She has her mother's eyes, and an ear for daddy's music

Something my wife said the other night concerning my taste in music seemed like good column material, but some ideas don't stretch as far as you'd like.

Then one of my daughters came to the rescue.

“You can't write about me,” Noel Renee admonished after hearing me express doubts about my idea. I took it as a challenge.

When our two youngest were born, a colleague accused me of having twins on purpose for the column material. More than seven years later, I'm still reaching into the daughter files.

I've always known that as the girls get older my access to those files will become more limited. Indeed, there will come a day when I'll no longer be able to put their lives on display for the sake of meeting a deadline — but not today.

It's not surprising that Noel would be the first to claim publicity rights.

I'd do the same, and she's a lot like her father.

When the twins were still in highchairs, I used to pull down my guitar and sing John Prine songs while they finished lunch. I'm not a great singer, but a captive audience wearing bibs and strained carrots doesn't notice so much.

Julia Rose was always more interested in smearing the remnants from lunch around on her tray. Noel, however, would focus intently on my guitar during every verse of “Late John Garfield Blues.”

To this day, she still asks to hear “That's The Way That The World Goes 'Round.”

In my opinion, John Prine is among the greatest singer-songwriters of our time. Sadly, my wife, Sharon, does not share the same enthusiasm for his music.

“It's because you've never heard him live,” I used to tell her when we were dating. Then I made the mistake of taking Sharon to a Prine show.

We were 20 rows back at the Paramount Theatre in Bristol, Tenn. Halfway through “Hello In There,” my date laid her head on my shoulder and went to sleep. I was flabbergasted, to say the least, and I was not alone.

Prine's audience usually includes some tough-looking biker types. A few seated near us took obvious offense to Sharon's blasphemous lack of interest.

“When we walk out of here,” I said into her ear as we stood for an encore, “I need you to stagger just a little.”

“Why?” she asked.

“The leather and chains behind us,” I said, “might have gotten the idea from me that you've been passed out drunk.”

Everybody has a bedtime routine. Lately mine involves dialing up a couple of Prine songs on YouTube.

One recent evening, after Sharon had already closed her eyes, I started to leave the bedroom with my laptop.

“Where are you going?” she mumbled.

“I want to hear a little Prine,” I said, “and I can't find my headphones. Don't want to disturb your sleep.”

“I've got news for you,” Sharon said. “If the man can't keep me awake in a cold theater from 30 feet away, there's not much chance he'll disturb my sleep in this warm bed.”

Sad, but true.

Next time Prine's tour bus stops in North Carolina, I think I'll take Noel to the show.

She's a true fan, and I owe her that much for infringing upon her right of publicity.

Contact Mark Rutledge at 329-9575 or mrutledge@coxnc.com.