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Though she eventually quit drinking, she upped her intake of pain pills to a point beyond lucidity, seldom leaving the bedroom or changing out of her white cotton nightgown.
Then came lung cancer and her refusal to stop smoking.
In those days the first advice new songwriters heard when they moved to Music City was to find Guy and Susanna.
And once young guns like Earle and Rodney Crowell made their way to the nonstop picking party at the Clarks’ kitchen table, their goal quickly became twofold: write a song that Guy dug and find a woman like Susanna.
The two reviewed the list in Guy’s basement workshop, where he splits his time between writing and building guitars, sustaining himself on black coffee, peanut-butter crackers, hand-rolled cigarettes, and an occasional toke of boo.
On his walk to the stairs, he’d pass by that Polaroid.
It was taken, he told visitors, one afternoon when he and Van Zandt were day-drunk and acting like assholes.
A tall man with regal posture, he’s got an angular white mustache and soul patch, wavy gray hair that curls up at his collar, and a woodblock of a forehead that looms over deep-set blue eyes.
His general expression is that of someone who’s thinking about something more important than you are. One line on the list jumped out at him: “my favorite picture of you.” He pointed past Sampson to a thirty-year-old Polaroid of his wife, Susanna, pinned on the wall behind a drill press, a photo taken back when she and Guy were Nashville’s king and queen.
Yet Guy penned “My Favorite Picture of You” a mere three years ago, just after turning 69, an age to which most of his contemporaries had chosen to coast, provided they were still living at all.