The 8 days that followed our first concert in San Jose and Honey’s sudden, epochal departure from the stage were a whirlwind of performing, sleeping on a tour bus, and dizzying personal reflection. It was Sunday evening when our two buses filled with tired and hungry musical fellow travelers settled into the parking garage of The Palmer House Hilton, located in the Loop section of Chicago. After a week of riding hundreds of miles on a bus, playing one-night stands, and sleeping uncomfortably on the same bus parked overnight at rest stops, all we wanted was a quick bite of dinner and a comfortable bed to lose consciousness in.

We scattered to various eateries. Billy, Hank, and Ray, our road manager, decided to try Gibson’s Steakhouse on Rush Street, a 15-minute walk from our hotel on East Monroe. Others went for less pricey places in the immediate neighborhood. Bobby went with the greater contingent of the band to have some famous Chicago deep-dish pizza. He asked me and Bailey our wardrobe mistress to tag along but I demurred. I went straight up to the room I was to share with Bailey for the 5 nights we were in town and picked up the phone, dialing home to speak to Mom.

“Hello…”

“Mom, it’s me, Shuggie! I’m calling from Chicago—”

“It’s good to hear from you, sweetie. But how did you end up in Chicago? Did something go wrong with the band? Did you quit or get fired—”

“No, Mom, it’s on our tour itinerary. We’re in Chicago for concerts Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. Then we’re off to Detroit and Milwaukee—”

“Oh, that’s okay then. It’s just I’m worried about you. You’ve never been away from home or your dad and I for more than a weekend. At least you’ve got Bobby there to look after you.”

“Yes, Mom, he’s been a very good babysitter. Listen, Mom, is Dad watching TV? I don’t want him to know too much about what’s going on. He’s not really on board with everything. I’m telling you stuff because, well, you’re on my side, you know.”

“Your dad went bear hunting with Bobby’s dad again this weekend. He won’t be home until late. So, what’s so secretive about what’s going on with you? He agreed to let you go on tour with the band. Reluctantly, but he did.”

“Well, things have taken a turn—”

“For the worse? Oh, Shuggie, no! What happened?”

“For the better, Mom. I’m taking over for Honey Hutch. I’m the lead vocalist now, not a backup singer!”

“Oh my god, Shuggie. How did this happen?”

“She left the band! Just walked off the stage at our first concert in San Jose. Billy made an executive decision and said we had to continue the concert…with me singing all of Honey’s parts!”

“Okay, let me sit down. This sounds like it could be a long story.”

So, I began to recount the events of the past 8 days, although there were parts of the story I didn’t tell her. After all, there are some things you just don’t tell your mother. For their own protection, of course.

I looked out into the audience and I froze. My lips trembled but no sounds escaped, and my eyes widened with panic. Both hands tightly gripped the microphone stand as I felt a trickle of sweat slide down the back of my gown. It seemed like an eternity but mere seconds into my catatonia, Hank stepped behind me and whispered, “Sing “I Can’t Help Myself.” Do it like we’ve rehearsed it.” He squeezed my shoulder and then quickly went around to the other bandmembers, giving them the change in song order. A downbeat initiated the opening bars, the familiar notes reviving me. I started to sway with the music and sang out the first line.

When our drummer hit the final stroke on what is legendarily called The Motown Shuffle, there was a second or two of complete silence in the house. On stage, we held our breaths, waiting for the audience’s response. Would they find my performance acceptable in replacing Honey? Would they jeer?

Suddenly, an ovation erupted from the crowd. Relieved, we bowed as one, soaking in the applause and shouted praise. Then, like the professionals we were, we performed the rest of the concert in fine form. I only flubbed two lines! I covered over the flubs by doing my hasty impression of scat singing. Some of the bandmembers even giggled at my faux pas. I wonder if that’s how Ella Fitzgerald started scat singing.

The question of what to do as an encore was at the center of another hushed conversation backstage. Billy and Hank traded ideas. Billy preferred we perform “Do I Love You (Indeed I Do)” again as a reminder of its prospective release in September. Hank wanted to try something we’d fooled around with during soundchecks. It was just Hank at the piano and me duetting on the old Inez and Charlie Foxx tune, “Mockingbird.” Before Billy could marshal an argument against it, Hank pulled me out on stage, sat me down next to him on the piano bench, and announced the song title to the applauding crowd. Bobby gave me a thumbs up from the wings. Billy looked unsure this was a good idea. The crowd quieted down as Hank played. We began to sing.

Billy declared the night a huge success as we boarded the bus after the concert. Hank had half-expected to see Honey sitting in the lounge section, pouring herself an after-concert cup of black coffee as usual. But she was nowhere to be seen. She had probably taken a taxi to the airport and flown who knows where. Maybe to her parents in Detroit. When her absence finally sank in, Hank just slumped into a seat, a sad look on his face.

“I thought she was just having another of her tantrums. She left the band once in St. Louis. Right after the first song, just like tonight. I found her playing solitaire in our hotel room.”

Billy was oblivious to Hank’s mood. “I really don’t care if she stays away. Shuggie here is a great replacement. The crowd loved her! That Four Tops cover put us on another level. The only problem is changing all the marquees, the posters, listings in the papers. We’ll just call it the Hank Hutch Band for now.”

I raised my hand as if I were in History class. “Excuse me, Billy, but remember, I can’t go by my real name. My dad would be apoplectic.”

“I already planned for that. We’ll call you Sugar Pie.”

“Just Sugar Pie? Like a cartoon character or a pet?”

“Yeah, it’s perfect. The audience will connect you to the song. We’ll record it first chance we get and release it as a single under the name Sugar Pie. Maybe I can get some studio time in Chicago or Detroit.”

Hank’s face brightened and he said, “We need you, Shuggie, until Honey comes to her senses. We got 8 weeks of concert dates to fulfill. And this’ll really jump start your career. I’m sure Billy could get you a contract as a solo artist.”

“It’s just weird having to use a stage name. I’m sure Honey preferred using her real name not something like Sugar Pie.”

Hank laughed, “Honey’s not her real name either.” Billy nodded.

“Was her father against her being in show business, using her real name, like me?”

“Nah, her real name’s Tunesha. Now, you tell me, don’t you think Hank and Honey rolls off the tongue better than Hank and Tunesha?”

The next day we took part in an afternoon concert in San Francisco at Daly City’s Cow Palace, a hangar-like indoor arena a few minutes from downtown. The Hank Hutch Band, as we were now called, was second billed behind The Beau Brummels, a local San Francisco group that had two national Top 10 hits the year before. Contrary to their top billing here, they were already in decline as a best-selling band. Their third album, released that month, would bomb.

Behind us on the bill were two other local bands: Jefferson Airplane and Big Brother & The Holding Company. They each played half-hour sets before we came on stage, immediately preceding the headlining Beau Brummels. While the girl singer for Big Brother was kind of interesting in a blues-rock vein, I didn’t think they had much of a future. Janis Joplin, I think, was her name.

Jefferson Airplane, on the other hand, really sounded good. With a pair of vocalists, Marty Balin and Signe Anderson, I could see them having some chart success. They played the sort of electric folk-rock that Dylan had started to popularize. Their version of “High Flying Bird” was a highlight of their set.

Marty approached me after the concert as we were boarding the ever-present tour bus and invited me to perform at this club in town called The Matrix that he owned part of. When I asked if he meant the band not just me, he smiled and said, “Either way.” Bobby, who was standing behind me, watched Marty walk away, turned to me, and laughed. “Owning a club must be a real help in picking up girls.”

“Maybe he thought I was a really good singer. Is that so unbelievable?”

“No, of course not. But I don’t think he was interested in your vocal cords.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll be back in San Francisco anytime soon.”

“His loss.” Bobby took my hand and we boarded the bus for the 6-hour drive back to Los Angeles. We would spend Monday, July 4th, ‘resting’ before a concert at The Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday. Then we would board the bus to arrive in Phoenix for a concert on Wednesday night and Denver for a one-nighter on Friday. Finally, to conclude a rather hectic week, we would end up in a Chicago hotel room on Sunday evening. Oh, the life of a pop star!

We were back in Billy’s Laurel Canyon house on Monday, the 4th. Hank and the girls left after brunch, taking one of Billy’s cars, and planned to spend the day checking out the 4th of July parade and fireworks in Santa Monica and go club-hopping in the evening. No one had heard from Honey. But Billy assured us she could very capably take care of herself, wherever she was.

Bobby arrived at the house just in time to have lunch with Billy and me. He had to take two buses to get from the Sunset Marquis to Laurel Canyon. He almost absentmindedly got off in Studio City and the entire journey took over an hour, including 15 minutes climbing the hills of Laurel Canyon to reach Billy’s house.

After lunch, I put on the one-piece swimsuit Billy had picked out for me and Bobby borrowed a pair of Billy’s swim trunks so we could lounge by the pool. Billy disappeared to his office to make phone calls. Even on the 4th of July, Billy was working the phones, plotting, planning, kibitzing he called it. He didn’t tell us but I’m sure some of the kibitzing had to do with Honey’s desertion from the band. There were legal issues to ponder.

About mid-afternoon, with barbecue smoke wafting overhead from Billy’s neighbors and the sound of occasional rounds of fireworks in the distance, a group of shaggy-haired young men appeared before us, accompanied by Billy. Even though I was wearing a conservative one-piece suit, I was self-conscious enough to grab a towel and try to cover myself as they looked on. Seeing my plight, Bobby stood up and placed himself in their line of sight, partially obscuring me in my lounge chair.

Billy introduced them as a band called The Doors. Apparently, they had just started a residency at a club called The Whisky a Go Go on The Sunset Strip. They had dropped by to visit with Billy because they were opening for us at the Hollywood Bowl on Tuesday and Jac Holzman at Elektra Records was looking for a producer for their first album. Billy ushered them back into the house, saying he’d be off the phone in fifteen minutes, and asked Marisol to get them beers or soda, whatever they preferred. Bobby put on a shirt and followed them into the living room. I excused myself to change out of my bathing suit and into a t-shirt and jeans.

When I made my re-entrance, they were chugging bottles of beer with Bobby while listening to a tape of a song we had recorded at Sunset Sound last week. I was singing lead on “Everything is Good About You.”

When the song ended, they all applauded. Jim Morrison, their vocalist Billy had said, saluted me with his beer bottle. “That’s really good. I like your voice. So, Bobby tells me you’re both from New Jersey. Did you work there locally?”

“Oh, no, we’ve only been doing this for three weeks. Me, personally, even a week less than that. I never thought I’d be singing professionally.”

Bobby interjected, “We were both in band in high school. Shuggie plays clarinet. I’ve done some sort-of amateur stuff in New York, sitting in with jazz combos and such. I played with Nina Simone last month at The Village Gate.”

Ray Manzarek, the one with glasses and sandy-colored hair, was impressed. “Nina Simone? That’s real top tier. Hey, here’s Billy.” Billy walked in. “Bobby, playing with the tapes again? That’s just a rough take. I’m not happy with the backing track on that. The sax player was way off-key.”

Ray smiled. “Bobby, isn’t that you on sax?” Bobby turned red. Billy patted him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Bobby. Just teasing.”

“Shuggie’s pretty impressive, though” Jim declared.

“I think Jim means you’re impressively pretty, Shuggie” Ray smirked.

Bobby looked out the window at the Ford Econoline Van in the driveway. “Guys, is that van what you use to travel to gigs?”

Robby, the guitarist in the band, stood by Bobby at the window. “We’ve been driving that for a few months now. It’s used but it’s a ’65 model. Jim got a sweet deal on it from an old college buddy.”

John, the drummer, took a swig from his bottle and hooked his thumb toward the front door of the house. “You wanna take a closer look at it? You can take it for a drive if you want. We’ll even let you honk the horn. C’mon Robby, let’s give Bobby the guided tour of Econoline heaven.” The three of them left.

“So, Jim, Ray, I thought you guys were going to work with Rothschild. After all, he’s Jac’s house producer at Elektra. I’m a big admirer of his work. He did the Butterfield album and I hear the second one is even better. He lives down the road, a hop, skip and a jump from here.”

“We know him by reputation,” Jim said. “But we’re not sure he’s the right producer for us, stylistically. Anyway, Holzman told us he’d consider an outside producer if we could find someone we’d prefer. Ray likes your stuff—”

“Yeah, it’s more…uh…commercial than the stuff Elektra releases. I know Jim agrees with me. We’re not interested in doing pop arrangements of folk songs or white suburban versions of Delta blues.”

“What Ray is trying to say is we want someone who can produce a record that’ll get us on Ed Sullivan. You dig?”

“Well, that’s a noble ambition. And pays the bills a lot easier. Nothing wrong with being “commercial.” The business of America is business. Capisce?”

Jim reached into his jeans pocket and took out a sandwich baggie filled with what looked like oregano. It didn’t smell like oregano when he opened it.

“If we’re going to talk business, I think we need to be in the right frame of mind. We need to mellow out. I hate high-pressured discussions. Let’s partake.” He took out small squares of paper and cleared some space on the coffee table. “I prefer to use the whole plant, stems, seeds, everything. Any objections? Billy? Shuggie?”

It dawned on me that I was about to smoke grass for the first time ever. Bobby said he’d smoked some with his jazz friends on occasion and that some guys in school had tried it too. I sat there and watched Jim expertly roll two joints with the skill of an Old West cowboy. One handed. He passed one to Billy and lit it for him. The other one he gave to Ray, also lighting that one. Billy took a deep drag and then handed it to me. I took a deep drag and almost coughed up my lungs. My eyes began to water.

“Whoa, is that your first time? Yeah, you’ve got to go easy on it. Slow and deep. Don’t try to suck the smoke out of it in one. A couple of tokes and you’ll feel real mellow.”

We passed the joints around for about ten minutes. I didn’t really feel any different, which surprised me since I thought I’d be affected by it within a couple of puffs. Finally, Ray stood up and asked Billy if they could go somewhere to talk business. Billy led him into his office, leaving me alone with Jim.

“Yeah, Ray’s got a better grip on business matters than I do. I’m more of the carefree artist type. I’m mainly into my art. I guess, you’re like that too?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I haven’t ever really thought of myself as any kind of artist. Even the singing just comes naturally.”

“So, are you and Billy…”

“No, he’s like my boss, that’s all. But he’s been very kind to me. He convinced my father to let me go on tour with Hank’s band this summer. My Dad had strong objections against it. He’s still not completely alright with it.”

“Because you’re…too young?”

“That’s part of it. I’m only 17. I’m still in high school.”

“I can see why your dad would object. You do know about Billy’s reputation, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah, he’s America’s youngest millionaire record producer. That’s what the New York Times called him.”

“No, I mean his reputation as a horndog. Especially with underage girls. He’s been rumored to fool around with 15 and 16-year-olds. Of course, I don’t believe every rumor I hear. From what I’ve seen, he seems okay.”

“He’s been a perfect gentleman.” All of a sudden, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The grass was having its advertised effect, some 20 minutes later. Jim noticed I’d gone silent.

“I hope I haven’t offended you. It’s just you’re still a minor in most states. And it’d be a shame if you got taken advantage of by someone like Billy—I’m not saying Billy specifically. I mean, you know, older guys. In general.”

Feeling a little light-headed, I giggled and said, “I know all about guys.”

“Oh, a worldly woman of experience, eh?”

“No, I know all about guys because…” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “I’m a guy myself. Yes, I am. I’m a guy.”

“You’re kidding. Can’t be.”

“Would I joke about something like that?” I giggled.

Just then, Billy and Ray walked into the living room. They found me, giggling, my head practically in Jim’s lap. He looked up at Billy and Ray, shrugging his shoulders and trying to get me to sit up straight. “That Acapulco Gold is some strong shit. She’s like hallucinating. She’s saying she’s really a guy.” Billy looked into my bloodshot eyes. “Yeah, delayed effect. She’ll be alright.”

As if on cue, the van returned, and whoever was driving started honking the horn. This made me giggle some more. Jim and Ray shook hands with Billy and moved to the front door, where they almost ran into Bobby coming in just as they exited.

“Billy, what’s the matter with Shuggie?”

“She’s okay. A little too much weed for a first time.”

“What? You let them give her some grass to smoke?”

“Come on, Bobby, grass is harmless. It’s not like they had her shooting horse. Marisol, can you pour a glass of orange juice for Shuggie? Vitamin C tends to lessen the high. Should do the trick.”

When Marisol handed me the glass of orange juice, I chugged it down greedily. I don’t know if it really lessened my high but thinking that it might calmed me down rather quickly. Bobby looked at me and scolded, “I can’t let you out of my sight for 5 minutes.”

“They sound like a nice group of young men. And you say that Morrison boy comes from a military family?”

“Yes, Mom. His father is an Admiral in the navy.”

“Is he good looking, this boy Jim?”

“Mom! They just dropped by Billy’s house to talk business with him. We…uh…we…Bobby and me entertained them while Billy had some phone calls to make.”

“Did they bring any baked goods with them? It’s polite for guests to offer their hosts a cake, a pie, even donuts—”

“Mom, they brought some grass with them.”

“Is Billy into gardening?”

“Can I continue, Mom? This phone call is gonna cost Billy a mint.”

“Are they going to make a federal case out of a long-distance call from a child to their mother? How much could it cost? These people make millions—”

“Mom!!!”

Tuesday night, about an hour before The Doors were to open for us, Hank and I were sitting backstage at The Hollywood Bowl, shooting the breeze. He was telling me he was looking forward to arriving in Chicago on Sunday.

“I grew up on the North Side of Chicago. My parents and younger brother and sister still live there. Ain’t been home in more than a year. Of course, they’ll be curious about why Honey’s not with me. It’ll be fine with Mama. She never did like Honey and vice versa. Do Bobby’s parents like you?”

“Oh, yeah, we get along really well. We’re neighbors. Our houses are on the same block. Mrs. Messina thinks I’m a girl—”

“Well, that ain’t peculiar. You are,” he laughed.

“Right, of course. Well, I went through a tomboy phase and everyone kinda assumed I was a boy.”

“Shuggie, I can’t believe anyone would think you were a boy, even if you dressed in coveralls and a ball cap.”

“Shuggie! We heard about what happened. We just had to come see you!” It was Carole and Gerry. I was shocked to see them, but I guess news travels fast in music circles. She rushed over to me and hugged me. Gerry waved.

“Hey, Hank, sorry to hear about Honey. Have you heard from her since Saturday night?”

“No, Gerry, Billy’s been trying to track her down. We think she might have gone home to her mother’s in Detroit. The tour goes through there in a week or so. Maybe we’ll meet up then.” He shrugged.

“So, Shuggie, is showbiz all you thought it would be, now that you’re a star?”

“Carole, I’m not a star. I’m just a singer in Hank’s band. Hank’s the star.”

“That’s a pretty dress, Shuggie. Love the earrings too—”

The Doors walked into the backstage lounge. Jim Morrison came right over to me and planted a big wet kiss on my cheek.

“Sorry.” He tried to wipe my cheek with his thumb. “My mouth waters when I see a beautiful girl.”

“Any beautiful girl. Any girl at all,” laughed Ray as he, Robby, and John sat down on the couch.

“We’re The Doors.” Jim waved his hand with a flourish. “And you…you must be Hank Hutch if I’m not mistaken.” Hank nodded. “I’m afraid I don’t know you two.”

“Gerry Goffin. My wife, Carole King. We’re songwriters—”

“Oh, yeah!” He started singing “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.”

“That’s Barry Mann and Cynthia Weil. People often mistake us for them and vice versa. We both work out of the Brill Building.”

“Forgive me. I’m not too up on the pop charts. Ray, you know anything by them?”

Ray shook his head and reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes. He coaxed the last one out into his mouth and asked Robby for a light.

“So, Shuggie or Sugar Pie as you’ve chosen for a stage name, have you told Hank your secret?”

Hank looked at me. “What secret? Shuggie’s an open book, the crazy kid.”

“Not what she told me. Right, Sugar Pie?”

“I was just joking.” I turned to Carole and Gerry. “He made me smoke some grass and I got really high. I don’t know what I was saying.”

“What you told me was: you’re really a guy. I’ve heard of people hallucinating on acid or ‘shrooms but not on grass.”

“Hey, she’s an innocent kid from the suburbs. I’m sure she’s never smoked before. Just leave her alone.” Gerry took a step toward Jim.

“We’re a long way from the suburbs, little girl. Or boy. Hank, you should straighten this out with Billy. He or she is his protégée. I heard Billy’s very familiar with she-males. His brother’s one.”

Bobby walked into the room, having overheard some of the conversation.

“Guys, Shuggie’s a girl. Come on. She was super high on that Acapulco Gold you pushed on her.”

“Maybe she’s got you fooled too. Look, I’ve got nothing against boys who want to be girls or girls who want to be boys. Trying to get one over on the teeming millions out there is gonna be one rough ride. If anyone finds out—”

“She’s a girl. I’ve known her since we were in elementary school.” Bobby put his arm around me. “We grew up together. We’re…we’re in love.” Bobby kissed me lightly right on the lips. “See? Now, shouldn’t you guys start setting up? You’ve got less than a half hour before showtime.” Ray took a last drag of his cigarette and stood up.

“Come on, Jim. You’ve had your fun. Let’s set up. Let me apologize for Jim’s boorish behavior. His analyst says he’s anti-social because he fucking hates his father. Excuse my French.” The four of them left the room.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” asked Gerry with a smirk. “Shuggie, stay away from characters like that. They’re bad news. Even when they’re holding good shit.”

“I guess you really are “Bobby’s Girl,” Hank mused.

“I figured if I didn’t do something like that, he wouldn’t stop teasing Shuggie. Billy said he’s a real flake. Said he wouldn’t work with him even if Jac Holzman offered a cool million. They do a 12-minute song about him killing his father and committing incest with his mother. A weirdo, man.”

“He’s kind of cute though. We girls think so. Right, Carole?”

I watched from the wings as The Doors performed their opening set. Apparently, they were well-known enough to have pockets of fans cheering wildly in the audience. I’m sure Billy was a little disappointed in the turnout for our concert. The Bowl was at half-capacity. Still, that meant we were playing before a crowd of over 8,000. I wonder how many in the audience knew about Honey’s absence. Was that why walk-up ticket sales were sluggish?

I must say Jim was an impressive performer. His bluesy vocals and self-assured stage presence provided the evidence for Elektra Records offering them a recording contract. I think Billy’s wrong about the group. I could sense the connection they made with the audience, especially in their final number, “Break On Through to the Other Side.” They received the kind of ovation that made me unsure we’d produce the same results when we followed as the headliners.

My fears were unfounded as we played two encores to thunderous applause. Billy was happy despite the half-full house. Early reports from Phoenix and Denver, our next two stops on the tour, were encouraging. It seems Hank Hutch was more popular the further east we traveled. So popular that Billy had a third night added to our Chicago concerts next week.

True to his word, our concert in Phoenix at The Veteran’s Memorial Coliseum sold out the 14,000-seat facility. It was broadcast over the air on KRUX-AM radio. One of the local DJs introduced us. After the concert, we took advantage of the extensive showers in the Coliseum (the place had opened the year before to host professional sports teams as well as music concerts). Of course, I showered with Brianna and Bailey, who were really quite nice and understanding throughout the tour that summer.

Then, it was back to the tour buses and a 20-hour trek to Denver for our next one-night stand. The actual road time was 12 hours, but we parked overnight at some rest stop in New Mexico. We arrived just two hours before showtime at The Denver Coliseum. A rushed soundcheck was cut even shorter when our opening act appeared, Bob Lind. Lind was the toast of Denver. A local artist whose original composition “Elusive Butterfly” had peaked at number 5 on the national charts just 3 months before. While everyone else in the band wandered about the grounds of the Coliseum, I stayed behind to listen to Lind go through his soundcheck. He was only scheduled to sing 3 or 4 songs. Billy had used his innumerable industry contacts to get Lind to be a “special guest” and open for us. Billy was proven right that having Lind open for us would clinch a sell-out. The 10,000 seat Coliseum would be packed to the rafters tonight.

Lind performed solo with just an acoustic guitar. I watched and listened as he sang the lovely “Elusive Butterfly” to an empty house that echoed his round-toned voice and rhythmic strumming as clear as a bell.

Somewhere in Nebraska, in the midst of a 24-hour bus journey from Denver to Chicago, Billy and I were chatting about being away from home. I confessed to Billy that I was a little homesick. I was going to definitely call my mom when we reached Chicago on Sunday.

“You’ve only been away for two weeks. I left home at 18 and never looked back.”

“You never went to college, Billy? You’re smart. You must have had good grades in school.”

“The only thing I was interested in was music. Writing songs, playing piano and guitar, singing. You know, I never thought I’d end up producing records for other artists. I thought it’d be me making those records, singing my own songs.”

“I didn’t know you wrote songs and sang. I’d like to hear you sing one someday.”

Hank walked over to our part of the bus, holding an acoustic guitar. He handed it to Billy. “Here you go. I haven’t heard you sing in a long time myself. Give Shuggie a taste of your musical genius.” He chuckled as he sat down across from us. “I’ll play the bus seat bongos to accompany you.”

“Okay. I wrote a song about returning home after a long time on the road. It’s about what you leave behind and what might not be there when you finally come back. It goes something like this…” He strummed and laughed before turning serious. He seemed to be looking at something faraway in the distance. “It’s called “Rolling Home.”

Billy’s song made me think about home. About the road. Made me think about the road as a metaphor for life’s journey. And my head hurt from trying too hard to make sense of it all. Where is home? Is home wherever you find yourself on the road of life? Everyone grows up and leaves home to find…what? Themselves? It’s too much to ponder. I’m just a kid.

Just a girl. On the road.