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I stared at my hands and and felt anger. "Why won't you mind me?"

It wasn't a matter of understanding the notes on the page as I tried to peck out "Beautiful Dreamer" on the old family piano.

I grasped the time signature, the weight of the notes and could correctly identify them in my beginner's primer book.

But each time I commanded my 10-year-old fingers to play, my ears heard the unpleasant tone of a sour note.

My frustration roiled, and I slammed the case on the piano to hide the ivory keys from view. "No more."

I went outside to think about how I was going to explain the grand finale to my music career.

There were two women who had to be convinced that I had given it my best shot: my mom, and Gloria Dotson, my piano teacher.

Gloria only had to look at my dad to see that the apple never falls from the tree.

She and my dad had a running joke that they never seemed to tire of altering - and the banter went on for years.

"Gloria, can I sing a solo with you in the choir on Sunday," my dad would impishly ask.

"Sure, Emmett, we'd love to have you in the choir."

"Okay. I'll be there. And I'll sing 'so low' nobody hears."

And they'd both laugh at the joke because each knew that dad was absolutely, 100 percent tone deaf.

On the front page of this issue of the Cherokeean Herald, we have a story about a remarkable man, Charles Davis.

Charles teaches music at Lon Morris College, and there is always a tune running around in his head.

A catchy, military march seemed to drum in his mind, so he sat down at his computer to work out the beat.

When he was finished, he had composed a march and scored all the parts from percussion and clarinets to trombones and tubas.

The only thing missing was a name for his labor of love. Then he had an idea. He decided to name the song after this newspaper, The Cherokeean.

He told us that he loves weekly newspapers because of the way that they reflect the communities they serve. And by naming his new march The Cherokeean, he said it was a way to give a gift to everyone in the community.

I listened to the march over and over on my CD player and felt absolutely speechless at the honor Charles bestowed on the state's oldest, weekly newspaper.

And then my thoughts wandered to my late dad and Gloria, who died a few weeks ago. Gloria would have definitely enjoyed the composition. Dad would have made up lyrics for his next "so low" performance.

Thank you, Charles, for a very notable tribute.