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“A stranger is just a friend I haven’t met yet.” — Will Rogers
I’m a huge Will Rogers fan. But last Saturday afternoon, personal philosophies leaned toward: “A stranger is just someone standing between me and my easy chair.”
The mission was uncomplicated. Pop into the local supermarket, grab a prescription at the pharmacy, find a few pantry basics and retreat to the laziness of my living room.
I even found an empty checkout lane where a pleasant voice beckoned, “And how are you doing this fine Saturday?”
I recognized her immediately. A checkout regular at Brookshires, a genuine breath of fresh air in a retail world where most transactions are processed with the warmth and thankfulness of an IRS auditor. My guard dropped.
Acting on her cheerfulness, I dusted off one of my well-worn conversation starters: “ A s I sometimes say, I’m like Minnie Pearl—I’m just so proud to be here.”
Her expression lightened.
“I remember Minnie Pearl,” she said. “Her, Loretta Lynn, Porter Wagoner.”
I couldn’t help myself; the floodgates were open.
“The Wilburn Brothers, Ferlin Husky, Faron Young,” I added. “My mother used to clean house on Saturday afternoons. And she made sure every floor was scrubbed before her favorite country music shows came on.”
Then, in a sharp segue from the 1950s Nashville sound to pure Louisiana rock ’n’ roll, she uttered a name: “Dale Hawkins.”
“Suzie Q,” I thought, just as she said it aloud.
“Great song,” we agreed in unison.
“I knew Dale,” she continued, still beaming. It turns out she had lived and worked in Shreveport, Louisiana, back in the day.
For the uninitiated, Hawkins was the pride of Richland Parish, Louisiana, before landing in Bossier City, same state. He was playing the local clubs by 1956, and in 1957, co-wrote and released “Suzie Q.”
It was not only a charting success, but was covered by many artists including Creedence Clearwater Revival, and inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
“You know who on ‘Suzie Q’ played that infamous guitar solo?” I asked.
“James Burton,” we said together, laughing again.
“He played with Elvis and Ricky Nelson,” she added, clearly enjoying the trivia match.
“Another legendary Shreveport musician,” I confirmed. “He played for others, too—Roy Orbison, Jerry Lee Lewis, the Everly Brothers.”
I shared how I met James Burton through a car club in Shreveport.
“One of our members was Dick DeMoss,” I said. “Whose wife was James’s sister. I was lucky enough to sit and listen to him reminisce about his career several times.”
“And Stan Lewis...” she said before tallying up my purchases.
“Stan’s Record Shop!” I interjected. “I bought records there all the time at the downtown Shreveport location. Also, the home of the Paula Record label.”
She told me she still had records she’d bought there before the shop closed its doors.
“Great music, and even better memories,” I said, picking up my bags.
As I drove home, the easy chair didn’t seem quite so urgent. I had gone in for a prescription but left with a reminder that spontaneity is the best kind of adventure.
Once again, Will Rogers was right.
