“This land pulses with life. It breathes in me; it breathes around me; it breathes in spite of me. When I walk… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share Image
“My calloused hands tell the story of my life. I’ve loved these fields more than a man can love anything outside his… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share Image
“I’m not made for city streets. My brogans drop soil from the field behind me, each grain of dirt like a seed… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share Image
“The guitar breathed. It inhaled and exhaled, and music filled the shop as the instrument picked the heartbreak of generations.” — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“The guitar poured out its soul, its history, its dreams, its pain, its victories, its secrets. The guitar’s strings purred with blues and ended… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“This land pulses with life. It breathes in me; it breathes around me; it breathes in spite of me. When I walk on this… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“A real musician ain’t gonna choose his own guitar like an evil master choosing his slave. The guitar will choose his master and when… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“She struts into the hair salon, her mouth filled with a rotten egg of gossip, unshelled, filled with decay. As soon as she sits… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“My calloused hands tell the story of my life. I’ve loved these fields more than a man can love anything outside his family. I’m… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“There’s secrets hiding inside this six-string just waitin’ for somebody to find ‘em and turn ‘em into music.” — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“He chose a guitar from one of the oak cabinets. Picking it with his calloused fingers, he squeezed his eyes shut and hummed. Something… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“The place cast a spell on me, a lovely spell that seduced me one one breath at a time.” — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“Jasmine felt a sense of power in cooking. It was she who controlled the ingredients, she who controlled the menus, and she who controlled… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“There are parents who use their small children as weapons. They are weak people. Sick people. And their children are watching them, watching how… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“I asked about the price of the guitars, reminding him that if expected me to man the cash register, I’d need to know what… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“I’m not made for city streets. My brogans drop soil from the field behind me, each grain of dirt like a seed revealing who… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“So that I might face my past, I dug these words from the richest southern soil and held them in my hands like seeds… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
“By noon, silence arrives one last time, flowing into every space of her room. And before long, silence swallows sound and color and seconds… — Brenda Sutton Rose Copy Share
