The first time I think I even thought about death was when Hank Williams died back in 1952. New Year’s Eve it was, but I only remember the headlines. I was five years old and Hank was a regular part of my day. Dad, the curator of the famous Gutch record collection, had only a few records at that time and Never Again (Will I Knock On Your Door) was one of them. I loved that song so much that I begged and begged Dad to play it every time he headed toward the record player and, usually, he obliged. I remember Dad humming along in a grunting kind of way, almost as if the music was going to bust out of him at any moment, but it seldom did. Dad was a lot like myself in that when the music was playing, singing along seemed a lack of respect.