If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer's head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.

With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.

Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home town, Florence.

Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.

In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.

The blues - the sound of a sinner on revival day.

Life is like a trumpet - if you don't put anything into it, you don't get anything out of it.