Dickie Betts

Years ago, when my fingers were more nimble and flexible, I played acoustic guitar. Most of my repertoire was country music with some southern rock mixed in.

I never reached any level of competence that made me think I was marketable. Music was a fun hobby. I enjoyed it. My friends and family tolerated it.

I have never read music so I would buy an album (i.e., those large, black disks that are placed on a device called a turntable, and then a needle is put onto the disk and, voila, music comes out. Very primitive). Then I would listen to the song as many times as it took to figure out how to play it.

I am not sure that my chords were the same chords from the original song, but it worked for me.

Like almost everyone, I had favorite artists. Willie Nelson of course, The Eagles, and The Marshall Tucker Band all had songs that were easy to play. I would branch out from there, but those were sort of my fallback bands.

I liked all kinds of music. The Allman Brothers Band was one of my all-time favorites. In law school, my roommate Kurt and I would finish briefing our cases for the next day, have a bite to eat, and then fire up a joint, put on our headphones, and listen to the Allman Brothers for hours. I must have heard the Eat a Peach album a hundred times.

When I went out to my favorite watering holes in the evening, I would put my guitar in the trunk of my car. You never knew when I might meet some fine, young woman who would like to hear a poorly played rendition of some Willie Nelson tune. Hey, sometimes it worked.

Through an elaborate set of circumstances, I was scheduled to make a presentation of a painting to country music legend Loretta Lynn. The event was going to take place in Nashville, Tennessee, at what was then called “Fan Fair” — now known as the Country Music Association (CMA) Music Festival.

This painting had been created by a client of mine for the Loretta Lynn Fan Club. I was scheduled to attend a dinner with them that night and make the presentation.

When I got to my hotel, I was surprised. I don’t know why I was surprised, but I was. The check-in line was immense. I had my suitcase and guitar in hand (a little nod there to Paul Simon) and took my place at the back of the line.

Now, no self-respecting guitar player would go to Nashville, especially during Fan Fair, and not bring his instrument. I mean that would be like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet with no appetite. So, I dutifully packed my Ovation turtleback guitar into my car and headed down the road.

I looked around and noticed I was not the only one toting a guitar. What did I expect? The place was filled with musicians. Many of them were chatting while they stood in line. It seemed like a lot of them knew one another.

It wasn’t long before a man got behind me in line. I could see out of the corner of my eye that he, too, had a guitar with him. I was beginning to feel a bit insecure, maybe like an imposter.

I didn’t turn around right away. I didn’t know anybody in Nashville, and the chances that I would know this stranger behind me were slim to none.

While standing in this slow-moving line, I eventually turned far enough around that our eyes met. He thrust his hand in my direction with a big smile on his face and said, “Hi, I’m Dickie Betts.”

Now, if you are unfamiliar with the Allman Brothers Band, this name means nothing to you. But Dickie Betts was one of the band’s founding members. It wasn’t the fact that he was a star that knocked me off guard. I have known a lot of celebrities in my life. But I suddenly felt like I was invading a space where I did not belong.

I asked myself, “Why are you standing here in this place with this damned guitar?” All I could do was pray that he wouldn’t ask me what band I was with.

I shook his hand, smiled back at him, and said, “I’m Wayne Schoeneberg. How was your trip?”

We spent the next few minutes waiting to check-in and talking about traffic, travel, family, the weather, and anything else I could think of to keep him from asking that dreaded question, the answer to which would expose me as a pretender. Finally, it was my turn to check in. I did. Then I turned and said, “Nice meeting you.” He returned the sentiment, and I walked away never to see him there again.

I don’t think I took my guitar out of its case even once during that entire weekend.