TUESDAY THOUGHTS: I ACTUALLY SAID, "NO". (THANK GOD FOR *69)

I was planning to take a bus trip one weekend in the late summer of 1994. 

Traveling, for me, traditionally meant my parents packing the car with fruit, fried chicken, luncheon meat, Wonder bread, Twinkies, Shasta sodas, comic and puzzle books, a sketch pad and some pencils. 

The ice chest was your footrest, and you and your sibling were the human seat belts for the littlest sibling sitting in the middle of the back seat. 

You played, "That's my house", or "That's my car", counted license plates, and perked up if you happened to pass a bunch of horses or cows. 

You didn't know that your parents didn't stop at a hotel, or certain rest areas because you were Black in America and COULDN'T stop. 

You just thought they liked to drive. 

You complained that somebody's feet were in your face, slept, ate, read, and finally emerged 2000 miles later-- sleepy, wrinkled, covered with crumbs, and with a ruined press-and-curl.

I was born in Louisiana, and each summer my family piled into the car for the extremely long ride to Addis. 

We might stop in Biloxi, Mississippi at Uncle Jack and Aunt Rosa's house. I would be so mad, because we'd be so close to Louisiana, and all I wanted to do was see my grandmother's smiling face. 

But the stop in Mississippi gave everyone a chance to stretch our legs and Aunt Rosa always had huge peppermint sticks, so I wouldn't stay mad for long. 

If the trip wasn't south, it was north to Boston. 

Flying was a luxury. No one just boarded a plane and went anywhere unless it was an emergency. 

I didn't know anyone who just flew somewhere for a weekend. 

Modes of transportation that made sense were buses, trains and cars. Flying meant that someone was dead, the funeral was the next day, and if you were going to get there on time, you had to fly---but you rode back in someone's car. 

Flying was expensive, and not for "regular" people.

So, when the phone rang that day back in 1994, my mind was on ways to make a tiring bus trip bearable. 

I said, "Hello?". 

The cheerful caller said, "Hey Baby, this is Richard". 

I remember the smirk I had on my face. 

It was no secret that almost every Christian church vocalist and gospel choir member in DC had a silent wish to be a Smallwood Singer—no matter what the configuration of the group was. They were our east coast Hawkins Family; our Disciples. 

They were so hip, and their harmonies were tight. 

They made music like we hadn't heard before, and they were all ours. Dottie Jones could sing no wrong. 

If there was a beast, she could calm it. 

Carolene Adams voice packed so much power. She was Aretha. Darlene Simmons' full, strong sassiness was pure Chaka Khan. 

 Wesley Boyd was Andrae Crouch. 

Steve Ford was Billy Preston. 

Tim Linzy was Larry Graham and the Brothers Johnson. 

Lisa Burrough's sound was sweet, happy, and as high as a kite. 

When Jackie Ruffin sang/preached, "God gave me a love, ha ha! And you can't take it!", I believed her! 

Patti Teagle's voice was heavenly and sincere. 

Ricky LaFontaine just didn't make any human sense at all. 

Jeff Davis made you check your watch because, of course, YOU and your timing were off. 

Bryant Pugh was Oscar Peterson and Monk. 

Dennis Sawyers' soaring tenor seemed to make the room shake. 

Even the crumbs of the sounds they all made were satisfying. 

And the cute, light-skinned brother with the big afro, who played and directed the choir at Union Temple Baptist Church, could get a simple wooden piano to produce sounds that defied all logic. 

He sang with power and there was NO choir like the Union Temple Young Adults. Teenagers abandoned their own churches to camp out near Good Hope Road, SE and listen to the sounds coming from the upper room of the hippest church in the city. 

To say that I was a fan was an understatement. 

For me, Richard Smallwood was pure musical genius--and someone I would HOPE to meet, but figured I'd gotten as close as I would ever get by attending baptism services at Bethlehem, or climbing up all those stairs to attend a church service or concert at the old Union Temple. 

I was happy just being a ticket holder in a seat at every concert I was fortunate enough to attend.

I remember thinking that the caller on the line must have been a friend. It was either that crazy Toby Palmer, or even crazier Freddye Jackson. 

I decided to play along. "Yes?". 

The caller said that one of his singers was ill, and "the group" was scheduled to minister in Nashville and Atlanta that weekend. 

I just shook my head and marveled at the detail that was going into this practical joke. 

"This is really mean", I thought. 

The caller continued,  "We were talking, and I was wondering if you could go in her place. I need an alto." 

I didn't know who "we" were, but I was actually getting a little attitude. 

Anyone who knew me should have known not to play about anything concerning the Smallwood Singers. 

I asked the caller how "the group" was going to get to Nashville and Atlanta. 

I was almost 34 years old at the time, and had only been on an airplane twice in my whole life. 

I was already dreading a bus trip to a place that was close to DC, so this "joke" was a bust if they thought I would be excited about a bus trip to two different, far away states in a matter of days. 

The caller answered in a manner that had a little "duh" in it. 

"We're going to fly, Baby". 

 So, I said, "Oh. Okay" in the most unconcerned way I could. 

He asked, "Well, Baby can you go?" 

I said in my very best SE, DC tone, "NO". 

Then I waited for the laugh and the gotcha. 

The caller calmly said, "Well okay, Baby. That's okay. There will be other times".

That's when I think I went into shock or fainted standing up--or both. What happened to the big laugh? Where was the "gotcha"? 

There was none. 

I was holding the phone and my brain was working, but my lips wouldn't move. 

The voice in my head was screaming, 

"Oh God! Oh my God! It really IS Richard Smallwood! SAY something, you idiot!!!" 
I tried, but couldn't speak. 

It seemed like hours passed as I reminded myself how much I loved The Richard Smallwood Singers. 

I reminded myself how happy I always was when Bethlehem Baptist Church and Union Temple Baptist Church would fellowship. 

I considered what was always playing in my car tape deck, and in my home on the turntable. 

I remembered how, in my heart, I always wanted to be a Smallwood Singer, but resigned that you just don't get to sing in a group like that. That privilege is set aside for special prodigies and angels on Earth who read music and play instruments. 

That group is sealed. 

You have no choice but to buy your peon-self a ticket, and find your happy self a seat---but you never sit in it, because you're standing, clapping, and crying, and singing along--from the audience.

I had said "No" to my favorite pianoman. 

The call that I dreamed about came, and I said, "No". 

I was still standing, holding the phone when I heard the "click" as he hung up. 

It may as well have been a bomb going off. 

If I thought it would have been possible for me to get my own foot behind me, I would have kicked my own butt. 

I stared at the phone as if something miraculous was going to happen. Maybe he would come bursting through the wall like Superman, scoop me up and fly me to Music City, but all I could hear was the annoying voice of some lady repeating, "If you would like to make a call, please hang up and try again". 

He had hung up. 

Richard Lee "Center of My Joy" Smallwood took his valuable time, found my number, dialed my number, asked me to sing, and I said "No". 

It wasn't Toby. It wasn't Freddye. It really was Gospel music's Beethoven, Mozart, and Chopin all rolled up in a little hot Motown sauce, and MY deranged behind had the audacity to say "No".

I started to cry. 

I sat down in a chair and cried. 

I know it was the Spirit of the Lord that led me to call my friend Debra Jones. I was crying so much that she assumed someone had died. 

It was a minute before I could say anything that sounded like English. I told her what I had done, and she started screaming.
"WHAT? You did WHAT? Are you CRAZY? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?"
I was sure she would curse me out because I felt like I deserved it--in ALL of the forbidden words in every possible combination. 

Debra was preaching, "Every time I get in your car that's all I hear! Richard Smallwood! I come in your house and that's all I hear! Richard Smallwood! And you did WHAT?"
I was inconsolable at that point.
"I thought it was a joke", I cried. I mean, he wouldn't have MY number. He wouldn't call me "Baby", would he?"
Debra was yelling, "Call him back! Call him back!"
I was really crying when I told her that I didn't have his number. She was at top volume by then, screaming "Vee! Hit star 69! Hit star 69!" 

I asked, "Do what?"
She shouted, "Lord, have mercy. Vanessa! Hit *69! Has anybody else called you?"
I told her "No". 

I admit I didn't know what *69 was, and doubt if I had ever touched the star key on a phone. I was still crying, and she was really screaming. 

"Lord Jesus, hang up! Vanessa! Hang up the daggone phone! Hit *69 and call him back! Do it now! Then call me back!"

I was wiping tears and did what she said. It was nice to hear a voice that wasn't screaming. "The number of your last incoming call was..." Then I really lost it.
I called Richard and he answered immediately. 

I was a blubbering mess--sniffling and stuttering all over the place. 

"Oh, Mister Smallwood, I'm so sorry!", I cried. 

I- I- didn't know it was you. I-I-I've been listening to your music my whole life! I'm sorry. I'm sooooo sorry! Please! Is it too late? PLEASE forgive me. I thought somebody was playing a joke. I--I... 

(Dag. I'm teary eyed now, just thinking about it. )

The man I'd admired for so long was laughing at me. 

I was having a full-out melt down, and he was LAUGHING! 

"Calm down Baby. Why you crying? It's okay. I haven't called anybody else. Can you go?" 

This time, I managed to say, "Uh huh, uh huh, I can go. Yes. I can go. What do I need to do?"

When you're used to paying to get ON the bus, chipping in FOR the bus, chipping in for gas, chipping in when the bus breaks down, chipping in for chicken, and chipping in for the driver's offering when the trip is over, you naturally ask questions like that. 

Richard laughed again. "Nothing, Baby. You don't have to do a thing, but pack and go". 

That day, I began to channel my inner Levite. 

Richard talked a little more, calmed me down, and then invited me to his home to rehearse the Smallwood Singers' set. 

Yes. I cried again, and then wondered what I was going to wear to meet The Maestro. 

To me, he was royalty. 

What do you wear to go and see royalty? 

Well, Royalty answered his humble door wearing jeans, sneakers, a Howard University sweatshirt,  and a baseball cap. 

His beautiful home was full of art, and of course, one wonderful, shiny piano. 

He sat down and began to play one anointed song after another. 

I sang what I thought was right, and prayed to God that I wouldn't mess up. 

Seeing him nod and smile just about took my breath away. 

Is it possible that for many of us, all we really want is to be accepted? Is it possible that we just want to offer our part and hope that God is even a little bit pleased? 

I learned that day how beautifully intricate Richard's music really is. Voices sound like instruments. Instruments sound like voices. 

 There are three part harmonies here, and what seems like 23-part harmonies there, and God's seal of approval all over it. 

He let me sing all the way through what I thought was the alto part of "Center of My Joy". 

"That was good, Baby", he said, "but that ain't it". 

He wasn't harsh or critical, just insistent that I not sing what I thought I heard, but what was really there--and sing it with all of the reverence that God intended when he gave it to him and the Gaithers. 

He took the time to teach me that day, and the music I already loved became even more precious. 

When we got to Atlanta, he said, "You're going to lead "I Love The Lord", okay, Baby?" 

It had been my favorite song, and had helped me through a heartbreaking time. 

Yeah. I cried, again. No one to this day sings it like Dottie. 

I sang every ad lib. To me, the words she sang on that 1982 recording, were an intricate part of the song and couldn't--no--shouldn't be replaced.

That one phone call changed my life. I know that Raymond Reeder and Darlene Simmons had something to do with it, but to this day, neither of them will admit it. Lisa Burroughs so graciously phoned me and wished me well before I left home. "You're gonna be me, so have fun and do your best, okay?"

My routine had consisted of church, work, and home.

To me that was normal. 

You washed clothes, or went to the mall on the weekend. 

You didn't go to London. 

I was the kind of mother who believed that if Lisa couldn't go, I didn't go. 

 I had only been up and down the east coast as far north/east as Massachusetts and as far south/east as Florida. 

I had never been outside of the continental United States. 

That weekend, I had all 4 pieces of the luggage I'd bought. 

I had seen them in concert. 

I didn't know what to take to wear, so I took everything. 

The Smallwood Singers all showed up at the airport with one bag each. 

Carolene asked, "Uh, Glo, ( I even got a new nickname) are you going back home with us?" 

I said, "Yes, Ma'am".

"Oh, Glo, you don't have to call me ma'am. Well, what is all that?" 

I told her I had no idea what to wear with them. To my surprise, and what was a lesson to groups that spend ridiculous amounts of time arguing about wardrobe, she said, "Just wear what you'd wear to church". 

So many people have asked "How?" and why me. 

There was no audition process. 

No application. 

No campaign. 

One day my phone rang. 

I was a choir member. 

I am a firm believer that if your local church has mature, anointed music ministry leadership, the choir is the best place to learn and grow. There's nothing small about it. That is where you will undoubtedly be taught valuable music theory and practice--and be heard without even knowing who could be listening. 

So many are scraping and scratching and scheming and killing themselves to be famous in Jesus' name, by way of music ministry. 

If you ask me "how" the only answer I have is "God". 

He did it. He ordained it, because it surely wasn't my idea! 

The last time I successfully read sheet music was in seventh or eighth grade, and my clarinet has been in the case ever since. 

I don't play an instrument, I don't like being in front of people, and I am "not the average girl in the video". 

I loved to sing more than anything other than drawing and painting, but I was insecure, fearful, timid, and felt inadequate. 

God, knowing us the way he does, sets up great things in our lives and we have to be able to discern when it's his orchestration, our own, or the bright idea of someone else.

 
The Bible speaks of the good man whose steps are ordered by God. He tells us to delight ourselves in Him, and He will give us the desires of our hearts---not just what we want, but what He wants us to long for and possess. He will place the right people in your path. 

Doors open that you couldn't have opened with a battering ram on your own. 

New earthly angels show up, and bless your life so that you can, in turn, bless others. 

We do nothing alone. 

The end of the matter is always God's glory.

On the plane ride home from Atlanta, I was seated next to Richard. 

He said they had been talking. 

Before I could get nervous, he handed me a plane ticket to Indianapolis dated for the following weekend. 

The next trip was to Gospel music legends, Bill and Gloria Gaither's Praise Gathering. 

"Would you like to be a part of the group, baby?"  

This time, I didn't hesitate to say "Yes".

Thanks to WIMG radio's Robyn McCollum for reminding me that I had a story to tell. 

PS- Richard calls everybody, "Baby"... lol