I heard of a curious tale which happened in a town not so far away of a humble hayseed musician named Puddin’. It was a quiet weekend and quiet weekends in a quiet town didn’t set well with a guy like Puddin’ for he was the type who hated not having anything to do. So ol’ Puddin’ hatched a plan, grabbed his favorite guitar and out the door he went. Ol Puddin’ hopped into his ancient pickup, the sort of vintage that would kill skeeters for miles around from all the thick, noxious smoke it spewed anytime it was running. He hit the road in that rattletrap pickup of his while killing skeeters all the way when he pulled into the parking lot of the local nursing home a few miles upwind to play for the residents there.
Ol’ Puddin’ walked through the front doors of that nursing home with guitar in hand and saying hello to the nurses. He told them he felt like stopping by and playing and singing for a few lucky patrons if they could stand him. Naturally all those nurses thought he was a doll for stopping by just to entertain their patients so they gave Puddin’ the free run of the place to play and sing wherever he liked.
Ol’ Puddin’ walked into a room where a genial old soul was sitting quietly in bed watching tv. They hit it right off and exchanged a few pleasantries. Then Puddin’ asked if he could sing a few songs for him which the old fellow was mighty grateful for and so he gave Puddin’ his blessing to sing what he liked. Ol’ Puddin’ sat down in a chair, leaned back and crossed his leg while setting that guitar of his on his lap to play. Puddin’ strummed a few hymns and sang like a southern crooner lost in the memories of his own childhood days spent at his family church.
After a spell of this improptu concert Puddin’ said he must go and see others and got up to leave. But before walking out the door Puddin’ turned back and expressed his hope that he gets better. The old man nodded and said he hoped that he got better too!
