"Anderson, Bill - Whispering Bill" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anderson Bill)

to lose sight of the fact that what matters isn't always the same as
what counts.

for better or for worse, i have written every word of this book myself.
there have been no ghost writers and no long hours spent talking into a
tape recorder only to have another writer come along and attempt to
organize and interpret my thoughts.i'll take the blame for it all, and
i'll accept the fact that even some of those closest to me will probably
be surprised by some of what i have to say.

there is no doubt that my life has been, for the most part, a fairytale
existence, chock-full of happiness and the savoring of sweet success.
one morning fate just decided to serve me a heaping platter of bitter
reality for breakfast.from that day to this, my mission has been to try
to learn how better to accept life on its own terms ...all the while
seeking to remind myself and those around me that there is a big
difference between a dead-end and a fork in the road.

it didn't start out to be a very unusual day at all, certainly not one i
ever thought i'd be remembering in such detail all these years later.

the sun came up as always in the east, peeking tentatively at first from
behind the sloping rooftop of my neighbor danny norton's house, then
easing its way ever so slowly up into the clear, intensely blue sky.by
midmorning its bright beams were streaming down like glistening
raindrops upon the shiny new coats of the gold, orange, and coral leaves
still clinging to the lower branches of the oak, maple, and walnut trees
that dotted my yard.there was just enough of a bite in the air to
announce that this was indeed october, my favorite month of the year in
tennessee, the most beautiful and serene of all places.it was truly a
morning made for a sleepy country music singer to crack open his eyelids
for only a moment, admiringly soak up a quick dose of the beauty all
around him, and then roll back over, pull the covers up tightly around
his shoulders, and dream until noon of million-selling records,
perfectly tuned guitars, and richly tanned ladies all sitting
cross-legged on the front row.

but my alarm clock, by design, had other ideas.it woke me promptly at
nine eigh m., the lone sound penetrating the otherwise total serenity of
my country estate.i awoke lying crossways in my custom-made king-sized
bed.alone.the alone part wasn't anything different. waking up as early
as nine o'clock on a Saturday morning at home definitely was different.

home was, and had been for almost five years, a rambling,
sixthousand-square-foot Spanish-styled mansion standing picturesquely
atop a grassy knoll overlooking thirty-five acres of rolling farm land
some thirty-odd miles east of downtown nashville.the house, a modern
horse barn, an authentic log cabin built in 1816 by slave labor, and a
creek that flowed through open land before winding its way to within a
few feet of the screened porch that had been added to the back of the