(i)Put a little smile on yer pickin' when you don't know what to do; put a little smile on yer pickin', it'll help you see it through; put a little smile on yer pickin' 'cuz that's just what we do; put a little smile....(i).  

     The fire crackled and burned steady smooth.  Two men and a woman passed a notebook back and forth in a fierce competition over advertising slogans.  And a songwriter-of-old was showing a young girl the difference between types of guitars and other stringed instruments.  He was as comfortable making up songs and tunes as some people are sitting on the sofa watching TV.  The young woman smiled.  "Now I hear it," some of the sound differences were subtle. 

     The man's fingertips, bandaged, strummed first then plucked.  His voice found the key in a little hum, then he added strength to the notes of the lyrics.  The young woman was jotting down ideas for (i)storied songs(i) of her own. 

     "I sure am mighty glad we moved to T'see Mr. Bimbley."  Wiley Piles was sitting on his hands and lifting a half a beer to his mouth by sticking his tongue through the pop tab.  The neck of his tee-shirt, (i)Don't Mess With Texas(i), was soaked.  "So am I sis, so am I." 

     "You should see how those Republican men treat their women." Mr. Bimbley grunted the can back onto a boulder.  "I've heard.  They make them do all the work." 

     "That's what you heard?"  

     "Somethin' like that.  Will you light me a cee-gar?"  She fished the car keys out of his jeans pocket and went towards the car.