Cash: Autobiography by Johnny Cash & Patrick Carr

Author:Johnny Cash & Patrick Carr [Cash, Johnny & Carr, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Biography & Autobiography, United States, Biography, Music, Composers & Musicians, Personal Memoirs, Genres & Styles, Country musicians - United States, Cash; Johnny, Country musicians, Country & Bluegrass
ISBN: 9780060727536
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2003-10-16T22:56:38+00:00

Part 4 Don Aqua

1 I'm pottering about the house, as the English would say. I've been on tour again—Prague, Dresden, Diisseldorf, Oslo, Bergen, Bourges, Paris, Munich, Graz, Vienna, London, Berlin, Hamburg—and now I'm back home. As I usually do when I get off the road, I've packed my little suitcase and come on out to the farm to be by myself. Peggy Knight, our housekeeper, drove me out and readied the farmhouse for my stay, but now she's back in Hendersonville at the house on Old Hickory Lake, and for the first time in thirty days I'm all by myself. This is a great place for pottering. I can cook my own food, read my own books, tend my own garden, wander my own land. I can think, write, compose, study, rest, and reflect in peace. I can talk to myself. “Okay,” I can say, “where do you want to put this book of eighteenth-century hymns you found at Foyle's in London? Is it going to go in with the poetry books, or with the antiques you never look at?” “The poetry books, I think. Then I might pull it out and read it sometime.” “Are you sure about that? Remember what you paid for it. You really don't want to be handling it too much.” “Okay. I'll put it in the antiques.” “Good. That's settled. Are you hungry?” “Well, I certainly could be.” “Peggy left you that apple pie she baked, you know. That would be just about perfect right now, wouldn't it?”

“Oh, yes, it sure would. Wait a minute, though. What did I have for breakfast? Eggs, country ham, home fries, fresh-made biscuits with butter and jam? What's a big old slice of that pie, eight hundred calories?” “About that, yes. You don't care, though, do you?” “No, you're right, I don't, so .. . No, no, no. I'm going to care next time I put on my stage pants.” “All right. Later, maybe. Okay?” “Sure. Good idea.” And so on. The creative process to which my mind is sometimes open happens, usually, without dialogue. It's the more mundane stuff, where the ego meets the daily road, that makes up my internal chit-chat. I'll just go on pottering. The poetry shelves in my library have caught my eye. The kind of poetry I really love is the corny stuff: the epic poem about Columbus, I forget its title, that we read in high school—“Before him not the ghost of land / Before him only shoreless seas”— and in the last verse, after sailing on and on and on, there's “a light, a light, a lamp!” and he's found America. How that thrilled me. I love Emily Dickinson, too. Sometimes I go a little deeper, into Edna St. Vincent Millay, or Milton; as much as I can stand, that is, until my brain gets tired. What I really enjoy is the Bible. I love to set myself a test, give myself something to study. I find a passage I

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