Debbie: (n) a female given name.
As she skipped her way into a small frat house at Cincinnati Bible Seminary, to sit around in a tiny room with about fifteen other post-high-school strangers, to listen to imitation-hippie-music with a Christian twist, she illuminated the whole surroundings with her smile, which foretold of just a pinch of naughtiness.
She never made you work hard to feel appreciated.
I don’t think she ever met a man she didn’t like.
She wasn’t easy—just uncomplicated.
She loved to laugh.
She thrived on flirting.
And she sang like singing was second nature to her soul.
I had come to the gathering that night to find a vocalist for my up-and-coming band, and by the end of the evening I left with Debbie as my new cohort.
I traveled with her for almost three years. We threatened to become romantic, whispered promises—and we sang great music.
With my tunes, her voice and our buddy, we went all over the United States, appearing on national television, hitting the religious charts and getting to sing a song on the Grand Ole’ Opry.
She has remained my friend throughout the journey.
Even though we will never recapture those thirty-six months of music and magic, we maintain a deep-rooted friendship.
I doubt if she will ever read this.
But I know if she did, she would concur.
And oh—by the way—one of my fondest memories as a young man is the first day that she arrived poolside, wearing a bikini.
She had amazing lungs.