BACKSTORY: This story is loosely based on Johnny Cash’s “Tennessee Flat Top Box,” which he recorded in 1961 and his daughter Rosanne recorded in 1987 on her Kings’ Record Shop album. When I was a kid this was one of my favorite songs on the radio. I was intrigued with the kid and his guitar and I was thrilled when he made it to the Hit Parade!
I WASN’T FORBIDDEN TO GO THERE, it was just an understood rule of the house that as a teenage girl, I shouldn’t go to the County Line Club because something might happen.
I didn’t know exactly what that “something” might be; I was just going to the club to listen to music. Well, truth be told, I went mostly to look at the kid playing guitar. He didn’t look old enough to be there, but he was with the band so that made the difference with him. I was the underage teenager who snuck in through the back door because a friend of mine waitressed there and the owner kind of overlooked me if I sat quietly at a side table and was as invisible as Roger Rabbit.
This kid, his name was Sammy, was something else. Tall, dark hair, crooked smile that just lit up his face when and if he smiled, which seemed only to happen when he hit just the right lick on that shiny red guitar. He couldn’t have been much older than me, maybe eighteen, and the rest of the men in the band were older guys, at least in their thirties, but he could play the hell out of that guitar. Even someone like me, who knew very little about music, could hear that.
I knew beyond a doubt that the majority of the women in the club came to just look at Sammy. He was, without question, one of the most gorgeous guys I had ever seen. Yet it went beyond looks . . . there was something about his attitude, the way he carried himself, the way he looked right through you from the stage, yet made you feel that he was looking into your very soul. I read in one of the fan magazines that it was called stage presence, or charisma, and that stars like Elvis and Chuck Berry and Patsy Cline had it. I couldn’t imagine any of them having more stage presence than Sammy . . . when someone you didn’t know could make you feel like they were reading your entire soul with one look, well, that was pretty powerful charisma.
I know my folks must have suspected where I was going every weekend, even though I used the excuse of football games or parties at friend’s homes. And my sudden interest in Johnny Cash, Hank Williams, and Jim Reeves instead of the rock and roll I usually listened to was also a dead giveaway. Yeah, they knew, but for some reason they had resigned themselves to letting my newfound fascination run its course. Maybe they figured I was only a few months away from legally walking into County Line, so why create controversy in the family.
I can’t tell you when it happened, but one night I realized that Sammy was watching me. At first I thought I was imagining the glances coming my way. But no, he was watching me almost as intently as I usually watched him. The hair on my neck stood straight up when I realized what was going on but I talked it down right away, figuring he just noticed me because I was about his age. The feeling came back when, at break, Sammy gently wiped off his guitar, put it on its special stand, and headed straight for me.
“Hi.”
I knew he was speaking to me but I could barely catch my breath when he offered the one syllable greeting.
“Anyone sitting here?” The question had an obvious answer; I was always there by myself.
I managed to shake my head so he pulled out the chair and sat down.
“I’m Sammy,” he said, offering me his hand, the one that so lovingly caressed his guitar.
“I’m Cheyenne. . . . Hi.” I shook his outstretched hand and quickly let go, a move that brought a slow smile to his face.
“You’re here a lot,” he continued, making another obvious statement; I had been here every weekend for three months now.
“Yeah, I like . . . uh, the music,” I replied, thinking to myself that there was no way I could ever admit to coming here to see him.
My friend the waitress came by and gave me an obvious stare. Sammy asked for a Coke and indicated she should fill my glass as well. With a slight toss of her head, which wasn’t lost on me, she walked away to fill the order. I knew she wouldn’t tell my folks, but I knew I would be in for a round of questions tomorrow.
“So are you from around here?” Sammy questioned.
“Yeah, I live off Farm Route 1155,” I answered. “What about you?”
“Well, I come from over around Parsons Bend,” he replied. “Got me a job pickin’ with this band, so my grandpa lets me come over here with them to play. He don’t like it too much, me playin’ in a beer joint, but he lets me ’cause we need the money.”
“That’s pretty far to come,” I said, understanding then why I hadn’t recognized him as one of the local kids. “What does your mom think about it?”
His face clouded for a minute and I was instantly sorry I had asked that question.
“My mom and dad were killed a couple years ago in a car wreck,” he said. “I better get back onstage,” he added, nodding toward the rest of the guys making their way toward the front of the room. “Maybe I’ll see you again.”
Thousands of thoughts ran through my mind the rest of the night as I sat and watched him. Now I knew why he was so intense and why he didn’t smile. I knew why the blues numbers seemed to be his favorite even though the band favored country music; I knew why he played so passionately on all the sad songs.
Sammy started coming to my table during all the breaks. We’d sit and talk—well, he did most of the talking. He told me he had started playing guitar after his parents were killed. “I could make it say all the bad things I was feelin’ inside,” he said. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over losin’ them but music has helped me get through it.”
One night he asked me about my dreams and plans. I told him I guessed I’d be in Boulder Ridge forever, just like my older sister. She got married right out of high school and already had two kids. I didn’t think she would ever realize her dream of being a fancy magazine editor.
“Well, I’m not staying around here,” he told me. “I’m gonna play music and to get a record deal I’m gonna have to go to Memphis or Nashville or maybe even New York. Music will be my ticket to see the world, and it will be my ticket to makin’ enough money to support my grandparents so they won’t have to ever work that farm again.”
I told him he was definitely good enough to get a record deal and he just looked at me in a way that made my heart jump. “I’m sure gonna try,” he said.
A few weeks later, when Sammy sat down at my table, he was more excited than I’d ever seen him. With a country-and-western music magazine in his hand, he showed me an ad that invited unknown singers to come to an audition in Austin.
“I have to go,” he said.
“How are you gonna get there?” I asked. Austin was more than 100 miles away and I knew his grandpa would never let him drive that far.
“I’ll catch the bus or I’ll hitchhike,” he said defensively. “It don’t matter just as long as I get there.”
Sure enough, Sammy got a bus ticket and went to Austin for the auditions. I wasn’t surprised; I knew if he didn’t get there he would just have died inside. I waited anxiously for his return. Half of my heart wanted him to be discovered; the other half wanted him to stay right there at the club.
I was almost afraid to go in the club that Friday, but there he was onstage. When he saw me he waved and grinned, and at break he walked over to the table and sat down. By now my friend knew just to bring him a Coke and leave us alone.
“Well, how did it go?” I asked.
“The guy said he liked me and he wanted me to come to Nashville to record a couple songs, but I had to pay him $500,” Sammy answered. “I didn’t have $500 and another guy did so he went to Nashville.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, putting my hand on his. “I’m really sorry.”
Suddenly I realized I was practically holding his hand and started to pull mine away when he turned his over and held onto mine. My heart stopped as he looked intently into my eyes.
“I’ll make it,” he said. “I just have to. It’s the only thing in this whole world that I care anything about . . . except my grandparents and you.”
My breathing came to a halt and all I could do was look at him as his words burned into my heart and mind. I couldn’t even think about what he might mean by that statement and I sure wasn’t going to ask.
“If I do make it,” he continued, “you can come out with me once I get things going.” The grip on his hand tightened around mine and he leaned forward, asking in a voice just above a whisper, “Would you want to do that?”
I nodded, still unable to catch my breath enough to speak, and he gave me one of those smiles. “I’d like that.”
The next few weeks were uneventful compared to that night, except that Sammy and I celebrated my eighteenth birthday by actually going to the burger place down the street before the music got underway at the club. I guess you could say it was our first official date. We shared one more thing that evening . . . he walked me to my car and he kissed me goodnight. It was our first kiss. I didn’t remember driving home but I did arrive there safe and sound.
As weeks turned into months, the excitement of the trip to Austin faded away but the dream was still alive. Sammy wrote a song for me called “Girl from Boulder Ridge.” Finally I got up enough nerve to introduce him to my family and they actually liked him, though they weren’t too thrilled that he was playing music in a bar.
“He’s good,” my dad admitted after they had come to see him one Saturday, “but he’ll never make any money singing in bars. You better talk some sense into him if you want any stability in your future.”
I just smiled; I knew I would never be able to talk any sense into Sammy when it came to his music. He was determined to become a star and he wanted me to be there by his side. It sounded glamorous and exciting and I was ready to go with him whenever he asked.
A few Saturday nights later I went into the bar and my friend motioned me over. “Sammy’s not here,” she whispered. “There’s some other guy that’s setting up his guitar.”
I whirled around and stared, sure she was wrong. She wasn’t.
“Do you know, does anyone know. . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“No,” she said. “I asked the band leader and he said Sammy just didn’t show up for a show and his grandparents told him Sammy had left to go to Nashville.”
Once again my heart stopped. I couldn’t believe he would leave without telling me. I couldn’t believe all the things he’d said to me had been lies.
Weeks went by, then months. I couldn’t eat and I wasn’t getting much sleep. I thought about what Sammy was doing in Nashville; if he had found anyone who would listen to his songs. Maybe he was playing at some club and there was another girl who had caught his eye. The only thing that helped me get through the nights was the country music I had come to love. One night I was in my room, trying to read but mostly thinking about Sammy, when I heard a voice on the radio that caught my attention. It was new and different and achingly familiar.
The singer and the song played through, and the deejay said, “Folks, that is a new kid out of Texas named Sammy Blanchard. It’s his first record, and we think it’s gonna be a hit. You folks call in and let us know what you think.
“I’ll tell you what I think,” the deejay continued. “He can play a mean guitar and he’s only eighteen. I think this kid will hit the big time if he keeps at it.”
Time kept ticking by and I had the radio on every minute of the day. I would hear Sammy’s record but he didn’t get in touch. Since I couldn’t see him, hearing his voice and his pickin’ were as good as it got. I finally reconciled myself to the fact that he wasn’t gonna come back for me and that he’d never meant it when he told me he would.
A few months later some friends had persuaded me to go to a movie with them. My folks were listening to the Grand Ole Opry from Nashville. I stuck my head in the living room to tell them we might stop for burgers after the movie when I heard the Grand Ole Opry announcer say, “Folks, we’ve got a special treat for you tonight. Sammy Blanchard is making his Grand Ole Opry debut and I want you to make him feel welcome.”
I froze in my tracks. Sammy sang his hit song and then he said, “I’m gonna sing a song I just cut for my album that should be out in another couple of months. It’s about a special person and I hope she’s listening.”
When he hit the first note I knew it was “Girl from Boulder Ridge.” When he finished singing the crowd went wild. The announcer could hardly make his voice heard over the applause so he could talk to Sammy.
“Well, that was historic,” the announcer told Sammy. “I don’t think anyone has received that many standing ovations since Hank came on and sang ‘Lovesick Blues.’ You’re quite a singer. Now you said that last song was for someone special—do you want to send a message to her if she’s listening?”
“She must be pretty important,” the deejay said.
“That she is,” Sammy agreed as I sat down abruptly, not quite believing what I was hearing. “Cheyenne, if you’re listening, I want you to know I still want you out here with me and I’ll be seeing you soon.”
VERNELL HACKETT is a freelance journalist in Nashville, Tennessee, who has covered the Nashville music scene for a number of magazines, including Country Weekly, Classic Country & Western Music Magazine, The Home Services Guide, Bluegrass Unlimited, American Cowboy, Billboard Magazine, Country Song Roundup, Working Cowboy, and Venues Today. A native of Riesel, Texas, Vernell moved to Nashville in 1973 to write articles about country music. She has interviewed many country, bluegrass, western, and Christian artists, including Johnny Cash, Garth Brooks, Michael W. Smith, Dolly Parton, Brad Paisley, Don Edwards, Del McCoury, Willie Nelson, George Strait, Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Merle Haggard, Michael Martin Murphey, Waddie Mitchell, Reba McEntire, Trisha Yearwood, Stephen Curtis Chapman, Amy Grant, Larry Stephenson, LeAnn Rimes, Alan Jackson, Montgomery Gentry, and Hanna McEuen. Vernell helped establish American Songwriter magazine in 1984, which she edited until 2004. She graduated from Sam Houston State University in Huntsville, Texas, with a BS degree in journalism. Vernell has written about a variety of subjects during her career, including music, art and entertainment, travel, pets, food, legislation, characters, home décor, crafts, history, video, and business.