R A C H E L H A U C K . C O M

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WestBow Press - November 2006

"What a delightful story. Quirky and moving, sweet and sad, humorous and inspiring--a remarkable balancing act from a new author. Readers will soon be clamoring for more about NashVegas and this remarkable new talent."

-Davis Bunn, The Lazarus Trap

How I let Daddy and Granddaddy Lukeman talk me into singing a “couple” of my songs at the Spring Sing, again, is beyond me. I can’t do it. I can barely breathe, let alone sing.

Blood thumps from my heart up to my ears, over my scalp and down to my toes. Cold sweat beads on the back of my neck and under my arms. My feet burn as if I’m standing on Florida sand mid-July.

“Gonna chicken out again, Robin?” Smiley Canyon nudges me with his pointy elbow.

“Nooo,” I lie, gripping my old Taylor guitar for security.

Smiley laughs at me. “Let’s see, last year you broke out in hives the night before the show, didn’t ya?”

“I had a rash from stem to stern, you saw me the next morning.”

“And the year before that you couldn’t find the keys to your truck. . .” He plucks the strings of his beat up Gibson, trying to tune. Smart alec. No wonder Nashville kicked him back home to Alabama.

“And didn’t you get lost driving across town once?”

I ball my fist. One pop, right in the kisser. Come on, Lord, look the other way, just for a second.

But when I look Smiley in the eye, I see what I don’t care to see. The truth. I relax my fingers. “Your song was real good. Was it a new one?”

“Naw, wrote it a few years back.”

I nod. “Good for you. “

He tips the brim of his cowboy hat my way. “Better go get my seat. Don’t want to miss your debut.” He walks off snickering.

He says debut like de-butt – as if I’m going to fall flat on mine.

With a tiny step forward, I peer around the stage curtain. The Freedom, Alabama music hall is packed.

An electric twinge constricts my middle and I take two giant steps back. Let Smiley be right. Let him laugh at me, again. It’s better than public humiliation. Turning to flee, I bump smack dab into Jeeter Perkins, the Music Hall’s emcee.

“Get ready, Robin Rae, you’re up next.” He grins and adjust his bolo tie.

Hello, Robin, what’ll it be? Anxiety attack in front of a thousand of your closest friends and family? Yes? Right this way.

“Jeeter, I changed my mind. I’m not singing.”

He rolls his eyes. “Now, Robin Rae-”

“How about you let old Paul Whitestone go on with his Dixie Dos?” Behind Jeeter, the former bluegrass icon, waits with his round face, rosy cheek granddaughters; Elvira, Elmira, and Eldora. (Identical triplets, tall, big girls.)

“Listen, girl, I’ve heard your songs a hundred times on your Granddaddy’s porch. You got a gift. A gift.” Jeeter pinches my arms in his bony grip and bugs out his eyes. “Sometimes you have to face your fears.”

I squint my eyes. “And sometimes ya don’t.”

This isn’t like the first day of school or one of Momma’s Saturday night dinners. Nope. Singing in the Hall is optional. And I’m opting out.

Jeeter shakes his head and brushes past me as the Blues Street Boys finish and exit stage left to mild applause.

“Thank you, boys,” Jeeter says into the mic. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard such unique (a-hem) harmonies.” He glances over at me and raises one bushy brow.

Shaking my head, I step backwards and shake Paul Whitestone, who’s nodded off. “You and the girls are on, Paul.”

He sputters to life. “Oh, oh, we’re on?” He waves his long arm at the triplets.

“Girls, come on. We’re up.”

Jeeter rouses the crowd with a big call into the microphone, waving his hat in the air. “How y’all doing?”

They give Jeeter what he wants, hoots and hollers, whistles and cheers.

“The hills are alive with the sound of music!” Jeeter yee-haws while waving his hat over head. He cuts a glance at me. “We got a real treat for you folks tonight. . .”

Hand on my guitar, I tip my head in the direction of the Ladies Room and mouth, “Got to go.”

“Next up,” Jeeter’s voice trails after me, “Paul Whitestone and the Dixie Dos.”

Ducking into the Ladies, I push the lock and fall against the door. My stomach feels like a firecracker just exploded. My heart is racing at top NASCAR speed and my legs are trembling like Granddaddy’s old hound, Bruno, when it thunders.

Go out there. . . sing in front of folks. . . who’m I kidding? Freedom, Alabama and their Nashville tradition has haunted me for the last time.

I shift my guitar so it hangs down my back and dampen a wad of paper towels. Patting the sweat beads from my forehead, I wonder if I’ll make it out of the Hall alive. Blue spots flicker before my eyes.

“Should’ve stayed home where I belong.” I scold my reflection in the mirror. “At twenty-five, you should know better.”

Grandpa McAfee is right. If you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch. Drawing a shaky breath, I adjust my guitar strap so that it’s not cutting into my shoulder, and unlock the door. But before I can jerk on the knob, the door flies open, bonking me in the head.

“Ouch!” I slap my hand to my forehead as Arizona Parish shoves her way inside.

“What’re you doing?” She tilts her soft blonde head to one side and props her hands on her skinny waist.

I pop her on the shoulder. “What are you doing? There’s only room for one in here.”

“I’m looking for you.” She crosses her arms over her ample bosom. “And you are. . .”

“Hiding. My palms are sweating, my heart’s racing and my stomach feels like the finale of the 4th of July show.”

“Robin, it’s just a performance anxiety. Stage fright.” She grabs me by the arms. “Take a deep breath, say ‘help me Jesus’ and get on out there.” She gives me a quick shove toward the stage entrance. “Wow ‘em.”

I curl my lip. “Your sympathy is overwhelming.”

“I’m not here to be sympathetic, Robin. I’m here to tell you the time has come to face your fears. You sing like an angel and your sappy lyrics have ruined my mascara more times than I can count.”

“Well, hot diggity dog for me. I don’t care what my lyrics have done to your mascara, I’m not going out there.” I jab my finger toward the stage door. “I’m going home.”

My boot heels thud across Freedom Music Hall’s ancient wood floor. The floor that has born the soles of Garth Brooks, Tammy Wynette, Lionel Richie and the great Billy Graham.

Center stage, old Paul is plunking his banjo, while the triplets clog on top of a three tiered platform, shaking their ruffled skirts. Shaking the entire Hall.

Arizona follows me to my guitar case. “How three pudgy girls move their feet so fast is beyond me.”

“They’ve been clogging and eating since they were born.” I cut a glance up at her while settling my guitar in it’s case.

She sighs. “Got to admit, they have the best legs in Freedom.”

This makes me laugh. “Can’t argue there.”

“Robin, don’t lock up your guitar. Get out there. Beat this stage fright. If those triplets have the best legs in Freedom, you have the best voice and the best songs. Please. For me.” Arizona clasps her hands under her chin and bats her eyes.

I stop buckling up my guitar case. Arizona Parish has a way of getting under my skin, forcing me to dig deep and dream big. She introduced herself to me a few years ago as “the girl from Miami.” Her journey to Freedom is still a mystery.

“There was a situation,” she said.

“Promise me the law ain’t after you.”

“Promise.” She crossed her heart and flashed the Girls Scout salute.

Now, back stage at the Hall, Arizona kneels beside me. “Please. Go out there.”

Standing, I look toward the stage with a shake of my heard. “Why I let Daddy and Granddaddy talk me into this every year is crazy, plumb crazy.”

“You know why.” She pokes me in the chest with her bony finger. “Deep inside, you know.”

Before I can rouse up a crushing reply, a loud crack comes from center stage followed by three very distinct thuds:

“What in tarnation. . .” My first glimpse of three, white ruffled bottoms shaking in the spot light takes my breath away. Followed by a sppptt as I choke back a laugh.

The girls’ three-tiered clogging platform broke clean through. For about ten seconds, there was a heavy hush over the auditorium and a collective holding of our breath. Are they all right?

Then, a snort. A muffled guffaw. A fading tee-hee behind someone’s hand.

But when Elvira, or is it Elmira, sticks her round hand in the air and says in a high-pitched voice, “We’re all right, PaPa,” it’s over. Laughter explodes like water balloons and douses every one of us.

Arizona hides her face behind her hand. “This is terrible. Oh, the humiliation.”

She ducks behind the stage curtain, pressing her face against the cold wall, honking and gasping for air.

“See,” I say, pointing. “This is what I’m talking about. What if that happens to me?”

She just shakes her head. Can’t even get it together enough to chew me out or give me ten reasons why I’m wrong.

Paul is trying to pull the triplets out of the rubble. He’s so shaken he forgets to set down his banjo. When his weathered hand grasps one of the girl’s, his grip breaks and he stumbles backwards.

“Somebody help them,” I mutter.

Jeeter strides into view from stage left and without making a big to-do of it, motions for a couple of the stage hands to hop up and help out.

This isn’t right. Poor Elvira, Elmira and Eldora. I can’t just let them be embarrassed like this. I can’t. Something in me snaps.

I strap on my guitar. “Okay, Lord, here I go. Guess it’s time to cowgirl up.” And if He doesn’t go with me, I’m done for.

Against their will, my legs carry me out to center stage. The lights are bright. And hot. More cold sweat beads up under my arms. Shivering and half praying for the tornado siren to go off - that’d get me out of this pickle while saving face - I pull my pick from my hip pocket, squinting in the light, and step up to the mic.

“Hi everybody, I’m Robin McAfee.” My voice is weak and squeaky. “I’m, uh, gonna, er…” I tune my guitar for the hundredth time, distracting myself from the fact my feet are telling my brain to ruunnnn. “I’m gonna, a-hem, uh, sing a few songs. No, a song. One song.”

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I’m sitting on Granddaddy’s back porch singing Jesus Loves Me. I’m on Granddaddy’s porch...

No sound comes out when I strum my guitar. My heart starts jitterbugging. Run now. Run now.

Steady, Robin. Steady. Can’t let the girls’ tragedy, as funny as it is, be the highlight of the evening. Let it be my humiliation instead. I take a step back to gather myself and calm down.

“Yow! Watch it, Robin.” Joe Boynton looks up at me, shaking his hand. It’s red with my boot print.

“Sorry.” Heat creeps across my cheeks. “What’re you doing down there?”

Joe holds up a cable. “Plugging you in.” He taps my leg. “You’re good to go. Knock ‘em into next week.” Joe clicks his tongue like Goober.

Yeah, knock ‘em into next week. That’s my secret plan. I close my eyes and step up to the mic. Since I’m not looking, I bonk my chin and send a loud thunk into the auditorium, followed by a very high-pitched squeal. Small snickers ripple from the crowd.

Joe pssts me from the wings. “Don’t point your guitar at the monitor,” he mouths, motioning with his hands.

Every cell of my five-four frame is trembling. Are the triplets upright yet? I glance back. They are, but look rather stunned. Two of the men move broken boards from the stage. I hope Jude Perry from the paper, Freedom Rings! isn’t here. He prides himself in displaying other people’s tragedies on page one, above the fold.

“Go on, Robin,” Jeeter urges from the wings.

Cough, clear throat, bonk my chin on the mic, again. Dern it all. All this stalling is only dragging out the nightmare.

“I wrote this song about a friend of mine.” My voice sounds like a cassette tape being fast forwarded. I try to slow it down. “She was born with a cleft palate and hated to smile or have people see her face. But, uh-” I strum my guitar, tuning, and a little bit of courage creeps in. “My friend is beautiful. I hope someday she sees herself as others do. This is for you, Rosalie.”

As I start the song, my heart thumps to the rhythm as if it’s the bass drum. It’s hard to sing when I can’t breathe. But, I finally hit the chorus and words flow from that some-place-deep where the music dwells. I feel like I did when I was ten, swinging on the old tire swing, stretching my toes to touch the bottom leaves.

Smile for me, Rosalie,
Let your heart dance, let it be free.

Then, it washes over me like standing under a mountain water fall on a hot day. God’s pleasure. My insides go all mushy. I sing through the chorus two or three times, not sure how to end and exit.

Except for my voice and guitar, the auditorium is silent. I wonder if everyone figured the show was over once the triplets were upright and went home. I open one eye.

The crowd is staring at me. My knees buckle like weak wood and I lose the peaceful sensation of God’s pleasure. Shoot.

I play the last chord and let my vocal fade away. Chills replace the warmth. Will there be a snort, a muffled guffaw, and fading tee-hee just like with the triplets?

Jeeter catches me around my shoulders so I can’t leave. He grabs the microphone, a big cheesy grin on his leathery face. “Freedom, Alabama’s own Robin Rae McAfee everyone. Let’s hear it.”

The auditorium explodes with applause. Whistles. Cheering. Some people even jump to their feet.

Bumbling a bow, I whisper to Jeeter, “Can I go now?”

“I told you, Robin Rae,” he slaps my back. “They love you. Sing another song.”
He can’t be serious? “Isn’t one enough?”

His face crinkles into a grin. “If you’re a coward, I suppose so.” He sweeps his arm toward the crowd. They’re settling down as if waiting for more. “You have them eating out of your hand. Might as well go for it.”

My sweaty little hand? Jeeter shoves me toward the mic. “Sing.”

My smile feels rather shaky as I stand there, rubbing my hands down the side of my jeans, riffling through my mental song catalogue.

“Sing something fun,” Jeeter calls from the wings, his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Okay, this is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. Your Country Princess.”

The beat is chompy and fast as I hit the E string, remembering Ricky Holden is in the crowd. My cheeks burn. I hope folks don’t think this is about him. Because it’s not. Really. It’s not.

I belt out the lyrics. This time my voice is strong and clear.

You say you’re working late, again.
To earn an extra fifty bucks.
You say, we’re gonna have a better life.
Buy me diamond rings and you a big Ford truck

As the song builds to the chorus, the energy of the crowd gets me going and I stomp out the rhythm with the heel of my boots.

Ooo, let me be your Country Princess
Plain and beautiful, that’s what life is…
Merry-go-rounds and Christmas lights…

Rocking through the chorus and into the second verse, I relax a little, bravely peeking at the crowd beyond the first row. They’re clapping and swaying, and when I loop back into the chorus, a choir of female voices raises the rafters.

Ooo, let me be your Country Princess

A banjo starts plucking and Paul Whitestone saunters up beside me. Next, a fiddle whines and Granddaddy Lukeman walks my way, his blue eyes snapping. He does a little Pa Ingalls jig.

Behind him, Jeeter comes out with his steel guitar, and the triplets, fully recovered, stomp and swirl across the stage.

We let the music go a round without the words. The players circle and lean together. My heart soars with the music, rising above the thousand pairs of eyes watching.

Now this I could do the rest of my life.