Baby, Would I Lie?

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The best way for me to thank my friends in Branson is not to mention them by name: You know who you are. Thanks for the use of the driveway, the house, the bus, the restaurant, the laughter.

For Chris and Susan Newman, who at the beginning pointed and said, “Look!” (and whispered, “Fried,”), and who at the end, pointed out (some of) my errors, they can put my devoted thanks in with their knowledge that without them this book could never have been written; they’re just going to have to live with that.

To the country balladeers of yesterday and today, singer-songwriters who perfected the art of describing the rougher road, my unfeigned and uncomplicated admiration; my poor efforts on your turf herein are mere homage.

As to the tabloidoids, they’re as scurrilous as ever.

Sara drove out of the wilderness. Inside the purring air-conditioned Buick Skylark, a rental from the airport, she rolled southward from Springfield through the tumbled Ozarks, more a furrowed plateau than a mountain range, on toward the new home of country music, forty miles away: Branson, Missouri.

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