Several years ago, Tink was writing a Hallmark Hall of Fame movie. These are their most prestigious movies. They have a bigger budget, bigger stars, and much attention is paid to the writer of the script.
Tink had inherited the project at the last minute, because Hallmark executives didn’t like what another writer had turned in. We were in Florida, on a business trip, and Tink was inclined to say “no.” But I talked him into it because the contract included two first-class tickets to Paris, where the movie was to be shot. In the end, the production company (not Hallmark) reneged on the tickets. I don’t remember why, but Tink didn’t appeal to the Writers’ Guild — he would have easily won the dispute, but he let it go, which meant I missed Paris. But we are mighty grateful for the residuals that come in a couple of times a year.
Since Tink had gotten the script just days before it started, he was working furiously and did not sleep for 48 hours straight. As he wrote, I cleaned out the pantry. And I did what I always do when cleaning: I put on the music of the Statler Brothers, the most awarded act in country music. I play their albums over and over.
Repeatedly, Tink called down the stairs, “Play that song about flowers on the wall.”
Over two days, we must have played that song 50 times. Despite what a monster hit the song had been, Tink didn’t know the name of the group that made it famous.
The song that begins their first album is the Statlers’ first song, first hit, and first award winner, earning them a Grammy. And it happened by accident. They were traveling with The Johnny Cash Show, singing backup harmony for him, when one day, in the studio, Cash suddenly stopped and said, “I want some biscuits and gravy.”
He abruptly left, and his producer looked over at the four Statlers and asked, “You boys have anything you want to sing? The clock’s running. You might as well use it.”
The four young men had grown up together in Staunton, Virginia, at school and in church. They were a strong-knit group, never having a cross word between them. The group included brothers Harold and Don Reid, Phil Bailey, and Lew Ayeres. Eventually, Don would emerge as the group leader, writing a majority of their hits and influencing my storytelling.
Lew Ayeres, a bit unusually, had written the “Flowers” hit that launched the group toward a career of their own, where they would be headliners and not the opening act.
Taking a break from writing, Tink came bouncing down the steps. He rarely interrupts his work. But he is always looking for something to get me as a gift. And I almost always say, “Nothing. I have all I want or need.”
But this day, I cuddled up to him and said, “I know what you can get me as a gift.”
Excitedly, he asked, “What?!”
“Introduce me to the Statlers.”
Tink’s face fell, and his shoulders slumped, “I don’t know any Statlers.”
I smiled. “But you could.” Somehow, he did. And oh, what a gift Don and Debbie have become as close friends. The kind of friends who pray with you and share your burdens, then celebrate your happiness.
We are always mindful that a song — one which Rolling Stone magazine placed in the 100 greatest songs of the 20th century — brought us together.
One day, while Tink and I were driving, listening to the radio, Flowers on the Wall played. When it finished, a man called in to say, “counting flowers,” referring to the mattress buttons on the padded walls. Tink and I looked at each other. I texted Don and asked if that was true.
He responded immediately, “No, it means flowers.”
Later, while visiting Don and Debbie, the subject of asylums came up — as in that same song. At one time, there were two or three asylums in Staunton.
“Did Harold work at the asylum?” I asked.
Don nodded, “Lew did, too.”
A light came on. Tink and I looked at each other, our eyes exchanging a message.
Now, when we hear Flowers on the Wall, we understand every word.
Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for the free weekly newsletter.