By Johnny Cash
He was once the "Man in Black," a rustic tune legend, and the essential American troubadour. He used to be an icon of rugged individualism who have been to hell and again, telling the story as by no means sooner than. In his unforgettable autobiography, Johnny money tells the reality concerning the highs and lows, the struggles and hard-won triumphs, and the folks who formed him.
In his personal phrases, funds set the checklist immediately -- and dispelled a number of myths -- as he seemed unsparingly at his impressive existence: from the thrill of his boyhood in Dyess, Arkansas to superstardom in Nashville, Tennessee, the line of Cash's lifestyles has been something yet gentle. money writes of the fun of fidgeting with Elvis, the relaxation of praying with Billy Graham; of his battles with dependancy and of the devotion of his spouse, June; of his gratitude for all times, and of his concepts on what the afterlife could carry. right here, too, are the buddies of a life-time, together with Willie Nelson, Roy Orbison, Bob Dylan, and Kris Kristofferson. As robust and noteworthy as one in every of his vintage songs, Cash is full of the candor, wit, and knowledge of a guy who really "walked the line."
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Extra info for Cash: The Autobiography
22 rifle after squirrels, rabbits, possum, whatever might feed his family. Given a shot, he didn't miss. He couldn't afford to—in those days a box of shells cost twenty cents. He worked at the sawmill; he cleared land; he laid track for the railroad; and when no work was available locally, he rode the freights to wherever adver- tisement, rumor, or chance offered payment in cash. Our house was right on the railroad tracks, out in the woods, and one of my earliest memories is of seeing him jump out of a moving boxcar and roll down into the ditch in front of our door.
When we got home, about a mile from the crossroads, he took a brown paper grocery sack from the back of the car. “Come out here to the smokehouse,” he said in a quiet, dead voice. ” The bag was all bloody. In the smokehouse he pulled Jack's clothes out of that grocery bag, laid them on the floor, and showed me where the table saw had cut Jack from his ribs down through his belly, all the way to his groin: his belt and his khaki government shirt and pants, all of them slashed and bloody, drenched in blood.
On Wednesday, four days after he'd been hurt, all the church congregations in town held a special service for him, and the following morning he had an amazing revival. He said he felt good, and he looked good. There he was, fine as you please, lying in bed reading his mail—he'd gotten a letter from his girlfriend—and laughing happily. My mother and father and I thought we were seeing a miracle. Jack was going to live! Old Dr. Hollingsworth knew better. He'd operated on Jack when they brought him in, and he kept telling us, “Don't get too much hope, now.