." The audience looked amused, and Ms. Hickman sang a love song with all she could muster from her breaking, embarrassed heart. She could see the signs, she knew what was around the emotional bend, and yet there was no going back. She would have to arise from her steed, and bow, and hold her head high. For there on the back of her dainty dress was a stain the size of Mount Olympus, which she was now going to have to climb the rest of her life in nightmares! She grabbed her guitar as the last, aching note escaped her ruby red lips, arose from her seat, bowed ever-so-slowly, knowingly, trippingly, shakingly...and began the long journey up the FLIGHT OF STAIRS TO HER RIGHT. That's right...a very long, straight flight of stairs, leading to a door that seemed forever away. As our heroine walked calmly (that was a big fat lie) to the 7,046 stairs (she counted each one), she placed one foot in front of the other, and walked up, up up and away to that door of escape...but, horror of horrors, the door was LOCKED. (I kid you not. LOCKED. LOCKED AND GLUED SHUT. And barricaded with ropes, locks, bars...Or, at least that is what it seemed like at the time.) Now Ms. Hickman began to meekly knock upon the door, as she heard the overall sound she had been waiting to hear: the gasp of 300 people in shock. It seemed as if time was frozen. Again, she knocked upon the door. Again, she felt 600 eyes upon her back. Again, she found herself silently cursing the moon, wishing she could howl like the she-wolf she had become, but returning to reality, she began to kick the door, growling, "Please, hello, LET ME IN!" Finally, relief. The door opened, Sara fell inside, begging the door to be shut behind her...and...she landed into the arms of a local popular DJ. Mortified, she ran to an empty green room only to find no where to hide her bleeding, tormented soul. Until in walked Mr. M, an Italian Bruce Springsteen fan and friend for life, who delivered the days paper and told her to sit upon it. He said it would be worth millions some day. Ms. Hickman, through tears, found the humor of the moment, and began to laugh. The full, rounded laugh of someone who can't quite grasp what has just occurred, but has somehow managed to find the joy in it all. And there you have it. As I said when I first told a much shorter version of this story to Performing Songwriter ( in their "GIGS FROM HELL" section), I could have done the Blues Circuit as "Bloody Waters." I could have quit in disgrace that night, but I have chosen to share the experience with you, my good friends, because what is life but moving forward through the peaks and valleys.

Here is musical moment #14 from the Sara files: When I first moved to Houston, I remember being in the car with my mom and dad and driving around our new neighborhood. At one point, we drove by a vast, gray, concrete structure that was surrounded by endless metal fencing. I distinctly remember my dad saying, "Hmm. What's that?" and my mom saying, "Oh, that's the junior high!" And my dad laughed and said, "Good God, I thought it was a prison!" So now you have a mental picture of my junior high school---Sharpstown Junior High. Anyhoo, years later, I was in eighth grade and my friends encouraged me to sign up for the school talent show. Some of you will scoff at this next statement, but I was very SHY. And nervous about appearing in front of the entire school. Being as I had short blonde hair and acne and I was a sort of nerdy type. But, they said I should do it, and so I put together a montage of songs that meant something to me, music that I figured would also show off my prowess on the guitar as well as my stellar vocal range. The medley began with an instrumental version of "Stairway to Heaven" (there was NO WAY JOSE I was going to be SINGING it), which led into a song I had composed called "Greg's Song" (about my boyfriend, Greg), which then went into "Nobody Does It Better". Well, I practiced and practiced to make sure the segues were seamless. The big day arrived, and the auditorium was full. We had two performances, one during the day for the kids, and one at night for the families. As I sang in front of my peers that afternoon, I was repeatedly interrupted by the school's intercom system. So, a song would sound like this: "No body does it... ARNOLD...PLEASE REPORT TO MS. JENKINS CLASS IMMEDIATELY...AS IN NOW!" "Makes me feel... "TONIGHT'S TALENT SHOW WILL BEGIN AT 7:00 PM. ATTENDENCE IS MANDATORY. PLEASE BRING YOUR PARENTS." Anyway, I managed to get through my piece, and went back stage and fell to pieces. I was mortified. I was humiliated. Ugh. And I still had one show to go. Well, the afternoon flew by. I got dressed up in a fancy red dress I borrowed from my mom (you know I was serious---I looked like Charo without cleavage). The lights on stage seemed hotter than that afternoon. There was hardly enough room for all the people out front. It seemed as if the school was groaning from the weight of the crowd. Backstage, students were running around, finding props, yelling at one another, teachers scrambling to calm everyone down. The show went on, dull and typical, until the acts right before me. First, a full rock band of four guys (it was always guys back then) who were pretty good. I think they did some Foghat covers. Then, the act I knew I was going to have a tough time beating---the boy dressed as Dolly Parton, full white wig and water balloons for boobs. He was lip-syncing to "Here You Come Again" and he had it down pat. The audience was laughing---a boy dressed like a woman, prancing around, trying not to fall off his 16 inch heels---but they really got hysterical when one of the water balloons burst. How does one follow a natural winner? Panicked, I walked out on the stage into the blinding spotlight. My name was announced, "Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight's final act---playing the guitar and singing, Sara Hickman." I sat on my stool (I didn't know about guitar straps yet), and adjusted the microphone. I started to play "Stairway to Heaven". The audience was very still. I thought maybe they had fallen asleep. I was sweating. My fingers felt slippery on the neck of the guitar. I opened my mouth and started to sing about Greg. That made me feel better. I had my eyes closed shut; I was picturing the rain and the phone ringing and all the things I was singing about, and in my mind's eye, there was Greg. Ooh, yea. There he was. What a cutie! Then, I moved into my tour de force---my cover of Carly Simon. I finished the song (I even sang the line, "Sweet James, you know...you're the best" at the fading outro) and there was a moment of stillness. OHGODISUCK was all I could think and then WOW there was clapping and more clapping and I ran off the stage and people were still clapping and the PRINCIPAL made me go out front and sit with all the other participants from the show... we were all huddled together, eager with anticipation, excited to hear the winners names announced and then the PRINCIPAL started talking on the mic about how great our school was and blah blah but you found yourself actually listening, everyone was so flushed with pride! OUR SCHOOL was the best! All our kids were GREAT KIDS! We were all together, celebrating family and talent and then the principal said the third place winner (the band) and everyone cheered, then the second place winner (the Dolly Parton imitator) and everyone went nuts and then the PRINCIPAL really strung out the time...he was taking SO LONG...and the whole world seemed to be in that auditorium, just people everywhere, I could hardly breathe!...and then...he said it. HE SAID MY NAME. People around me went into SLOW MOTION, jumping up and down and I couldn't stand up, I was shaking and people were saying, "GET UP YOU WON GET UP SARA!" and everything was blurry because I was FREAKING OUT! All I know is I somehow made it up the stairs to the man known as THE PRINCIPAL and he handed me something but I couldn't speak I just stuttered THANK YOU ALL THANK YOU OH. And then I was in the car with my family, and the streets were dark with streetlights flickering as we would drive underneath, and I finally opened the envelope and it was TWENTY FIVE DOLLARS and I smiled in the darkness, I smiled because it felt like LOVE.

NUMBER 13 ------------ Well, last story I talked about the ninth grade talent show. This story will take us back to the beginning: first grade. It's the story of how the guitar and I fell in love... I had been taking piano lessons with a woman who looked eerily parallel to Marge Simpson on "The Simpsons", except that in my mind's eye she has no sense of humor, a thick accent (French? German?) and thick glasses like the bottoms of a coca-cola bottle. She and I were crammed into a 8 x 8 foot concrete room at Baylor University (Houston) that had no windows, a creaky upright piano, and only one exit with a square of glass that let the light pretend to be your friend. Those lessons were uptight and outtasight and I wanted them to end immediately. Since I was only 6 (?) or 7, my mom felt it was important I study some kind of musical instrument, as I had already conquered the world of ballet with Ms. Zelda, a red-headed beauty from Czechoslovokia who kept her dance facility at 50 degrees and made me do headstands on a wood floor. (With no pillow...trust me, this explains a lot.) Anyhoo, so I agreed I would find another instrument in place of the piano. One day, my mom took me to Sharpstown Mall and we descended upon a music store. Up on the walls were all these curvy, wooden instruments with strings. I asked my mom what they were called and she said, "Why, those are guitars." The salesman handed me one, and that was it. I was in love. In my hands, the touch of the strings was a sound I had never heard. I would race home from school, bound up the stairs to my room, and grab my friend around the neck. I couldn't believe such a beautiful creature could be mine. The strings emitted the sounds of another time, or a time yet to come, but I would sit and pluck them one at a time just to hear the sound hum and evaporate. Unbelievable! I never got bored strumming and plucking, placing my ear up to the wood to feel the vibration, the life breath of the music. My first lessons were in a church up the street. There was, perhaps, thirty of us in a big open sanctuary and we learned "Hang Down Your Head Tom Dooley." That was the first song I ever learned. I thought it was a sad song, and I felt swallowed up in the sea of people and guitars. I don't remember an instructor, just folding chairs and guitars everywhere. No one was singing, just playing the chords D and A in one big potluck of sound. Next, my mom brought home a man that looked like Wolfman Jack. He came once a week, and we sat in the den and he taught me to struggle past the pain of barre chords, how to finger pick, what a major seventh could bring to a song, and scales. The songs I remember him charting out for me to learn were "Lara's Theme" from Dr. Zivago (I can't speel it cause I only recently saw it and fell asleep in the middle), and "Lyin' Eyes" by the Eagles. Meanwhile, I had gotten a new guitar, my Yamaha classical and my own Shure microphone. We would actually plug the microphone into the stereo and I thought I had hit the big time. Do you remember the first time you ever recorded your voice? Did you play it back over and over and over, in disbelief? I would have my friends over and we would record everything...songs, jokes, read from the Encyclodpedia, pretend we were the sportcasters for the Olympics, act like we were the cast of the Carol Burnett Show, the Partridge Family...oh, those were magical days. It seemed the whole world was ours, and we were making the music and writing the stories of our lives to come. Well, one day at school, I was told there was going to be a contest. A poetry contest. Every student was encouraged to enter a poem. The only stipulation was each entry had to have a patriotic theme. I wanted to enter, and I wanted to enter my poem as a song. And so I wrote my first song, something to do with a bald eagle and how it soared and loved its freedom. I have no recollection of how the song went, nor a recording of it, but I do know it was in A minor, so it was haunting, and most likely I poured my heart into trying to be sophisticated. The day of the contest, there I was, a first grader on stage, with all the other kids, wiggly and eager and nervous as all get out. Finally, it was my turn, and I walked over to a giant old-fashioned school microphone, silver and gleaming, toothy in it's grin, waiting for me with hope. Of course, there wasn't any way to pick up my guitar, but I didn't know of such things, I thought it was astounding that suddenly my voice was eighty feet tall and the kids in the seats of the school lunchroom were actually listening to me sing. It was a mixture of wanting to sing, and wanting to stop and listen so I could hear how huge my voice had become. Well, I strummed my guitar (this was before I knew about picks, as well, so on a classical it was pretty soft, and I had to hold one knee up in the air to support the guitar because I didn't have a strap, yet, either) and sang, eyes wide open with fright, but focused on this distant bald eagle, swooping and diving through clear skies above lush, dense forests of green... Later in the day, I was awarded first place by the Daughters of the American Revolution. Somewhere, in some box, I still have that slip of paper, and in my closet is that guitar, covered in a bit of dust, worn from years of banging and wandering, patiently waiting for the next little kid who will find it as fascinating as me, who will open doors to their world they never thought music could open, who will hopefully find the hope and adventure that writing a song can give each of us.

#12 Top Musical Moment One of my favorite venues to play over the years has been a tiny, dark room in Austin, Texas called the Cactus Cafe. It is located on the campus of the University of Texas, and there is no parking, so I always have to park illegally on the campus, but that's another story... Which is a nice segue into the fact that this musical memory moment is actually three sewn into one because they all occurred at the Cactus Cafe...which, if you've never had the opportunity to visit, looks very much like a seductive Denny's (without the Moons over My Hammy...unless I'm performing, then it is pretty hammy.) The first moment happened right before I got signed to Elektra Records, back in 1989. I believe it was actually my first time to perform at the Cactus Cafe, and the room was packed, thanks to my manager and the word that I might be getting signed soon. As it would happen, the VP of Elektra, Howard Thompson, was in attendance. It would be his second time to see me (the first will be revealed in musical moment #7...you'll have to wait awhile...sorry!) I was nervous, but a sort of giddy, happy nervous. The show was at four in the afternoon, so the sun was shining through the windows on all the lovely faces, and I was excited to be on stage. Everyone was in a sweet mood. I sang my set, and the very last song I sang was "Simply". A simple, direct love song... But the reason I bring this story into my memory list is because of my boyfriend at the time, Sandy Abernethy. He was seated to my stage right, almost at my elbow (remember: I said it is a tiny room!), with Mr. Thompson at his side. As I remember it, I started to focus in on Sandy, and I put my whole heart into singing this song...I really wanted to let Sandy know how much I loved him. As I sang, I started to get choked up. I didn't lose it, mind you, like I have in other shows, but I could feel my heart swelling up in my chest, as if the world had lighted on my lungs and I was carrying the love of every lover ever! BIG LOVE! Pretty soon, there was a tear in Sandy's eye, and all around us, people were sobbing. As I walked off the stage, I just remember all these arms, and all this love, and a feeling in the room of great spirit, as if we were all very, very connected. I will never forget looking into Sandy's eyes. Thank you, Sandy! (Who is now happily married to a super, lovely woman and has an adorable, smart little five year old!) There have been many, many shows at the Cactus since that day, but two other ones really stand out for me...and they both had me losing my voice. Many years back, a young woman named Cindy was in a horrible car accident that left her in a coma. When she was first admitted into the hospital, I sent a cd of "Necessary Angels", through the request of one of her friends. But, at the last minute, I felt moved to write a personal letter and send it along with the cd. With the knowing someone would read it to her, I sent love and wished her a speedy recovery, and I also told her I knew she could hear the people around her talking, and that I was sure it was frustrating not to be able to communicate back. I ended with the hope my songs would comfort her in some way, and I would be thinking of her. Well, about a year after the package was mailed, I received the first of many amazing letters from this young woman. She told me she HAD heard the words read from my letter, and that she had listened to my music over and over! She went on to briefly describe her progress of learning how to walk, and how to read and write, as well. Her letters started out awkward and heavy handed, and gradually became more confident over time. Every letter that arrived in my mailbox had me in tears because I knew it was a big undertaking on her part. I was very grateful and honored to be included in her journey to recovery. One evening, I arrived to a long line outside the entrance to the Cafe. In the line, I noticed a young woman with a cane...I had never seen a photograph of Cindy, and I had no idea she would be coming to see me (she lives in Corpus Christi), and, yet, somehow, I knew it was her. I walked up to her and said, "Cindy?" and, quick as a wink, we were embracing. We spoke, quietly, and before I hit the stage, I was in awe. I wanted to honor her with her favorite song, but as I started to sing, "Shadowboxing", it was as if I was floating away, somewhere, and all I could see was her darkened figure, backlit, at a small table with a friend. My voice quivered, and I started to cry in front of the entire room. This may seem like an odd memory to share. It doesn't really go anywhere. It doesn't have an ending, or a moral, or anything funny. And, yet, the spirit of her goodness was shining so bright, I felt the spotlight was shining on the wrong person. I didn't want to be on that stage. I wanted to sit and hold hands with this brave young woman, and watch a magic screen with images of her struggle to come back to life. I wanted everyone in that room to understand the greatness of her appearance that night...but, I also understood it was not my place to boast about her successes. And, so, I regained my composure. I went on. I honored her the best way I could...by celebrating her respectfully through my music. I went on. And so has she. Ok. The last of the Cactus Cafe moments is short. I literally had laryngitis. I couldn't speak. Not one word. But, I went ready to sing. The Cafe was packed. My hands were sweaty. I got on stage and whispered into the mic, "I have laryngitis." The audience was aghast. What kind of show can a singer with no voice deliver? Well, here's a miracle for you. I believe I did a full two hour show. Yep. I sang. I sang all the notes except the high ones (maybe the dogs could hear them, we sure couldn't!) or the low ones. So, I'd sing a phrase, and the audience would get about 5 of the 8 words. But, I laughed, they laughed. To date, I 'd have to say it was probably the best show I ever put on because it was about the spirit of doing what you love...even when you can't fully do it! Oh, my.

TOP TWENTY MOMENTS NUMBER 11 ... It was a cool, crisp morning, and I was slated to perform the National Anthem with Domestic Science Club, the all girl singing group that included Patti Mitchell-Lege, Robin Macy and moi. We clamored into the tiny Volkswagon, the sun a hazy pink climbing up over the Dallas skyline. We were scheduled to sing at 6:00 a.m. The little car carried our sleepy bodies over to the race site. We were going to be the send off for thousands of women running in the Susan G. Komen RACE FOR THE CURE, and we were excited. As we stood on the broad, white stage, the sun now an orange in the sky, we intertwined our arms, and the three of us looked out upon a sea of shining faces, eager to run, eager to hear us sing about the home of the brave. As the last notes of our voices melted into morning, I jumped off the stage and joined the throngs of women. I was going to run the race with Robin, the first time I would ever be running a 5K! Bang! And we were off! As I ran, with Robin's encouragement!, I was moved by the presence of so many different women. Women were running on behalf of their mothers, their sisters, cousins, friends, grandmothers---women lost to breast cancer, women who had survived. There were old women, women with baby strollers, women in wheel chairs, women holding hands, women laughing...black and brown and yellow and pink and white women, a rainbow coalition, all running in the same direction---towards the finish line of hope. I was breathing in and out, watching the rythym of women flow, when it came to me...these women needed an anthem of their own. The National Anthem was beautiful, and I truly love singing it, but in the end, it speaks of war, and these women were running for a different reason. With my legs a steady pulse beneath me, I ran and thought...ran and thought...when the melody and the rythym and the words came to my heart...It was Just...breathe... One Race...breathe... for the Cure...breathe...because we are all...breathe... One Race...the Human Race...run, run, breathe, run, run, breathe... I started to sing the song in my mind, over and over, to the beat of thousands of feet...fearing I would forget my ideas, I kept singing, beginning to end, over and over and over....until suddenly, we were reaching the last part of the race...I didn't know if I could make it...my body was tired, and I was overwhelmed with the desire to rest...but Robin and Kayla (another friend) started to run circles around me, cheering me on, and I got that famous second wind...and we did it! We finished the race together! I was elated! My first time to ever run a REAL race and I had done it! Well, as I ran across the line (grateful to my friends!), I ran right up to one of the producers of the race and said, "I've got it! I've got a song for you!" She looked confused, but I kept hopping around her, elated with my ideas...for not only had I "written" a song in my mind, I had had an entire vision...the song would have a gospel choir, there would be a full production, we could make a cd and the money could go to the Komen Foundation for further breast cancer research! The woman kept asking me, "What? What are you saying?" I shouted, "Over here to the parking garage! Let me sing it for you!" (Parking garages have nice acoustics, and there just happened to be one RIGHT THERE!!! How handy!) So, she grabbed some fellow volunteers (probably worried I was going to never stop hopping!) and we headed to the garage and I started to sing the song..."Oh!" they cried. "Oh! Now we understand!" they said. Well, the next thing I knew, I was in my good friend Danny Levin's garage, and he was arranging the song to my a cappella ideas, and I was singing, and next I had to find just the right choir! Voila! Into my life came the Bits and Pieces for Christ Choir! We met at the studio...the song poured forth from them with such jubilation! I was clappping and cheering...they were clapping and cheering! Lots of clapping and cheering going on! Next, I invited my sister's women's choir down from Colorado...and the whole mess of us, two full choirs and me, sang the song at the annual Komen luncheon for about 3000 women. It was a thrill! And the fact that the choirs consisted of lesbians, blacks, whites, Christians,women and men of different ideas, spiritual beliefs and walks of life... it represented the fact that cancer knows no bounds. It can affect all of us (even men get breast cancer...did you know that?). So, God's vision, laid upon my heart, became a reality. Soon the song was on different cds helping to raise funds for the Komen Foundation. I was traveling the country, singing for the different races... And then...just when I thought nothing more could become of the song....I ended up last spring at Carnagie Hall with a choir of 350 voices and an eighty piece orchestra...and I realized...this is how a dream begins...you just have to believe...you have to follow your heart and follow through...you have to know that one voice can start a choir...and so I say to you... if you have a dream right now...take that first step...and before you know it...you will be off and running...! Some are black... Some are white... Each is precious in God's sight Cuz we're all...in one race For the cure Some are young...some are old And I find as time unfolds That we're all...in one race For the cure As I watch...through my eyes I try so hard not to cry...As each sister Runs... For another I have found When you care There's more than enough to share And we're all In one race For the cure... Just one race...with each small step that you take Cuz we're all in the race... For the cure...

....Number 10 in our countdown (we're halfway there!!!) This is the story of a young girl named Sara who was plucked from obscurity and placed on a national late-night show. The Tonight Show. The Tonight Show of Long Ago when the host was a funny, silly white haired man with an impish grin. Yes, back in The Days of Carson... Our story begins when Little Miss S arrives in the Lost City of Angels via a stretch limo chock full of friends and bandmates. As the group disembarks from their land boat into a concrete covered lot, they stare in reverence at an empty parking spot. (Say, makes you want to break into a Joni Mitchell tune, no?) Said spot sports a sign reading thus: JOHNNY CARSON. Here is where a lean, clean Stingray machine will soon zoom into place... but for now...our happy campers can only sigh that they have actually been chosen to nab a performance on our gentle chappie's show. The day goes on. Little Miss S is guided into make-up. The make-up artist is from Germany. She discovers our young artist is from Texas. The make-up lady says, "Oh, beeg hair?" Our young friend says, "Excuse me?" Make-up lady says, "You? You vant beeg hair?" Little Miss S shakes her head and says, "No, thank you. No beeg hair." The make-up lady pulls out orange juice cans and proceeds to wrap strands of Little Miss S's hair upon said cans as she hangs on for dear life, her hair climbing up, uP, UP! Soon, while her hair is growing, so are her lips. The make-up lady says, "Nice. You have nice, beeg lips. I make them beeger." Again, our heroine uses the word "no", but she has come to realize she is in BACKWARDS LAND because "no" seems to signify "yes, please make it beeger!" and since no one gave Little Miss S the secret code word for "no", she decides she will just scrape the goo from her face immediately finishing the removal of the giant cans from her hair. THE GREEN ROOM: After diligently attempting to remove the goo and flatten her abnormally larger hair, Little Miss S retires to the green room. It is not green. It is white, and the size of a walk-in closet, with lots of hot lights and mirrors for circus clowns. (Which is appropriate since this is how Little Miss S is thinking she looks at the moment.) THE REHEARSAL: Goes well. Band is great. Some background: the song was chosen by the Tonight Show Talent Co-ordinator (from here-to-fore known as TC). The song is called "TOO FAST", which TC thought to be very, very funny when he heard Little Miss S perform it in a night club earlier in the year. BACK IN THE GREEN ROOM: Little Miss S has changed into her performance attire. People have arrived from The Label. The Manager has arrived. Flowers have arrived. Little Miss S receives her first Western Union Telegram which states, "We don't eat flowers. We love you. Hugh and Millie." (Hint: Think of "Simply"). STILL IN THE GREEN ROOM, MOMENTS LATER: Everyone is excited. Everyone is taking pictures. It is fifteen minutes until showtime! Suddenly, TC enters the room. There is an air of unease. The Manager looks concerned. Little Miss S thinks to herself, "Something is up. And it's not just my hair." And, yes, something is up. The TC has news. LATE BREAKING NEWS. The song can not be sung. It is no longer funny. It seems a censor was present and she has declared the song "TOO RACY." "Too racy??" the singer cries. "Yes," says the TC with flair. "It is not too fast, it is too racy, so you must perform another song." The singer is confused. Panic sets in. "But the band learned THAT song!" she says. "I realize it is moments until show time," TC agrees. "Therefore, you may perform the song, however, you must re-write some of the words." "WHAT?" cries the singer. "Now, now..." says The Manager. The Label is silent. "Now, don't be upset," sympathizes the TC. "I know you feel pressured. Therefore, I have taken it upon myself to re-write the words for you." The singer is silent. The TC produces a piece of paper from behind his back. Little Miss S is stunned to see scribblings across the sheet. TC begins to read: "Where you say "she dives into his pants", I thought you could sing "she does a finger dance upon his pants" or "unzips his pants". Would those work for you?" Little Miss S has turned green. Not from envy, but because her little tummy is twisting up in knots. "No. No. That will not work," she says. "Why not?" asks the TC. "I think it is rather clever!" The Label is starting to look concerned. The Manager shifts his weight and looks at Little Miss S as if to say, "Take the deal!" "No. This makes no sense," says Little Miss S, the singer. The singer who has worked all her life for this very moment and is about to lose it to a maniacal last minute wanna-be songwriter in charge of talent for a major network show. "This makes no sense whatsoever. You want me to take an abstract line, "she dives into his pants", which once made you laugh, and turn it into something graphic like "she UNZIPS his pants"? That's not funny!" The TC is turning red. "Yes, it is!" he declares. "No, it's not," responds Miss S, who is no longer feeling little. "Well, it's my way or perform another song," TC growls. "Fine," says Miss S. "I will do another song. I am not changing the words to my song." The TC leaves in a huff. The room, formerly full of enthusiasm, feels like a deflated balloon in an oven. Miss S feels embarrassed. She feels afraid. She feels excited. She has no time to worry about her feelings, she has to pick a song and teach it to the band with only moments to spare!!! "Brad!" she cries. "Can you chart out "Last Night Was A Big Rain?" Brad. Brad McLemore. A trusted friend and extremely talented guitarist. Little Miss S has relied on Mr. M so many times. Once again he is by her side to perform. He has witnessed the exchange between TC and Miss S, so he grabs a pen and some notebook paper and sets to work. (Here we should all take a moment to say a prayer of gratitude for Mr. M, this patient, humble and talented person.) Mr. M speeds out the door to deliver the news and the music. Miss S is now charged with the power of anger mixed with hope mixed with fear. She is led to her spot behind a heavy, closed curtain. Upon a cue, the curtain will open and she will be exposed to bah-zillions of people she can not see. She is left alone behind the curtain. She knows not what to feel. Her guitar is in her hand, and before she can mentally prepare, the curtain parts and the audience is clapping and the lights! The lights are blinding! She is walking forward, and reaching the microphone, hears the band start to play. Her right hand strums along, her left hand confident in creating the chords. She stares directly into the camera and rips out the song about rain...about flying around in the darkness...about friendship and wanting to fit in...about Johnny Cash and Kovacs, who she has never really seen...She lets her heartache and anger roll out of her body and she feels taller than her hair. The camera never leaves her face, totally ignoring her faithful friend, Brad, over in the bandstand. Brad, who has traveled thousands of miles so his family can see him, too, perform on this late night show, and yet, not once do they show sweet Brad or Denny the drummer or Randy Jackson, the bassist. Oh, the tragedy of it all! Back home in Texas, Miss S's boyfriend, Mr. S, turns to the gathering of folks watching the performance and says, "Ooh, she's MAD!" The song ends. But not really. Miss S sends the cue, but the band is jamming. They do not see the song has ended. So, Miss S rallies and comes around for a second ending, which she lands with a flourish across the guitar. Still, the band plays on. Miss S concludes that her life is now over and she is a fool with giant hair and that she is looking forward to a new life working at a Walgreens. Something quiet and easy with a regular paycheck. Yes, that will be good, she is thinking to herself. Finally, the band is finished. The song ends. Break to a commercial as the audience is whooping it up. An exhausted Miss S is called over to the coveted cushion next to Johnny, and as she approaches, an amazing thing happens. Johnny is singing her song. Johnny Carson is singing to her..."Last night was a big rain..." and he is smiling at her and tapping his legendary pencil on the desk in time to her song. There is peace. All is good. And, after all, it's only show biz. Life will go on. Life will have it's twists and turns, and a copy of this performance will end up on a DVD years later, where Miss S will think to herself, "My God, look at my HAIR!"

NUMBER NINE in the TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS countdown from your old pal, Sara Hickman! Sometimes when I've finished recording a song, the engineer will play it back and there is a divine satisfaction that the song is done. No need to tweak, or mess with instrumentation, or re-sing a vocal...all is as it should be. Resting comfortably, each note falls into a space that is harmonious with the magic embracing it. One night, in New York City, in a funky little carpeted studio on the third floor of a decrepit looking building, I had this experience. I had just finished recording "Everyone's Gone to the Moon" with Angelo Badalamenti. (This is the man that did all the music for TWIN PEAKS, and brought Julee Cruise to prominence.) Through several giant speakers, I stood in the middle of the cutting room floor, listening to my voice resonating at a very loud decible. It sounded like a warm blanket. Angelo was standing there, too, and we were smiling like cats who caught the bird. I asked Angelo to dance with me. He chuckled and shook his head, but I took him by the hand and led him into a waltz. Angelo is a fine, older Italian gentleman with passion streaming from every pore, and with the music pouring all around us, we danced and celebrated the beauty of the moment. The words of the song ringing true... This is a lovely memory for me. Perhaps nothing special will leap out about it for you, but as I get older, I find these quiet connections mean more to me than ever. I believe it's called living in the moment. A moment of grace. I wish a moment of grace for you today. Sending love, Sara

Here is story #8 in the great TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS COUNTDOWN!!! My first album, EQUAL SCARY PEOPLE, had just arrived in boxes at my house. The year was 1988, and I was two years out of college. I was getting some local reviews in the press, and every thing about making music was new, exciting and unbelievable! Suddenly, the phone rang. It was a woman in town who booked Killbilly, a six piece highly energetic punk-bluegrass band, and she wanted to know if I wanted to go on TOUR WITH THEM!!! Across the midwest! UNBELIEVABLE! Her idea was this: "You see, you can get press cuz you have a record, and they can get the bookings cuz they are a band. You can all travel in one van and save money." I was PSYCHED! I packed up my few belongings (a guitar and a prom dress) and hit the road with men dressed in nothing but black t-shirts, black jeans, black boots, and black tattoos. I felt like Doris Day on tour with the Ramones!!! Well, somewhere out there on the road, magic started happening! By the time we got to Kansas City, Kansas, my brand-spankin' new manager, Kevin, called to give me some good news: Elektra Records was sending it's Vice President to hear me! OHMYGOD! I screamed and dropped the phone. UNBELIEVABLE! After I picked up the phone, I immediately dropped it again...because he was coming to the show THAT NIGHT, in a strange land where no one had an inkling of who I was (nor did they care)... So, I did what any girl with a guitar would do. I went shopping. That's right. You see, not only was this the year I made my first record, it was the year I got my first CREDIT CARD!!! So, I told the boys I'd be back, and I went walking. Walking and walking...and walking until I found a funky little shop called ORBIT...and there I bought a LIME GREEN VELVET glove dress. And ridiculously large loop earrings (they came with seals that did tricks, they were that big!!!) I think I even bought LIME GREEN tights. Now, one of the funny things to happen (besides me losing any sense of fashion), was that the club was basically empty that night. To my recollection, there were maybe 27 people there (including the bartender.) It was a nice club, upstairs, all wood floors with big, white walls (that were actually sparkly clean!) and a couple of pool tables in the back. So, before you can say, UT IS GOING TO BEAT OU, in walks my cousin Joe and his wife, Waunita, right there, outta the blue. Now, let me just say this: Uncle Joe was the kind of man that left $20 tips for $3 beers. He was a generous, happy, hefty soul that everyone loved to be around. I was thrilled that he was there because I loved him so, but I also knew he would be tickled to help me with: THE PLAN! Yes, as I went on stage that night, I announced to the 27 people in attendance that I was a young girl from Texas (although I suspect they thought I was a frog named Kermit in my neon outfit)...and that at any moment, ANY MOMENT, a Man from New York representing ELEKTRA RECORDS was going to walk in through the door. UNBELIEVABLE! I asked the audience one thing, and one thing only: I asked them to cheer, long and hard, after every song I performed...as if each song was the best song they had ever heard...it was my dream, I said. I've been dreaming of this moment since I was seven years old, I said. There was a nodding of heads, a reverence, if you will. Everyone in the room seemed to understand we were all a part of something UNBELIEVABLE that was about to happen. Well, I knew the Man from New York wasn't there yet, because besides the boys from Killbillly, he would bethe only other man dressed all in black. Suddenly, he was there. As if my guardian angel had timed it perfectly, in walked the Man from New York, just as I finished my plea to the small crowd. I started to sing. I put my heart into it. The first song finished, 27 people went insane. They cheered and clapped and whistled and pounded the tables as if I was SOLID GOLD!!! The same thing after the third and fourth and fifth song...total bedlam! I finished my set (after two encores...and I had to finish...I didn't have any other songs except Simon and Garfunkel covers)... And I met the Man From New York. And the rest is history...he told me he wanted to sign me that night. UNBELIEVABLE! And, as my friend Mark Rubin later told me, he says I leaned in across the table towards the Man from New York and said, "But if you try to change me, I will be unhappy and I will leave." UNBELIEVABLE! The sweet part of this story is that Howard, the Man from New York, could see past the silly green dress, he figured out what I had gotten the audience to do, yet he still really heard my songs, my desire to make music, and my love for storytelling, and he GOT it. To this day, I am very grateful to you, Howard, if you are out there reading this story. I know I would still be making music whether I had met you that fateful night or not, but who knows if I would have had the exposure you granted me and my music. Thank you for making my wish come true! Thank you for believing in me. Howard also taped that night on a little taperecorder..I have the cassette somewhere in my vault. It's faded, now, but between my songs and banter, right there you can hear the cheers and Howard's happy laughter ringing out.

STORY NUMBER SEVEN IN THE TOP TWENTY MUSICAL COUNTDOWN by me, Sara Hickman, the girl with the guitar Well, you may remember from our last story, I was on tour with Killbilly, and in Kansas City Elektra came to call. Previously, on this same tour, we had stopped in the wee town of Lawrence, Kansas. We were going to be playing with another artist named Lucinda Williams. We got to the club about mid-afternoon, and brought in all our gear (fortunately, for the girl and her guitar, she was all set!), and sat about waiting for the club owner to appear. The space was big, an old dance hall with a long wooden bar and mirror behind to match. The stage was triangular and at the far end, ready to go, waiting for the magic of music to get people hoppin'. The club owner arrived, and it was decided that three acts on the bill was ridiculous (his words, not mine), and so I was to be dropped from the evening's performance because I was the only one without a band. Remember the words I used earlier: dancehall. And "girl with a guitar". They were thinking Joan Baez=death to liquour sales. We all protested. Finally, the club owner acquiesced. He said I could play, but while they were setting up. Ok, I said, that will be fine, I said. Little did I know that "setting up" meant one man sweeping a floor and another racking up glasses behind the bar while the front door stayed LOCKED AND CLOSED. Oh, ok, I thought. I'll just sing my heart out for these two guys. So, I hauled my guitar up on the stage, got a quick soundcheck with a guy who treated me like I was a nun with bad breath, and sang away. Let me say this: when NO ONE is in a dance hall, your voice does sound bigger and prettier, so that part was fun! After I finished my allotted twenty minutes, I hopped off the stage, the doors were opened, people started leisurely strolling in, and soon the clinking of glasses and voices laughing could be heard from my dressing room: the bathroom. Let me say this: bathrooms also have nice acoustics, especially when you are alone and talking to yourself about how touring is unfair and you will never, ever, ever leave home again! So, Killbilly, the rootinest, tootinest bluegrass-hillbilly-kick up your hills band you ever did hear...they got up and got the juke jumpin'! Cigarette smoke curling up with the lights, the floor creaking from people boot scooting and shuffling to the beat. It all sounded so merry, I decided to leave my little hole of despair and peek out on the scene... After Killbilly finished, up came Miss Lucinda, looking vulnerable and wide eyed, but with a confidence beyond her years. She wasn't wild like Killbilly, but the place became packed with admirers, and she lulled us all with her hypnotic voice and slow-burning tunes of love and loss and life. I don't think she ever blinked, nor did I. It was the longest game of "who'll blink first?" I ever did play. Well, here's the best part of this story. This is the part of the music biz that never gets told. And I am going to tell it to you now. That Lucinda Williams! She was not only mesmerizing, but somehow she had heard how the girl with the guitar, a girl she had never even MET, had gotten shafted. A girl who probably sat in her room, alone, day after day, pouring her heart out into her songs...someone who believed in herself enough to have the courage to get up on a stage and sing her life...Lucinda most likely thought to herself, "I know what that feels like, to want to sing and not be given the chance..." because as Lucinda finished her set to a COMPLETELY PACKED HOUSE, do you know what she did? Can you BELIEVE IT? She says to this audience, "And now, I'd like to bring up my good friend, Sara Hickman..." AND MY EYES BLINKED! Was she talking about ME???!!!! ME and MY guitar? Was I dreaming??? NO, I WAS NOT DREAMING!!! Lucinda invited me up on that hot, sweaty stage in front of all those hot, drunk, sweaty people...And I thought she was the most beautiful person I had ever met in my LIFE. I was speechless. I felt like the little drummer boy! What did I have to give after Lucinda and Killbilly had rocked the house down? Well, get up there I did...and I had a great time, just me and my little guitar. Just wonderful! I rocked the best I could in wee Lawrence that night, and it made me believe that I could exist in the world of rock-n-roll because Lucinda Williams shared the stage with all the grace of an angel. And, so, afterwards, I went up to Lucinda, who I now can call my friend after years of many other encounters together...and I gave her my brand new BOLO TIE! It was silver with sparkly little rhinestones, but it was all I had to say THANK YOU, DEAR ONE! And I placed it around her neck and I was just so happy. Because of the sweetness of Lucinda, I bet she doesn't even realize what she did that night. But I remember it all the time, and I always try to extend a hand to those just coming up in the world of music. So, thank you, Lucinda. Happy Thanksgiving, wherever you are in the world today. Thank you.

AND NOW...Number 6 in my TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS COUNTDOWN!!! Warning: This is a story of the heart, not of humor. I was in an airport in Denver, waiting for my flight. Reading the local paper, I happened upon a story about a mother and her teenage son who had flown to Romania to work with orphans. The story was incredibly moving, and by the time I had finished, I was literally weeping. I felt that gentle tug on my heart, the whisper of, "You should go..." when I noticed that the editor had included the phone number of the woman. I couldn't believe it. I walked to a pay phone, rang her up, and before I knew it, there she was standing next to me in the airport, and we were talking all about Romania. By the time I boarded the plane, I had no doubts as to what my mission had become: visit Romania with supplies for the orphans. When I returned home to Texas, I started contacting everyone I could think of: folks on my mailing list, neighbors, friends, family, even business acquaintances. Michaels MJ Designs had me sing on a commercial, and in return, they gave me tons of free art supplies, from paper and markers to scissors and glue. Next, people starting sending me donated goods: clothing, coffee, diapers, tampons, medical supplies, jackets, shoes...you name it. My living room in Dallas was looking like a Foley's rummage sale! Clothes piled into different categories, shoes to be cleaned, cough medicines to be carefully packed to prevent leakage. I found 21 refrigerator size boxes, and started loading it all in, packing every single square inch until the boxes looked like they might burst. Next, I realized I was depending on the kindess of the stranger I had met in Denver. The connections she had in Romania hardly spoke any English...I received one fax before I left with their names...no phone numbers or addresses...and a cryptic message I deciphered to mean, "When are you arriving?" I faxed them back my plane information, and crossed my fingers. Luftansa was gracious, and gave me a hefty discount when I went to their main office, describing the contents of each box and who would benefit from the contents. What could have been $3000 in shipping, they reduced to $1500. It was a blessing. Finally, the day arrived to leave. My roommate at the time, Kevin, had decided he wanted to go with me. We were nervous, excited, scared...When we arrived at the Dallas/Ft.Worth airport, we were told to wait in a lounge for overseas flights. As we ate the complimentary nuts and chit-chatted, a man walked in and asked me if I was Sara. When I said I was, he asked me to follow him. He shocked me with what he said next. He worked for the airlines and was bumping me up to first class for the journey! I couldn't believe it! Every step of the way, it seemed God was taking care of me...Alas, when I asked about Kevin, the gentleman shook his head "no"...Man, I enjoyed that first class ride, but I felt crappy that Kevin had to sit in the back (although it was smoking back then, and Kevin was a smoker, so maybe that was a good thing. Oh, what we say to ourselves to feel better!) When we arrived in Romania, we deplaned to discover soldiers with machine guns standing on the tarmac. It was unsettling. Then, there was a major pat down and search of our garment bags. Finally, we were allowed to leave; there were throngs of Romanians waiting outside the door, yelling to us in their native tongue. I have heard there have been many changes since I visited, but at the time (1994), people were hungry. I realized they were asking for handouts...all I had were tiny boxes of raisins, but I reached into my backpack and handed out every single one. It was a humbling experience right off the bat. Our hosts were there, shy and nervous, as well, and took great care of us our entire visit. They planned our meals and shared their homes; they drove us to the orphanages and translated what little they could. My time in Romania seems like yesterday...I can still see the hunger in the eyes of the children, hoping we were there to adopt them, but comforted by the fact we wanted to love and nurture as many as we could. Children who had never been touched had their hair brushed, if they were capable of letting me close. Children who were blind were given books with textures to touch and feel; I was massaging and singing to and holding and humming and aware of a need beyond anything I had ever experienced. I fell in love with every single child. And on days where I visited children who had been tied into their cribs, or had suffered abuse, my heart broke into a million pieces. I still, to this day, can not understand how the human race can be so cruel, so negligent...and selfish. And, yet, in the midst of all the despair, there was always hope...a person who had worked tirelessly on behalf of the children, or an older child who was like a mother to smaller infants. Moving and mysterious, this journey; and by the end, I wanted to be more on behalf of the children, not only in Romania, but around the world. Upon returning to the U.S., I woke up one morning, and a song poured out of my mouth. I hadn't cried once while I was overseas; I guess because I was a part of the suffering. But as the song wrote itself, I cried and cried. Romania The hills are covered with the riches of your land So when I reach this city it's so hard to understand The silent ruins of a rich and royal hand Oh...Romania The streets aren't streets of gold..but swirling clouds of clay Behind the bars of cribs I've seen the children play My heart is heavy with what I've witnessed here today Ah...Romania And where are the gentle eyes to watch over you? Who holds you to their breast to sing you through the night? What can one person do to set these wrongs to right? Oh...Romania Each face a human face, how is it we forget? The suffering we could end before another day's sunset The mothers calling out all over the world "Ah...Romania..." And where are the gentle eyes to watch over you? Who holds you to their breast to sing you through the night? What can one person do to set these wrongs to right? Ah...Romania Ah...Bosnia Ah...South America Ah...Korea Ah...Somalia... Ah...America... The song became a night of great beauty when the music community of Dallas came together, and we recorded it at Crystal Clear Sound with my faithful friend and engineer, Marty. For many years, I sold the cassette at my shows, trying to raise monies, which, in turn, I then sent on to groups in Romania. Now the song resides on the album , MISFITS...and I am grateful to all the musicians and singers who saw a need and joined me in raising their voices. So, I guess I chose to tell you this story because it just comes down to choices. We never know how our choices truly affect those around us, but we can hope that we make wise choices that will inspire others to live their dreams. So, I say to you....Live your dream. Be inspired. Go forth into this gigantic place we call our world and be in it.

THIS IS MOMENT NUMBER 5 (for those of you just joining in the parade!)... and let me say...this is the wacky, surreal story in the countdown!!! Get ready. --- The Cheese was an improvisational group founded by Stevo Price and Andy Dean during my days in Dallas. There was garage band funky get togethers no holds barred music on a keyboard and pots and pans. There were late night meetings in Chinese restaurants. Ideas, ideas, always talking about politics and music and art and food and here and there and video and the power of television. Then, along came Larry. Larry was a super whirl of energy, comedy, song and ranting all rolled up into a man of dynamic proportions. Everything about him sweated enthusiasm. A balding, black haired, wild-eyed brown-eyed man of Hebrew descent, he was George Castanza before Seinfeld had even been a thought. Except Larry didn't wear glasses. He didn't need them with the visions exploding everywhere, twenty-four hours a day. He was perfect for The Cheese. But there needed to be a crazy Eve to balance this outlandish Adam. So, Stevo, our beloved leader of sorts, approached yours truly, and I was intrigued by the Dada-esque qualities of the band. I could see the potential for anything. I was hooked. I came on board the ship of wonders, laughing and ready for untold adventures only we could create. The band grew. Sometimes there were as many as thirteen people on stage. Our pow-wows became intense. Our performances were one-of-a-kind completely improvisational stumblings of comic stupidity, strange dancing steps, vocal stretches and political screeches. We would have nights where everything created was a brilliant star shining in a galaxy beyond comprehension. The flow was spirited by our desire to just be full of release...releasing lyrics made up on the spot to music made up on the spot to interaction with an audience whose mouths were constantly mimicking the letter "O". I became....Angelica Leisure. It was my desire to approach this playland with true artistic abandon. I sang in odd voices. I reached inside my soul to find hidden words and feelings and reactions to my world around me. It felt daring and energizing to step onto a stage and see what was going to happen, to be the seeing, instead of knowing that one would be performing something already written and well-rehearsed. It was love...and it was sorrow. And it was stretching and growing and trusting each family member of The Cheese because, as Laurie Anderson so succinctly stated, we were "walking and falling". One day, Stevo and I came up with a plan. We would get tattoos. Tattoos of cheese. And everyone in the group would have one. A triangular, yellow chunk of cheese to signify our committment to art being art and nothing more. Of course, Stevo and I were the only ones that were hopping up and down with joy! How brilliant! We were giddy with the thought! Everyone else had something to do. But, Stevo and I moved on to having the tattoos applied LIVE ON STAGE! In front of a REAL AUDIENCE! And we would make music and sing about it AS IT WAS HAPPENING!!! What could be more of an art than getting art APPLIED TO YOUR SOUL while you were CREATING IT SIMULTANEOUSLY??!! We had stumbled on our calling... .....or so we thought. The night of the performance at the Pocket Sandwich Theatre, I was glittering. I was anticipating that Salvador Dali himself would appear, a ghost in the rafters, applauding and cheering our attempts at surrealism. My ghost was about to fade...something had shifted... Stevo had changed his mind. He would not be getting the tattoo. "But!", I said frantically, "Tigger is COMING! He's on his way HERE! It's all set UP!" Tigger is a Deep Ellum legendary tattoo artist. A giant, round, bald, circus-midway of a man. His head was even covered in tattoos. As a gift to the muse of our Cheese, he was coming to place the tattoos upon Stevo and I as a GIFT. "No," said a nervous Stevo. "I can not do it." I was flabbergasted! What about art? I cried. What about our vision? What about being old with our flabby, faded Cheese tattoo to remind us of what life is all about? The adventure of being,creating, living life to its fullest? I despaired. I did what any determined young artist would do. I went through with the act of being an artist being art. But I changed the vision. I went out to my car, to think. I no longer wanted to be the sole bearer of a triangle of cheese. Cheese! I didn't want cheese. I looked in my car for inspiration. And I found it. A washcloth... a washcloth with an image... TO BE CONTINUED... AND NOW...THE CONTINUATION of A Story...from the TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS file of NO WAY!!! --------a WiseGuy Aside----------- a moment aside from the MailingList WiseGuy LAST TIME YOU'LL REMEMBER... ...in part one of the story, our fearless heroine, Sara from the planet Zook, became part of a grand and glorious group of musicians called un-understandibly, "Cheese". They went on to do wonderful things and play wonderful music. To commemerate their group they ALL decided to get cheese tattoos LIVE and onstage. Well,--okay, TWO decided to get cheese tattoos.. well, okay, okay.... ONE. ONE brave soul decided to get a cheese tattoo, but, because it wasn't a GROUP thing anymore, the one brave soul decided to get, not a cheese tattoo, but soomething... a bit.. more... well, read on! ---------end of WiseGuy aside------------ THIS IS MOMENT NUMBER 5, PART TWO ... and let me say, again, that this is the wacky, surreal story in the countdown!!! Standing outside, looking at the washcloth in my hand, I realized the image was exactly what I needed to replace the cheese. I had found the washcloth, new and still wrapped in plastic, on the streets of New York. There he was. My long lost companion: Astro Boy. His face had been shining up to me as he lay there, spirit unbroken, begging to be picked up and saved from the careless streets of the Big Apple. And I had been collecting Astro Boy for many a year; it was only natural I would find him waiting for me that strange, dark night. And, now, here in the darkness of Dallas, he appeared to me again. I don't remember why he was in my car, but when I laid my eyes upon him, I knew. He would be my tattoo. I ran back inside and said, "Tigger! How about this?" Tigger almost giggled: "That? Oh, sure. No problem." With image laid out nearby, audience waiting, Tigger ready to go, the music began. The band was invigorating. My palms were sweating. The table was prepared as I layed myself flat upon my back, eyes to the crossbeams, lights and ceiling above the stage. I was wearing khakis and a men's white undershirt. (I also had on glasses a la Diane Keaton's "Annie Hall" for no apparent reason other than I thought they were saucy.) I peeled back the right corner of my khakis. With microphone in hand, I began to sing. My dear friends, Amy, Brad, Stevo, Chuckie, Kim Corbet, Larry, and perhaps John McKaa (the newsguy of News 8) were all settled around the tabletop, hands slapping out a rythym upon said table. The only way I can describe this adventure is to say I felt like I became a woman that night. Much like a bat-mitzvah is for a young girl, this was my passage, my ritual into a new me. I would encourage anyone to form a band and get a tattoo live on stage. So, I sang. I sang about changes, about life, about how getting a tattoo didn't seem to hurt at all. Unbeknownst to me, Tigger was just DRAWING Astro Boy as I was singing. I was ASSUMING he was piercing my gentle skin with the face of my Japanese buddy...but, no, the tickling sensation was merely ink upon skin. I was reaching the crescendo of my unbefore known joy, when suddenly, in the midst of a note, I heard a distinct, high-pitched whirring sound. It was the needle about to descend! My melody changed! My words became a blather as my heart raced with the sudden pain! But, I kept my wits, I continued on, my good friends. I sang about the suffering of womanhood, the anguish of love and death and as I sang, my bandmates rallied, sweating right along beside me...And the twisting of my skin was so tight. Not enough for tears, but enough to want it to STOP. For forty five minutes, I allowed Tigger to place the face of that little boy upon my abdomen. And, then...the strangest thing happened: Audience members began to descend upon me. As the band played on, as Tigger continued to draw into my skin, as I continued to wail and sweat out words that came from no where, my right ear received visitors, whispering awe-filled comments of my bravery, my dedication to art, my love for those around me. It was a ceremony beyond anything I could have made up. And, as the tattoo was finished, and the line of audience members returned to their seats, I felt a joy like I had never felt before! (I later learned this is the euphoric high we experience from the body releasing endorphins to squelch the pain!) I raised myself high upon the table, fist in the air, song in my heart, and I was the Amazon of Strength and my body felt 80 feet high. I was released and deliriously happy. 14 YEARS LATER: Now that I have two children, Astro Boy is looking a little droopy. But, he carries on as I carry him on through the days of what is to be and has been. Amen.

MOMENT NUMBER 4 from my TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS When I left you last in our storytelling bonanza, I had shared the show in which I received a tattoo, live on stage! This moment is much more demure, but unbelievably sweet, to say the least. If you have my DVD ("I Am Going On A Journey"), you can see the actual moment in which the following story occurred!!! Let's start at the very beginning... As a young girl, I would walk to Edward H. White, my elementary school in Houston, TX, approximately ten blocks away from my home. I recall walking with other girls my age, and we, naturally, would talk about boys. Famous boys. Famous boys who were dreamy and whose posters we hung on our walls. Boys who put out records that we would buy with our allowance money and swoon over, pretending we were Mrs. Shaun Cassidy or Mrs. Rex Smith... Anyway, you get the picture. One day, as were walking to school, my girlfriends were talking about whom they had chosen to love the rest of their lives, when I blurted out, "Well, I'm NEVER getting married...I'm just going to live with George Burns!" You would have thought I would have just invited them over for brocolli and tea. The look on their faces was pure horror. Well, when I got home that day, I told my mom I wanted to write George Burns. So, we went to the library to find his mailing address. Back in those days, it was so exciting to ask the librarian: Do you have the address for George Burns? She made a big deal of finding this GIANT book, full of celebrity contact info. I thought I would faint when she exclaimed, "Here it is!" So, I wrote George. But, I also sent him photographs of myself. And a map to my home. I invited him to dinner, and I SWORE I wouldn't tell a SOUL he was coming to visit. We popped it in the mail, the envelope decorated with my cheery drawings. And we waited. And we waited. And soon, I forgot all about it. One day, I came home from school, and my mom was practically tipsy: "It's here! It's here!" She was dancing around, holding an envelope in her hand, asking if she could open it. "What?" I asked. "What is here?" "THE LETTER!" she enthused. "THE LETTER...from GEORGE BURNS!" With that, I pursued my mom around the house until the letter was safely in MY hands, at which point I carefully, thoughtfully slipped a finger under the back seal where GEORGE BURNS (complete with address!) in maroon ink was embossed on the back of the envelope. The letter was glorious. I was so happy... I must have re-read and re-read that letter 8,000 times. Even though he told me he wasn't coming to Houston any time soon, he thought I was a GOOD LOOKING KID and he CERTAINLY APPRECIATED the MAP!!! Can you believe it? But, wait...there's more! So, I wrote him, again. And he wrote me back. Then, years passed. I was asked to appear on the PAT SAJAK SHOW (also available on my DVD, "I Am Going on A Journey", proceeds going to the Klein Foundation). The Sajak people tried to get George on the show, but he couldn't come. They surprised me with some of George's stationary (hellooooo, already have some!), a CIGAR (which I later busted on Pat's head when he slyly suggested where I could PUT the cigar, after the cameras were off!), and a signed book by Mr. Burns. But, wait!!!! YOU GET EVEN MORE...and no, there are NO ginsu knives involved! So, George's manager sees me on the show with Pat. He calls the record company and says, "Say, if this kid loves George so much, send her over to MEET HIM." I am not KIDDING!!!! Next thing you know, two weeks later...I'm in a limo on my way to meet GEORGE BURNS! I have my guitar. I have flowers (it was almost George's birthday). I have on my little 1920's look-a-like suit because I want to remind him of Gracie. I'm even in HEELS! I wobble towards his office, completely off my rocker with GLEE! Have you ever felt nervous when you are introduced to someone famous???? Imagine my insides!!! I was a bowl of jello! (You'd think I'd be a bowl full of stars, much like I was on "Spiritual Appliances", release date 2000)... Well, it was perfect. I was a freaky, star struck kid. He was tiny and funny and sharp as a tack. He sat in a directors chair. I don't know what I was doing! Thank God it was all videotaped because I just enjoyed the ride...and the MIRACLE of meeting my HERO! We sang a little, he taught me a new lyric, we hugged at the end, we had our picture taken together.... Oh, my, Oh my, oh, yes! Dreams come true...Don't you know that they're worth, every penny on earth... And do you know the best part? The best part was seeing that he was completely himself...smoking a cigar and drinking his gin & tonic when he had to be about 3000 years old... but he was living, man! He was living life with gusto, and he allowed one more fan to come and sit by his side and just BE. And I got to send proof via photos to my grandparents. And that was a beautiful thing. You know what I mean.

MOMENT NUMBER 3 in the musical moment countdown AND NOW...A Musical Moment With Sara I was working with a group called A.R.T.S for People, a therapeutic arts/music/dance program working within hospitals, retirement homes, pysch units, hospices, and city facilities (like MHMR). I became involved in the program, in Dallas, right after graduating college. I was living with my great aunt in Garland, had little money, few friends, and working in a shoe store during the day. Life was very quiet at the time. During this quiet period of my life, I had some major personal chaos and emotional traumas that were hurtful and confusing. I became more and more depressed, finally admitting myself to a psych unit in Lewisville for fear my depression would lead to suicide. I felt very, very alone in the world. The center was peaceful, and the therapists were consistent and demanding. I kept a journal. I ate three meals a day. I had time to think about the abusive relationship I was in, and the space I needed to figure out why I was in it. I learned so much, yet it didn't all come together for me in that one week. It took years to unravel my feelings and behaviours...so this was really the beginning to understanding who I was. (By the way, if anyone out there is reading this and has a fear of admitting yourself for help to a clinic, let me just say this: it is NOTHING to be ashamed of. In fact, it was the greatest gift I could ever give to myself, and to those who love me, then and now.) So, as I left the unit, a friend said, "Maybe you would enjoy A.R.T.S." I wrote to the founder, Margery Clive, and before I knew it, I was a part of the program. I was creating music/art therapy programs that I would specialize for children in burn units, folks with Alzheimers, AIDS patients, you name it. It was a learning experience in how music/art could expand an individual's healing. And, in the process, it was helping me to heal, too, by concentrating on others and not myself. Many of these experiences have turned into songs... for example, "Secret Family" is about a man I worked with who had thrown himself in front of a train. His decision cost him both legs, an arm, and his head was in traction, surrounded by a metal halo. The anger this man felt radiated from his hospital room before I even entered it. I don't know if I gave a single thing to that man that day, but his hatred toward self was overwhelmingly upsetting to me. I have never forgotten the look in his eyes when we met. It is a ghost I can't erase. But, generally, my experiences with patients was life affirming, for both of us. Here is where I want to share two stories with you about those days. The first is about a little boy, perhaps two years of age. He had been a healthy child until he fell down some stairs and lost both his hearing and his sight. Now he was shrouded in darkness and silence. No one could reach him. His frustration was evident as he sat on a playmat near a wall in a dayroom. He was slowly bouncing on his seat out of boredom. I approached him with my guitar, alone, the two of us. I sat down next to him and reached my hand out to calmly stroke his right arm. To let him know I was there. He angrily pulled his arm away. I was scared. I wasn't sure how to approach this dilemma...how would I reach this child? How could I let him know others cared for him, that he could still have contact in this world? Immediately, I thought of Helen Keller touching the water and understanding, "W-A-T-E-R" as it was spelled in the palm of her hand. I had an idea. I sat as close to the little boy as I could. I continued to softly touch his arm until he calmed down. Finally, I guided his hand to my guitar; I laid it upon the wood. I quickly struck up the song "TEQUILA", only because I knew it had a strong rhythm, and magic struck. The little boy stopped his wiggling. He felt the music traveling up his arm, into his mind and heart. His eyes grew wide, and he started to laugh. His body began to sway in time to the guitar, and I was yelling out to the nurses and doctors, "Come quickly! Hurry!" and soon the room was clapping and smiling with onlookers who understood the breakthrough. I tell you: it was the face of God that day, to see how that little boy understood he was not alone. How much I loved my guitar and the heartbeat of song! Another day...and many of you have heard this story, but I would like to tell it again. Please bear with me if you have heard it from stage... I was asked to visit with a woman who was bedridden. She had endured a stroke, and was paralyzed down the right side of her body, face to feet. She also had aphasia, which paralyzes speaking to murmurs, grunts and growls, although, generally, the person attempting to speak is still mentally capable of thought. Can you imagine the frustration? The room was soft with late afternoon sun. I sat upon the side of the woman's bed and quietly sang a few songs. I talked in between songs, just calming conversation about my name, the day, the like. Before long, the woman was attempting to speak back. She was becoming frustrating, and I put my guitar up on the other bed, leaning over to hold her hand and place my ear to her lips. "Try again," I said. I could not understand her! She grunted something else, and I didn't want to let her down. I kept repeating, gently, to try again, that I wanted to understand. Finally, as I thought she would burst from the word within her mind, I captured a fuzzy comprehension... she had said, "I love you." "I love you, too," I said. I held her hand and stroked her long, wise fingers, and there we were, two women, complete strangers, connected by love. That memory became the song "Aurora", which took me the longest to write of any song I have ever written. I worked on that song for six months, struggling, myself, trying to find the words to capture our moment together. Thank you, Aurora, for your kindness.

AND NOW...#2 in the TOP TWENTY MUSICAL MOMENTS! Washington, DC...The Barns at Wolftrap...1998... Touring with Tish Hinojosa, I was staying with my dear brother, Carlton, and his fantastic wife, Celeste, while preparing for the show in D.C. Tish and I were sharing the tour/stage: telling stories, singing songs, roaming the U.S. and creating hilarity, hope and poignancy through music. This was definately a girl tour...although there wasn't enough shopping going on, and no one was getting their toes painted...Tish and I were sharing lots of good conversation and discussions about love, life and loss. Looking back, I seem to remember snow, but, perhaps, I'm just romanticizing the memory. But, let's say there was snow. Lots of snow. Snow falling from the heavens, swirling out of the nighttime sky, tiny white polka dots twirling past my face and falling onto the tip of my tongue...cold and fresh. Maybe I was wearing ski boots (with fake fur) and a parka. Oh. And a long, multi-striped knit cap with one of those fuzzy yarn balls at the end. And toe socks. And a vest with pearl buttons...And a muffler for my hands. Gray colored, like a ferret rolled up around the fingers. (Ok. I was just dressed in jeans, but snow sure sounds good when it's summertime in Texas and I'm trying to be creative in a newsletter!) So...snow...DC...Tish...concert that night...my brother, Carlton, pops me, Celeste and my boyfriend, Lance, into the car. Lance had flown up to DC to join up with us on the tour. (ISN'T THAT ROMANTIC RIGHT THERE!? Ahhhh...) We decide to stop by a mall before the concert. Lance and Carlton go off to browze a cigar shop. Celeste, who is one of the best women you could ever want to know---funny, flexible, adventurous, loyal, smart--follows me as I zoom towards a jewelry store. WAIT! you may be asking yourself: Hey. What has this got to do with a TOP 20 MUSICAL MOMENT!? Hold on, there, brethren! It's a-comin'...the musical part, that is...I promise! Haven't I delivered 18 other ones previous? Don't you trust me by now? Calm down....breathe...aah...that's right...now release...yes... There...everyone's calmer...calm...hmm.... NOW BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED NEWSLETTER MUSICAL MOMENT!!! Celeste and I walk into the store. We are on a mission. We only have 20 minutes before we MUST leave the mall and we MUST get to Wolftrap for my show. (Accent on MUST. Be. There. On. Time.) You see, I needed to buy Lance a ring. I knew he was the one. I had no doubt. I wanted to ask him THE QUESTION. But, in order to ask him THE QUESTION, I needed THE RING. The lady behind the counter asks, "Can I help you?" "Yes, " I say, breathless from running three miles of mall to find the only jewelry store. "YES! I need a ring!" "What would you be looking for?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at me, as if I'm carrying a hammer and might smash the glass display at any moment. As if I have an octopus for a head. "It's right over here," I point. I walk down the counter to a ring Celeste and I have been cooing over. Again, I point into the case, and I look up, obviously excited, into the woman's face. "I want this ring for my fiance!" It was my first time to say the word... The woman looks at me as if I am insane. "M'am," she says with disdain, "That is a woman's ring." "Oh, yes, I see...Hmm. Well, good, good. However, it's fine. I'll take it," I smile, excited about what is meant to be in only a few hours time. "No," she responds. "That ring is not for a man. It is for a woman," she commands. "That's ok. I love it. It's the one I want for him..." Now, I'm starting to feel that there is going to be a tug of war. She's from the old country. Women do not call men, let alone give them rings. Not only does she think I'm a nut to give a man a ring, but I'm giving him a GIRLY RING! Ee-gads. I sense her brain swelling over my huge social faux pas. She wants to flog me. Death is imminent. I will not make my show. I'm feeling slightly panicked. Celeste steps in. She asks if we can just SEE the ring. The saleswoman gives us the evil eye, but takes it out of the case, placing the black velvet draping atop the counter, the ring situated, delicately, smack dab in the middle. It is a white gold with a single diamond embedded precisely in the center. An elegant, simple ring for my handsome husband-to-be. I ask if I can hold it. The woman's eyes are buggy. She takes a deep breath and actually says, "If you must..." (Didn't people used to WANT to sell you something? Weren't they just dripping with glee, happy to sell SELL SELL?!) I pick the ring up. I place the ring on my finger. It is beautiful, and sparkles happily, whispering to me, "Don't let her dissuade you. You know what you're doing...Buy me! Take me with you..." I tell her I'll take it. After Celeste administers CPR and picks the woman up off the floor, I pay for the ring, and ask for a box. She shoves a box, with contents, towards me, and we fly out the door. We meet up with the boys, cram into the car, and rush towards my show... Backstage at Wolftrap is like having your own apartment with lots of comfy, CLEAN sofas. (I emphasize clean because if you've ever done a show at Tippatina's in New Orleans, you would appreciate what Wolftrap has provided!) Not only are there lots of places to relax, but there are showers, bathrooms, and tons of food and drink. So, by the time you reach the stage, you're sleepy and full! On this night, Tish had brought in a band. So, there were lots of musicians meandering the hallways, waiting to get on stage with us. Finally, the moment had arrived. The audience was hushed and respectful. The house lights went down. Tish and I appeared on stage, singing songs...chatting...finally, the time was right. I asked Lance to join me on stage to sing "Take Me With You," the song about my grandmother, Martha, dying and my grandfather, Allan, wanting to go with her...Lance and I sang the song, and the room was charged with emotion. The song ended, and before Lance could return to his seat, I asked him to stay...and then I told him, with the audience as our witness, how much my grandparents meant to me. How they had made music together all their lives, and now that Lance and I were singing about them, he and I should go on making music together, too....And then I pulled the little white box out from behind my back and asked if he would marry me.... There was a beautiful gasp from the audience and Lance said "yes" and then it all becomes a blurry blur for me because the house lights came up and I was kissing Lance and there was the roar of hands coming together... The only other thing I remember about that night is that the ring had to go on Lance's pinky (it was a woman's ring, remember?) and that Peter Zimmerman, who runs Wolftrap, brought us a bottle of champagne to celebrate. Ah, sweet love!

NUMBER 1 MOMENT IN THE TOP TWENTY COUNTDOWN 1996...kerrville folk festival...it is hot, hot, hot and the sky is dark, dark, dark. there, out in the darkness, sitting on wooden benches and chairs and blankets and dancing barefoot in the dirt, i can hear the rustling of an audience, enjoying the music, enjoying the night. it is time. rod is calling to us. "time to come up," he is saying. time to cross the line of hu du man, the invisible line that the japanese believe exists between back stage and out front. crossing that line, you become someone more than yourself. you become the muse. before i even cross that line, i have changed. it has been a long year of joy and confusion and sorrow. i am no longer just a musician, but a woman who has recently had her first child. a woman who has been singing to the new life inside her, feeling the pulse of jubilation, the thrust of expansion, elbows and knees and occassional hiccups...growing from a hippie chick to a person who has come to understand the circle of life takes precedence over every nuance. being a mother changed me for the better. i am walking on to a stage, ready to sing, ready to enjoy this night. my baby is asleep in the arms of my dear friend, diana, in the little house backstage. i feel strong, i feel elated. the music is shared, and i am bouncing. the applause is resounding. i am elated, yet, in the midst of rod's calling for me to return for an encore, i hear a high-pitched sound that makes every fiber in my being ache, it causes me to snap to attention and look, feverishly, through the groups milling around for the person attached to it...where is my baby? why is she crying? the applause has woken her up, she is frightened. diana has come to the sidelines, she is holding lily, looking to me, and i cross to her faster than lightening. rod is getting impatient, understandably, asking me to come out and do one more song. i can not leave my child. rod is staring at me...."COME ON," his eyes are shouting. i make a decision. i walk to the microphone. my heart is beating a thousand miles, my child is calm, content, on my shoulder. her eyes are open, but her trust is immediate. we are connected. i am standing, alone, with my baby. i am looking out into the waiting night. everyone calms down. i ask a question. i ask the audience to help me. i say to them, "thank you" and how wonderful this honor has been, to be on this stage. i ask them to help me as my baby has woken up, the sound of hands clapping too much for tiny ears. i explain that i will sing one more song, would they be willing not to clap at the end? it is hard, to hold one's applause: it is what we, as a society, know and understand to do...to share with an artist our delight in their having shared with us their gifts...and, speaking as a musician, it is a feeling of great accomplishment to know the audience is happy, that they are with you in this vulnerable condition. i don't know how many people were there that night. i have been told 6,000 people were in the fields, waiting. i can not tell you. but i can tell you this. singing "it's alright", singing with all my heart, with a new heart on my chest, beating silently into sleep, and looking out into that good night was a memory i shall cherish forever. it was the audience's gift to me...as the last note slipped from my lips, i held on as long as i could, and then, gently, without disturbing my daughter, placed a solitary finger to my lips...and not a hand stirred. not one person clapped, or called out...we were united, the friends of music and me...and it was the lullaby of all peoples, to feel the love from all around, to hear the crickets chirping. to know that this song was carried out on the wind into only god knows where, but the moment was ours and ours alone. what an astounding blessing.