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On to the finish line. It’s Showcase Day, which means I wear my heart necklace with the music note on it. Steve’s workout was a short pentatonic lick in various keys. To my dismay, I noticed that even after some warming up, my fingers were not cooperating. Wake up, little Susies, I muttered, we gotta get to work in a few minutes. We scattered the chairs and music stands and clambered around the stage for Chuck Thompson to take the group photo. A dozen exposures and twice that number of wisecracks later, it was snack time. Now, for any teacher’s favorite moment: seeing his students go for it. The Student Showcase hour featured a dozen first timers and old hands alike. One could sense everyone in the room silently rooting for their friends on stage. I like to watch Steve watching us. He simply glows with pride. When I leaned into the microphone for my first line, it sounded like someone else singing, someone better than me. My fingers were still sleep deprived, but as I looked out on the faces before me, including Steve’s, that didn’t matter. Applause and cheers for all. The heartfelt hugs. Once more, the clang of chairs stacking, the snaps of cases closing, the calls for just one more picture. The cars and trucks coming to life, ferrying away the guitars and the memories. Later, Greg, Pat, and I rendezvoused back in the parking lot — my usual tactic — for a night at the Opry. We scored center seats near the front for Ricky Skaggs, Sara Evans, Vince Gill and others on Bill Anderson’s 60th anniversary with the Opry. The house was packed and appreciative for the occasion. Finally, even we three die hards had to part. One last check to ensure the lights were off, and no stray picks were left on the sidewalk. Then our triad arpeggiated into the Nashville night.

Down the backstretch hard, and turning for home. Does Pat Lindgren ever sleep? She had a jam going at 8:30 am when I walked in the door. Eventually they had to stop to give Steve a chance to run his show. We started with a lesson from Steve and Dino on solo improvising. Joe Robinson returned for a masterclass on fingerpicking, for which I afterwards heard only praise for his skill as a teacher. Check out JoeRobinson.com to see for yourself. My noon expedition with Greg in search of the Hattie B’s on 8th street, only 12 minutes away, devolved into a 45 minute loop of central city, two crossings of the Cumberland, an encounter with a funeral procession, and a near collision with an idiot who cut in front of us. He promised to have the GPS app humanely euthanized. Back to theory land with Steve for me. He responds to the phrase “tritone substitution” the way most most people respond to “free dessert”. Enough said. Another new guest artist this year was Scott Bernard, side man to Kenny Loggins. Scott walked us through his pedalboard as he explained how he gets the tone he wants. The gearhounds among us couldn’t get enough. We wrapped with singers Debi Shelby and Peter Penrose demonstrating how guitarists can be proper accompanists. They closed with soaring harmony on a hymn that brought a tear to my eye and the whole gang to their feet. After a short break at my hotel to panic about tomorrow’s song and where to find dinner tonight, I scooped up Liz at Trevecca and executed Operation Tell Greg Where to Go. He was already waiting at the LongHorn when Liz and I pulled up. We toasted our teacher and cheerfully took the rap for each other for Liz’s benefit. Then off to Franklin. On Main Street I had to wait for some tourists to cross in front of me. They looked a lot like David, Keith, and Mark. We parked and strolled towards towards the Franklin Theatre as Greg rolled by, shouting out his window: “Diane! Where did you park?” Operation TGWTG still nominal. The Franklin Theatre is a little gem within a diamond of a town. Poor Liz, sitting to my right: I had not been sitting next to the gentleman on my left for more than five minutes before we were into George Gruhn’s albino snake, Carter guitars, and David Grier. Tonight a full house welcomed the return of Larry Carlton to the stage after a year’s absence for the shutdown. Drums, sax, trombone, keys, bass, and everything of Steely Dan except Donald and Walter. They bid us goodnight; we clapped for an encore. I turned to Liz and shouted, “Well, he has to come back for ‘Peg’”. He did. Liz and I looked at each other and grinned.

Around the first turn we go. Steve’s workout exercised the mechanics of picking and strumming. If the morning coffee had yet to kick in, the pot of Bart Walker’s steaming hot blues got us in gear. SRV at ten a.m.? Only at this affair. I strolled with Greg, first timer Liz, and our fellow migrating bluesbirds to the Subway at the front entrance. It felt good to walk around in the warmth — briefly. Liz and I camped at a table in the music building’s loft and enjoyed some leisurely quiet time getting acquainted over our sandwiches. Back in songwriting class, Kim critiqued some raw and finished compositions that had been sent to her overnight. She pitched us an pop exercise straight out of a prose writer’s workshop — two minutes to write seven song titles — 3, 2, 1, go! I managed three duds, a maybe, and a keeper that got her attention. Meanwhile, Steve and Paulette continued teaching theory and Collin had the fingerpickers a-boom-chucking away. Andy Reiss set the jazzers’ axes to “Phrase”, and Jim Hurst mowed down the bluegrass tricks. Kim kept my class running overtime, and I was on a roll, so I lingered until she had to leave. It meant skipping Steve’s worship music class, but my compensation was a blissful, quiet respite in the lounge before returning to Dino’s blues jam. We all piled back into the main room to wrap up with Parker Hasting’s thumb picking masterclass. He’s not quite twenty one years old and already teaches with more clarity and poise than a lot of tenured professors I’ve known. Jim Hurst and his trio entertained us at our evening concert with a sweet mix of toe tappers, ballads, and endearing stories. And his handshake? Warm as the Tennessee sunshine.