The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

It's been a rough week. I don’t often show my emotions, but lately they’ve been harder to hide. I’ve lost two close friends in the past week: Georgia Thompson and Yanka Rupkina. It was through music that I came to know them both. Music really does bring the world together. Georgia was married to my rockabilly buddy, Hayden Thompson. We lost him at the end of 2025, and Georgia joined him recently. They were wonderful people, both of them. They shared a sense of humor I always admired - as odd as my own - and being around them was always a joy. Yanka - скъпи, скъпи мой приятелю - was truly a gift in my life. I had been listening to her for decades without even realizing it. We were friends for months before I finally figured it out. We can blame my less-than-adequate language skills for that. Yanka thought it was hilarious when I finally made the connection. From the moment she told our mutual friend - the conduit of our friendship - “Tell that BOY to contact me!” a true friendship w...

Имало някога едно момиче от малко селце в планината Странджа. Тя не познавала света. Познавала хълмовете. Познавала вятъра. Познавала гласа на хората, носен над полята по здрач. Първите си песни научила така, както децата научават всичко важно - не от уроци, а от слушане. От баба си. От жените, които работели. От старите хора, които помнели времена, когато светът бил по-труден и по-тих едновременно. Тя не знаела, че учи нещо древно. Знаела само, че песните се усещат като дом. Минали години. Момичето пораснало. Светът започнал да забелязва това, което селото винаги е знаело. Гласът ѝ носел нещо по-старо от музиката - нещо, което звучало като планини, като огън в нощта, като самата памет. Гласът ѝ носел автентичността на българския народ - неговата вяра, неговите трудности и неговата радост. Постепенно момичето от малкото селце получило нещо неочаквано: Получило света. Тя пътувала. Тя пеела. Тя носела гласа на своя народ по-далеч, отколкото някой би могъл да си представи. Но колкото и да...

A lot of people (okay, maybe only a few) have asked when I started writing. The easiest answer is: I always have. When I was a little kid, I loved making up silly stories. My parents suggested I write them down. Once I saw them on paper, I thought they were ridiculous - so I learned to edit. I started looking for words that fit better, worked better. I’ve always loved reading. When I was about five or six, I lived for presidential biographies. Yes...odd child. Once I discovered the library, I moved on to biographies of famous composers and historical figures. Mom was an artist, so I had access to lots of books about art and artists. Dad read all sorts of weird stuff, so I dug into that too. I have to credit the old man for my lifelong love of Conan Doyle, although to this day, I’ve never understood his fascination with Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings . I can appreciate the work itself, but the story always struck me as a little too “by the numbers.” By age ten, I’d discovered Stephen...

 The middle of April seemed as good a time as any for Halfred Weston to get started on his little backyard garden. The weather was just right. Not too cold, not too wet. Good time to get the soil turned and fertilized. For years, he'd been growing the same things; tomatoes, a variety of peppers, and occasionally some beans. Those didn't always seem to take. He tried growing carrots too, but between the rabbits and moles, he'd all but given up.  He was keen to try the new fertilizer ol' Tony down at the garden supply store had been talking about. It was supposed to be free of toxic chemicals and safe for pets and humans. Some kind of 'biologic agent' was supposed to make it work better. Safe for families, safe for the earth was its catchphrase. Just the kind of thing that made a person feel quietly responsible just for using it. Halfred had been in the garden most of the afternoon. Nothing serious. Just turning soil, pulling a few stubborn weeds. He had dumped ...

 "The young worry about being noticed.  The old learn the value of being ignored." He'd grown to enjoy mornings. He enjoyed the still, soft silence - aside from the ever-present hum of his tinnitus. Mornings had always been stressful. Rush rush rush! Rush to school! Rush to work! Rush to this appointment or that one. What's going to go wrong today? He'd never stopped to think 'what might go right today?' Mornings were now an excellent time for contemplation - prayer even. Even in the worst weather, he'd often look out the window and thank the Lord for another beautiful day. Another chance, another opportunity.  He'd lost most of the hearing in his right ear. He'd lost most of the vision in his left eye. A stroke robbed him of many abilities. He had trouble walking. He tripped a lot. He often dropped things. He had a hard time remembering words. He had stomach problems. His breathing was slowly becoming an issue. Yet, he remained oddly positive....

Working night shift in a personal care home was about as exciting as it sounds. Paperwork, filing, a bit of cleaning, and a lot of down time. The pay wasn't great, but it was steady. Decent benefits too.  He worked on the lower level. The nurses' station was on the upper level. The nurse's aide was supposed to do hourly rounds on both levels, but she usually never came downstairs. This was fine with him. Had he been a more social person, he probably wouldn't have taken the job, let alone kept at it for years. Sure, he'd occasionally go up and chat with the nurses and the aide. He wasn't much for watching TV, and night-time radio sucked. So, he'd go up in the rickety old elevator, grab a smoke with the other staff, make a little small talk and then return to his office and whatever latest book he was reading.  He made his rounds without fail, every hour. Sometimes twice an hour if he was bored. Most of the residents slept like logs. Some of the whackier ones ...