Nashville Quotes

I was in Nashville, Tennessee last year. After the show I went to a Waffle House. I'm not proud of it, I was hungry. And I'm alone, I'm eating and I'm reading a book, right? Waitress walks over to me: 'Hey, whatcha readin' for?' Isn't that the weirdest fuckin' question you've ever heard? Not what am I reading, but what am I reading FOR? Well, goddamnit, ya stumped me! Why do I read? Well . . . hmmm...I dunno...I guess I read for a lot of reasons and the main one is so I don't end up being a fuckin' waffle waitress.

I could get drunk and run around Nashville naked. But I won't because I want to set a good example for my fans. I think they deserve to have a role model.

When I was in Nashville, I went to our Macy's and went and tried on all the Hannah Montana stuff. Then I said, 'This is weird, I'm wearing my face.

Nashville has always been competitive. My granddaddy called it the Hillbilly Babylon.

I’m currently between assignments and was looking for a change. I heard there was work in Nashville and it seemed like a good place to start over. So here I am stuck in the freezing cold with a…serial killer. Has the making for a great horror movie, huh? (Leta)

Being Jesus means that we go through life embracing it all fully and feeling it all deeply. That we don’t hide and try to protect ourselves. That we live. That we show up. That we laugh. That we cry. That we hurt. That we heal. That we care. That we love. And then, that we wake up the next morning and sign up for it all over again.

What the hell am I doing in Nashville? What – you want me to shoot Minnie Pearl? (Steele)

Maybe being Jesus is simply seeing people as they truly are.

It’s not our job to make people like us if they don’t want to. It’s not our job to change people. That’s beyond our control. But what you CAN control is how you respond to it.

It’s odd how you can know someone for such a short period of time and yet feel like you’ve always been there with them.

You’re still several calamities short of a country song, Jordan. If your truck breaks down or your dog dies, I’ll put in a call to Nashville for you. In the meantime, suck it up.

I'm in love with Dr. Lowe," I said abruptly. My mom paused, arched one eyebrow, and set the bands on my nightstand. "Oh, Cassidy, I know. I figured that out watching you two in recovery.

Funny how often something she'd been so certain she needed turned out not to be a need at all, but a want--when the real 'need' was something else entirely. Something that could only be gained by giving, not by getting.

But don't forget, opinions are like assholes, everyone has one, and most of them are just full of shit." - Lacey

Lucy, I want so much more with you...but I can't give you anything besides friendship right now.

I’m guessing it has something to do with that paragraph-long text she sent me—the one I’ve literally read thirty times because it’s so freaking cute I can’t stand it.

When she finally found her way onto the Trace, the sun was rising and, with it, her spirits. The Natchez Trace Parkway, a two lane road slated, when finished to run from Nashville, Tennessee, to Natchez, Mississippi, had been the brainchild of the Ladies' Garden Clubs in the South. Besides preserving a unique part of the nations past,...the Trace would not be based on spectacular scenery but would conserve the natural and agricultural history of Mississippi.

I meant that the hatred of that July day in Nashville was alive and well on that horrible day in Pittsburgh. People hate others so they strike like snakes. It’s all connected—we’re all connected, bumping around into each other, some of us good, some bad, most a mixture. Every thought acted upon has consequences. Every one.

here’s the thing about people you admire speaking into your life: sometimes you trust their opinion of yourself more than your own. But just because they say it, doesn’t make it true, and I’m done letting him tell me who I am.

Jessie is starting to make sense to me, and she’s only becoming more beautiful as she comes into focus.

What’s the point of having an incredible salary if you can’t spoil someone with it?

Oh, trust me, Wyatt’s not exempt. There’s a reason he never brings girls home. He did it once when he was nineteen. Poor girl spent the weekend being interrogated by my husband and then flew back to Nashville and never spoke to Wyatt again.

I turn around and face my mom. “I’ve never asked too much of you, Mom, but today, I need you to run me over with your car.” She curls her lips inward, making a cooky smile, and pats the side of my arm. “Did someone make a bad decision last night on her date?

don’t think everyone is meant to have careers that change the world. Sometimes you’ve just gotta pay the bills and then clock out so you can get to the life you love the most, which, for me, is being with Levi.

But it’s not just Lucy’s skin, hair, and eyes that contribute to her beauty. It’s every smile, every laugh, every little thing she does for her son and did for me when I was sick. It’s all of it. I meant it when I said I thought Lucy was the complete package. She’s too good to be true.

CAPT. J. W. SIMMONS, master of the steamship Pensacola, had just as little regard for weather as the Louisiana’s Captain Halsey. He was a veteran of eight hundred trips across the Gulf and commanded a staunch and sturdy ship, a 1,069-ton steel-hulled screw-driven steam freighter built twelve years earlier in West Hartlepool, England, and now owned by the Louisville and Nashville Railroad Company. Friday morning the ship was docked at the north end of 34th Street, in the company of scores of other ships, including the big Mallory liner Alamo, at 2,237 tons, and the usual large complement of British ships, which on Friday included the Comino, Hilarius, Kendal Castle, Mexican, Norna, Red Cross, Taunton, and the stately Roma in from Boston with its Captain Storms. As the Pensacola’s twenty-one-man crew readied the ship for its voyage to the city of Pensacola on Florida’s Gulf Coast, two men came aboard as Captain Simmons’s personal guests: a harbor pilot named R. T. Carroll and Galveston’s Pilot Commissioner J. M. O. Menard, from one of the city’s oldest families. At

Broken people are like broken clay pots. They can be put back together. I know it will never be the same when the pieces are glued. There will be cracks. But those cracks, they add character. Tell of survival. Of strength, of character.

Make a wish and it will be granted along with all the unintended consequences.

I don’t think everyone is meant to have careers that change the world. Sometimes you’ve just gotta pay the bills and then clock out so you can get to the life you love the most,

Are you away with the fairies?

Oh heavens!” Henry says, sounding like a 1950s housewife who’s never heard a swear word.

This chemistry between us? It wasn’t just explosive. It was real.

Raspberry, strawberry, lemon and lime What do I care Blueberry, apple, cherry, pumpkin and plum Call me for dinner Honey, I'll be there

FEAR IS A REACTION YOU HAVE WHEN YOU’RE GETTING CLOSER TO THE TRUTH

Why did perfect feel broken?

I’ve come to terms with the fact that in a room full of J.Crews, I’ll always be a Target. I love Target. Let’s see J.Crew try to sell delicious soft pretzels in their store.

you do. Jordie Thomas is not a take-home-to-Momma kind of man.” “No, he isn’t,” she agreed. “But he is a fuck-you-stupid kind of man.

I love everything about you Kacey, because the best thing in life is finding someone who knows your flaws, mistakes, difficulties, and still think you are bad-ass and loves you.

...we're waiting until we can drink legally before we add in another.

I love you, Jayden Mitchell Sinclair, I do. But right now , I want to kill you. So just hold my hand and tel l'me I'm pretty as I push your kid out.

Are you ready for this thing called life? 'Cause I can't do it without you.

You want fire and passion. You want pillow fights and prank wars. You want to be challenged, and fought with, and deeply wanted.

And besides, everything happened the way it needed to. No sense looking back while you’re still moving forward.

Tennessee to places like Corinth, Nashville, and even Shiloh, which at that point he’d never heard of.

Maverick Simon was Hollywood and Nashville, while she was just a mechanic in a small town in Maine. It almost sounded like some hokey country song.

My husband is a man who watches cartoons with his son; whose favourite show is Nashville; and who cried when Buffy’s mum died.

Being Jesus doesn't mean that I am always at the center, always doing something, always making something spectacular happen. Being Jesus simply means that I show up to be "part of" something. Maybe being Jesus isn't so much about making it happen as it is letting it happen.

Here’s the point. If I had waited until the songs were finished, this thing might never have happened. If I had merely tinkered with these songs for all the years it took to finally record them, chances are I would have moved on to other things and never given it a try. It wouldn’t have grown into what it was meant to be. You can think and plan and think some more, but none of that is half as important as doing something, however imperfect or incomplete it is. Intention trumps execution, remember? Sometimes you book the tour before the songs are written. Sometimes you stand at the altar and say “I do” without any clue how you and your wife are going to make it. Sometimes you move to Nashville with no money in the bank and no real prospects. Sometimes you start with nothing and hope it all works out. Not sometimes—every time. All you really have is your willingness to fail, coupled with the mountain of evidence that the Maker has never left nor forsaken you.

Wanted to say goodbye with a BJ but you were so out of it I didn’t have the heart to wake you. Call you when I land in Nashville. Blake’s on the couch if you need ’im. Jess gets in at eleven. Love you.

It’s been years since I’ve met a woman who genuinely blushes, and here she is, yanking down the hem of her cover-up and darting secret glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.  I’m looking, though.

I exist on an imaginary tightrope and must watch every step, lest I fall into the cold, dark abyss. I live in constant fear of the future, in fear that the inevitable will take place,and I live in constant fear of the past, in fear that what has already happened will happen again. How can the present exist in such a world?

IT TAKES A certain amount of effort to be miserable and another kind of effort to be happy, and I was willing to do the work of happiness. I figured even if I couldn’t make Lucy deeply happy, I could very likely make her cheaply and immediately happy. I could provide the kind of happiness that would seem hollow if we had had the money or the time to stay in it too long. It was the same as carrying her. I couldn’t do it forever, but I could do it for a while. I booked Lucy a massage and had her eyelashes dyed. I took her for a pedicure. I bought her the best pâté I could find in Nashville along with Spaghetti-O’s and Hungry Jack biscuits and everything else I knew she liked. We went to a bad movie and then stayed for a second bad movie. I took her shopping and bought her whatever she wanted. And she was happy, and I was happy.

After her mother died and Adrienne and her father took up with wanderlust, Adrienne became exposed to new foods. For two years they lived in Maine, where in the summertime they ate lobster and white corn and small wild blueberries. They moved to Iowa for Adrienne's senior year of high school and they ate pork tenderloin fixed seventeen different ways. Adrienne did her first two years of college at Indiana University in Bloomington, where she lived above a Mexican cantina, which inspired a love of tamales and anything doused with habanero sauce. Then she transferred to Vanderbilt in Nashville, where she ate the best fried chicken she'd ever had in her life. And so on, and so on. Pad thai in Bangkok, stone crabs in Palm Beach, buffalo meat in Aspen. As she sat listening to Thatcher, she realized that though she knew nothing about restaurants, at least she knew something about food.

I jolted from the shocking, acute pleasure. I loved it when a guy went down on me, but this? It was insanity, and it’d never felt like this before. Each lush stroke of his tongue caused static in my body. It was so good, it short-circuited my brain, and my body didn’t know how to handle the overload.

maybe it’s working because I’m an author, and maybe it’s working because Karen works like life depends on this bookstore, or because we have a particularly brilliant staff, or because Nashville is a city that is particularly sympathetic to all things independent. Maybe we just got lucky. But my luck has made me believe that changing the course of the corporate world is possible. Amazon doesn’t get to make all the decisions; the people can make them by how and where they spend their money. If what a bookstore offers matters to you, then shop at a bookstore. If you feel that the experience of reading a book is valuable, then read the book. This is how we change the world: we grab hold of it. We change ourselves.

Jeremy never gave any indication that he saw me as anything other than David's little sister. I've been chasing after Jeremy since about a month after my brother

F-you, bro.

I don’t need a man to give me confidence.” “Yes, you do.” Cooper grins when my mouth opens in disbelief that he just said that.

You are beautiful, Lucy. Everything about you.” He gives me a slow, lingering kiss. “Sexy.” Kiss. “Feminine.” Kiss. “Strong.” Kiss. “Everything I could ever want in a woman.

Do you feel that? My heart is going mushy. You’re turning me into a sap, and I don’t know what to do about it. It’s weird.

Why, instead of working at getting over the greatest loss he’d ever known, had Alexei simply collected more people to lose?

Ha ha, why yes, Ethan, I am sophisticated and definitely did not eat a string cheese and fruit snacks on the way over here.

He wasn’t wrong. I was a good girl, but sometimes, especially when I thought about him, all I wanted to be was bad.

I’d learned the only promises I could count on were the ones I made to myself.

Cooper comes out of the house with two travel mugs full of coffee. Because he’s practically my husband, I bet he has even added the perfect amount of my favorite creamer.

All roads are tough, but you have to choose the one you know you'll never be sorry for taking.

I don't think I could ever leave you Peyton. I'm in love with you.

That made him a perfect match for Philip’s new brother-in-law, Jim Lawson. For if Curtis Murphy was weird, then Jim Lawson was even weirder, not only because he was already going to divinity school at the most unattainable of Nashville schools, Vanderbilt, but because he had simultaneously started holding classes on how to challenge segregation in Nashville.

Shooting him a glare that says "mess with my roommate any more and I'll stab you with a spork

Gray threw open the door, swiftly followed by her legs and everything that went with them. She high-kicked

Being a mom doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes you the whole package.

What does it matter what other people think when we are so happy together?

It is only when we go outside that comfort zone, and subject ourselves to the discomfort of considering thoughts we don’t agree with, that we can make an informed judgment on any matter.

Southern food has been riding a long wave of popularity that has elevated cooking in Southern cities. But it has also led to a formulaic culinary canon laden with house-cured pork products, bespoke grits and lots of food served in Mason jars. The cooks who defined the style were mostly men in tourist-heavy towns like Atlanta, Nashville and Charleston, S.C. Chefs who didn’t cook like that risked losing business.

Well, my beautiful girlfriend, you are about to be one lucky lady." She beamed. "Ryan Reynolds wants to make a baby with me?" He paused and then shook his head. "What the fuck? You dig Deadpool?" She nodded. "Hell yeah, I do, he's sexy." "I'm naked here, you just took advantage of me, and you are calling some other dude sexy?" She smiled. "Yes, because I love you and find you sexy. But that doesn't matter, carry on,

You would not believe his imitation of Coach Donnelly," Ben said. I laughed, imagining. "Run as fast as you can," he said, trying to sound like what Bryce probably sounded like imitating Donnelly, but failing. "Like the French did in the Civil War, when they eluded the Greeks on their way from Charleston to Nashville." "We knew the only way to attack the axis of evil was by storming the beaches at Normandy," I said back.

And we'll let the world dance around us while you lie here in my arms. The beat of your heart is all the music I need to hear. I spent my whole life searching for this melody, so I'll listen while I hold you near.

Think of this small book as a passport, a document that details the dogs and people who have traveled far and wide, and somehow, miraculously, found their way back to where they belong - to dog heaven, book heaven, reader heaven. Home.

«La iglesia primitiva avanzó con poder porque era una iglesia que oraba (Hch. 4:31). Si hoy en día somos tan competentes en los mecanismos del ministerio que podemos tener éxito sin el poder de lo alto, hemos fracasado. Pero si nuestras iglesias atienden hoy a este convincente llamado a la oración de John Onwuchekwa, también prevaleceremos contra todas las potestades terrenales, ¡para la gloria de Dios!». Ray Ortlund, pastor principal, Immanuel Church, Nashville, Tennessee

I can feel his breath on my cheekbone as he leans in to shave me carefully. The water is warm and so is his touch. Getting a shave at the barber shop used to be something dudes did in ye olden days, but now I know the process is weirdly intimate. My face is so sensitive to Wes’s touch. I enjoy the way his free hand cups my jaw, his thumb stroking over my cheek to check his work. When he switches sides, I get a kiss on the back of my neck. “I’m supposed to go to Nashville in the morning,” he says as two fingers tap beneath my chin. “Lift.

They only want to be there while you’re on top, and when you haven’t gotten a gig in a while and you don’t know how you’re going to pay your rent at the end of the month and the glamor they thought they signed up for is gone, they’re walking out the door, leaving you to pick up the pieces.

You steamrolled your way into my life and reminded me how good it feels to let go a little…to fight, to play, to laugh. I don’t think I’d really done any of that since I started med school. My life became very objective-based, and then I met you and…” “And I taught you the meaning of life?” “You snuck your underwear into my laundry just to make me mad. And you eat a million milligrams of sodium every day. And you wanted the Frosty mug just as much as I did.” A laugh spills from my mouth. “None of that sounds like a lesson you’ve learned.” “Exactly. You don’t teach me lessons—you help me rest.

Talk down about yourself being a mom. I can’t take it anymore. You’re beautiful, Lucy, and you’ve got a great body that doesn’t need constant prefacing that you think it’s flawed. And you know what else?” He’s really fired up. “Being a mom doesn’t make you less appealing. It makes you the whole package.

Please don't leave," she whispers. Her voice is barely audible and when I hesitate she hurriedly says, "Never mind, I'll be okay. You don't have to stay." Her softly spoken words make the decision for me, and as I slip my shoes and socks off, I grin at her. "Darlin', if you want me here, I'm not going anywhere.

Like a patchwork quilt, I realize now that it’s the culmination of small beautiful moments that makes the quilt of our lives so beautiful. And even though we haven’t had as much time to create the fabric for the squares of ours, I know without a doubt that I will leave behind an entire quilt of beautiful moments.

Think of Chicago as a piece of music, perhaps,” he continued. “In it you can hear the thousands of years of people living here and fishing and hunting, and then bullets and axes, and the whine of machinery, and the bellowing of cattle, and the shriek of railroads, and the thud of fists and staves and crowbars, and a hundred languages, a thousand dialects. And the murmur of the lake like a basso undertone. Ships and storms, snow and fire. To the north the vast dark forests, and everywhere else around the city rolling fields of farms, and all roads leading to Chicago, which rises from the plains like Oz, glowing with light and fire at night, drawing people to it from around the world. A roaring city, gunfire and applause and thunder. Gleaming but made of bone and stone. Bitter cold and melting hot and clotheslines hung in the alleys and porches like the webbing of countless spiders. A city without illusions but with vaulting imaginations and expectations. A city of burning energies on the shore of a huge northern sea. An American city, with all the violence and humor and grace and greed of this particular powerful adolescent country. Perhaps the American city—no other city in the nation is as big and central and grown up from the very soil. Chicago was never ruled by Spain or England or France or Russia or Texas, it shares no ocean with other countries, it is no mere regional captain, like Cincinnati or Nashville; it is itself, all brawn and greed and song, brilliant and venal, almost a small nation, sprawling and vulgar and foul and beautiful, cold and cruel and wonderful. Its music is the blues, of course. Sad and uplifting at once, elevating and haunting at the same time. You sing so that you do not weep. You have no choice but to sing. So you raise up your voice and sing of love and woe, and soon another voice joins in, and you sing together, for a while, for a time, perhaps a brief time, but perhaps not.…

Nashville was a prize. Johnston had left in a hurry, abandoning huge quantities of supplies — half a million pounds of bacon, much bread and flour, and bales of new tents, the latter greatly welcomed by the Federals, who had left their own tents far behind them. The Federals were having their first experience in occupying a Confederate capital, and they found numerous timid citizens who were ready to turn their coats and cuddle up to the invaders: dignified gentlemen who called on generals to explain that they personally had always been Union men, to identify leading Rebels in the community, to tell where Confederate supplies had been hidden, and in general to make themselves useful.

The moral and ethical questions I explore in Take My Hand remain salient today. In 2013, the Center for Investigative Reporting revealed that between 2006 and 2010, nearly 150 women in California state prisons had been sterilized without official approval. A year later, the Associated Press reported on multiple instances of prosecutors in Nashville, Tennessee, submitting permanent birth control as part of plea deals. In 2020, a whistleblower alleged that immigrant women detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) were being forcibly sterilized without their consent in US detainment facilities. In fact, compulsory sterilization of “unfit” inmates of public institutions is still federally protected by a 1927 US Supreme Court ruling, Buck v. Bell.

Pattie helped me understand that you can provide someone with food and shelter, train them in a skill for employment, even offer professional treatment for an addictions, but these acts don't necessarily reach down to that place inside a person where fear, shame, guilt, hurt, and hopelessness wreak havoc. Pattie's greatest need was to be seen, and then to be loved, accepted and validated.

The next morning there was time before the funeral to wander around my sister’s neighborhood, the same neighborhood we moved to when I was in eighth grade and she was in second, the same neighborhood where our father had lived as an even younger child. I found the spot at the end of the road where rusted tracks emerged from the weeds, the exact place where my father had waited for his own father to step off the trolley after work. I stopped at the bridge over the creek where my eighth-grade boyfriend first held my hand. I named to myself all the neighbors who had once lived on our street, every one of them gone now, as a scent drifted on the air that I couldn’t place. Then, finally: gardenia! It blooms in profusion in Birmingham but not at all in Nashville, where I have lived for decades.

Dr. Finch became a bone man, practiced in Nashville, played the stock market with shrewdness, and by the time he was forty-five he had accumulated enough money to retire and devote all his time to his first and abiding love, Victorian literature, a pursuit that in itself earned him the reputation of being Maycomb County’s most learned licensed eccentric. Dr. Finch had drunk so long and so deep of his heady brew that his being was shot through with curious mannerisms and odd exclamations. He punctuated his speech with little “hah”s and “hum”s and archaic expressions, on top of which his penchant for modern slang teetered precariously. His wit was hatpin sharp; he was absentminded; he was a bachelor but gave the impression of harboring amusing memories; he possessed a yellow cat nineteen years old; he was incomprehensible to most of Maycomb County because his conversation was colored with subtle allusions to Victorian obscurities.

Out on the northwest side of Nashville, Tennessee, Judge Seth Norman has come to expect phone calls to start pouring in around late January every year. “The legislature comes back in session in January,” Norman said. The calls come from state legislators, each with the same problem: an addicted son, a daughter, a brother-in-law. “‘Um, uh, my nephew down in Camden, you think maybe you might be able to help?’ I get those kinds of calls,” he told me while we sat in the office adjacent to his courtroom. Most of the country’s twenty-eight hundred drug courts are set up to divert drug abusers away from jail and prison and into treatment somewhere. Seth Norman runs the only drug court in America that is physically attached to a long-term residential treatment center. He takes addicts accused of drug-related nonviolent felonies—theft, burglary, possession of stolen property, drug possession—and puts them in treatment for as long as two years as an alternative to prison. Down the hall from his court are dorms with beds for a hundred people—sixty men and forty women. I

Benjamin Libet, a scientist in the physiology department of the University of California, San Francisco, was a pioneering researcher into the nature of human consciousness. In one famous experiment he asked a study group to move their hands at a moment of their choosing while their brain activity was being monitored. Libet was seeking to identify what came first — the brain’s electrical activity to make the hand move or the person’s conscious intention to make their hand move. It had to be the second one, surely? But no. Brain activity to move the hand was triggered a full half a second before any conscious intention to move it…. John-Dylan Haynes, a neuroscientist at the Max Planck Institute for Human Cognitive and Brain Studies in Leipzig, Germany, led a later study that was able to predict an action ten seconds before people had a conscious intention to do it. What was all the stuff about free will? Frank Tong, a neuroscientist at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, said: “Ten seconds is a lifetime in terms of brain activity.” So where is it coming from if not ‘us,’ the conscious mind?

While we waited on a bench outside the motel office, I bought a copy of the Nashville Tennessean out of a metal box, just to see what was happening in the world. The principal story indicated that the state legislature, in one of those moments of enlightenment with which the southern states often strive to distinguish themselves, was in the process of passing a law forbidding schools from teaching evolution. Instead they were to be required to instruct that the earth was created by God, in seven days, sometime, oh, before the turn of the century. The article reminded us that this was not a new issue in Tennessee. The little town of Dayton—not far from where Katz and I now sat, as it happened—was the scene of the famous Scopes trial in 1925, when the state prosecuted a schoolteacher named John Thomas Scopes for rashly promulgating Darwinian hogwash. As nearly everyone knows, Clarence Darrow, for the defense, roundly humiliated William Jennings Bryan, for the prosecution, but what most people don’t realize is that Darrow lost the case. Scopes was convicted, and the law wasn’t overturned in Tennessee until 1967. And now the state was about to bring the law back, proving conclusively that the danger for Tennesseans isn’t so much that they may be descended from apes as overtaken by them.

His hand felt odd against her swollen belly. She started to speak at the same moment that the baby suddenly moved. Tate’s hand jerked back as if it had been stung. He stared at her stomach with pure horror as it fluttered again. She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing. “Is that…normal?” he wanted to know. “It’s a baby,” she said softly. “They move around. He kicks a little. Not much, just yet, but as he grows, he’ll get stronger.” “I never realized…” He drew in a long breath and put his hand back against her body. “Cecily, does it hurt you when he…” He hesitated. His black, stunned eyes met hers. “He?” She nodded. “They can tell, so soon?” “Yes,” she said simply. “They did an ultrasound.” His fingers became caressing. A son. He was going to have a son. He swallowed. It was a shock. He hadn’t thought past her pregnancy, but now he realized that there was going to be a miniature version of himself and Cecily, a child who would embody the traits of all his ancestors. All his ancestors. It made him feel humble. “How did you find me?” she asked. He glared into her eyes. “Not with any help from you, let me tell you! It took me forever to track down the driver who brought you to Nashville. He was off on extended sick leave, and it wasn’t until this week that anybody remembered he’d worked that route before Christmas.” She averted her eyes. “I didn’t want to be found.” “So I noticed. But you have been, and you’re damned well coming home,” he said furiously. “I’m damned if I’m going to leave you here at the mercy of people who go nuts over an inch of snow!” She sat up, displacing his hand, noticed that she was too close to him for comfort, swung her legs off the sofa and got up. “I’m not going as far as the mailbox with you!” she told him flatly. “I’ve made a new life for myself here, and I’m staying!” “That’s what you think.” He got up, too, and went toward the bedroom. He found her suitcase minutes later, threw it open on the bed and started filling it. “I’m not going with you,” she told him flatly. “You can pack. You can even take the suitcase and all my clothes. But I’m not leaving. This is my life now. You have no place in it!” He whirled. He was furious. “You’re carrying my child!” The sight of him was killing her. She loved him, wanted him, needed him, but he was here only out of a sense of duty, maybe even out of guilt. She knew he didn’t want ties or commitments; he’d said so often enough. He didn’t love her, either, and that was the coldest knowledge of all. “Colby asked me to marry him for the baby’s sake,” she said bitterly. “Maybe I should have.” “Over my dead body,” he assured her.

But the crown jewel was the columned Greek Revival mansion, which dated from the mid-1800s, along with the manicured boxwood gardens that would serve as the backdrop for the couple's ceremony. Of course, everything was not only very traditional but also a standard to what one might imagine an over-the-top Southern wedding to be. As I said, "Steel Magnolias on steroids." The ceremony would take place outdoors in the garden, but large custom peach-and-white scalloped umbrellas were placed throughout the rows of bamboo folding chairs to shade the guests. Magnolia blossoms and vintage lace adorned the ends of the aisles. White, trellis-covered bars flanked the entrance to the gardens where guests could select from a cucumber cooler or spiked sweet tea to keep cool during the thirty-minute nuptials. It was still considered spring, but like Dallas, Nashville could heat up early in the year, and we were glad to be prepared. By the time we arrived the tent was well on its way to completion, and rental deliveries were rolling in. The reception structure was located past the gardens near the enormous whitewashed former stable, and inside the ceiling was draped in countless yards of peach fabric with crystal chandeliers hanging above every dining table. Custom napkins with embroidered magnolias on them complemented the centerpieces' peach garden roses, lush greenery, and dried cotton stems. Cedric's carpentry department created floor-to-ceiling lattice walls covered in faux greenery and white wisteria blooms, a dreamy backdrop for the band.

Jamie used the time away from me to do some soul-searching. She finally also did something she’d thought about for a long time. She walked into an Army recruitment office in Nashville and joined the military. She didn’t discuss it with me beforehand. Instead she called and said, “I’m joining the Army. It’s active duty and I’m going to be a truck driver with an airborne contract.” Shocked, I blurted out, “You’re going to do what? No you’re not.” “What do you mean? I’m gonna be a truck driver in a convoy.” I knew she was referring to a seventies country song she likes. Only this wasn’t a country song, this was real life. “Are you crazy? This is not a game. You will hate being a truck driver. You don’t even know if you’ll like being in the military. Go National Guard or Reserves and see if you like it.” “They said I’m already in. Basic is not for another few months but I’m in and I can’t change it.” “Yes you can. You are not in yet. You are not in the military. That was just a recruiter telling you that. Why aren’t you going in as an officer? You have a degree. You can make more money.” She seemed annoyed that I was raining on her parade, but I think it was also dawning on her that maybe I was right and she hadn’t done the research. “They told me that it’s not really that much more.” I explained to her, “They are lying to you. It is a lot more.” I had no problem with her joining the military. If that’s what she wanted to do, I supported it. But I was going to make sure she made the smartest moves she could make if that was in fact what she wanted to do with her life. I certainly wasn’t going to let her be talked into a lower-paid, higher-risk job.

In June 1981, a strike shuttered the major leagues for fifty days, the first time in baseball history that players walked out during the season. Determined to make his people earn their keep, George Steinbrenner ordered his major-league coaches into the minors to scout and help mentor the organization’s prospects. Berra drew Nashville, where Merrill was the manager. Merrill was a former minor-league catcher with a degree in physical education from the University of Maine. He began working for the Yankees in 1978 at West Haven, Connecticut, in the Eastern League and moved south when the Yankees took control of the Southern League’s Nashville team in 1980. Suddenly, in mid-1981, the former catcher who had never made it out of Double-A ball had the most famous and decorated Yankees backstop asking him, “What do you want me to do?” Wait a minute, Merrill thought. Yogi Berra is asking me to supervise him? “Do whatever you want,” Merrill said. “No,” Berra said. “Give me something specific.” And that was when Merrill began to understand the existential splendor of Yogi Berra, whom he would come to call Lawrence or Sir Lawrence in comic tribute to his utter lack of pretense and sense of importance. “He rode buses with us all night,” Merrill said. “You think he had to do that? He was incredible.” One day Merrill told him, “Why don’t you hit some rollers to that lefty kid over there at first base?” Berra did as he was told and later remarked to Merrill, “That kid looks pretty good with the glove.” Berra knew a prospect when he saw one. It was Don Mattingly, who at the time was considered expendable by a chronically shortsighted organization always on the prowl for immediate assistance at the major-league level.

the greatest inspiration for institutional change in American law enforcement came on an airport tarmac in Jacksonville, Florida, on October 4, 1971. The United States was experiencing an epidemic of airline hijackings at the time; there were five in one three-day period in 1970. It was in that charged atmosphere that an unhinged man named George Giffe Jr. hijacked a chartered plane out of Nashville, Tennessee, planning to head to the Bahamas. By the time the incident was over, Giffe had murdered two hostages—his estranged wife and the pilot—and killed himself to boot. But this time the blame didn’t fall on the hijacker; instead, it fell squarely on the FBI. Two hostages had managed to convince Giffe to let them go on the tarmac in Jacksonville, where they’d stopped to refuel. But the agents had gotten impatient and shot out the engine. And that had pushed Giffe to the nuclear option. In fact, the blame placed on the FBI was so strong that when the pilot’s wife and Giffe’s daughter filed a wrongful death suit alleging FBI negligence, the courts agreed. In the landmark Downs v. United States decision of 1975, the U.S. Court of Appeals wrote that “there was a better suited alternative to protecting the hostages’ well-being,” and said that the FBI had turned “what had been a successful ‘waiting game,’ during which two persons safely left the plane, into a ‘shooting match’ that left three persons dead.” The court concluded that “a reasonable attempt at negotiations must be made prior to a tactical intervention.” The Downs hijacking case came to epitomize everything not to do in a crisis situation, and inspired the development of today’s theories, training, and techniques for hostage negotiations. Soon after the Giffe tragedy, the New York City Police Department (NYPD) became the first police force in the country to put together a dedicated team of specialists to design a process and handle crisis negotiations. The FBI and others followed. A new era of negotiation had begun. HEART

On my next weekend without the kids I went to Nashville to visit her. We had a great weekend. On Monday morning she kissed me goodbye and left for work. I would drive home while she was at work. Only I didn’t go straight home. I went and paid her recruiting officer a little visit. I walked in wearing shorts and a T-shirt so my injuries were fully visible. The two recruiters couldn’t hide the surprise on their faces. I clearly looked like an injured veteran. Not their typical visitor. “I’m here about Jamie Boyd,” I said. One of the recruiters stood up and said, “Yes, I’m working with Jamie Boyd. How can I help you?” I walked to the center of the room between him and the female recruiter who was still seated at her desk and said, “Jamie Boyd is not going to be active duty. She is not going to be a truck driver. She wants to change her MOS and you’re not going to treat her like some high school student. She has a degree. She is a young professional and you will treat her as such.” “Yes, sir, yes, sir. We hold ourselves to a higher standard. We’ll do better. I’m sorry,” he stammered. “You convinced her she can’t change anything. That’s a lie. It’s paperwork. Make it happen.” “Yes, sir, yes, sir.” That afternoon Jamie had an appointment at the recruitment center anyway for more paperwork. Afterward, she called me, and as soon as I answered, without even a hello, she said, “What have you done?” “How were they acting?” I asked, sounding really pleased with myself. “Like I can have whatever I want,” she answered. “You’re welcome. Find a better job.” She wasn’t mad about it. She just laughed and said, “You’re crazy.” “I will always protect you. You were getting screwed over. And I’m sorry you didn’t know about it, but you wouldn’t have let me go if I had told you ahead of time.” “You’re right, but I’m glad you did.” Jamie ended up choosing MP, military police, as her MOS because they offered her a huge signing bonus. We made our reunion official and she quit her job in Nashville to move back to Birmingham. She had a while before basic training, so she moved back in with me. We were both very happy, and as it turned out, some very big changes were about to happen beyond basic training.