The Book I Keep Trying to Write (Holly Schindler)
I had the strangest assortment of music teachers: Mrs. Webber, wife of a minister who played piano in the church (and was seriously offended when I brought "She Bop" sheet music in as a seven-year-old student) AND Bill Brown, a local guitar player who (at the time I met him) was playing with the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. Bill Brown (1960-2004) I've written briefly about Bill teaching me to play guitar. I was an actual fan when I came in for lessons. Imagine suddenly being face-to-face with a guitar hero you'd listened to for hours, poring over their liner notes. I'd seen him play around town, the first time at the annual John Lennon tribute here in Springfield. I was sort of beside myself when I found out he taught out of a music store on the north side of town. You can bet I signed up. Knees knocking the entire way. Bill was hilarious and sweet. Which make me less nervous, of course. But I have often said that I have never, not once, been in a room with anyone...
