I had the privilege of meeting Johnny Cash many years ago. My dad had always been a big fan of the Man in Black. So, when I heard he was in Chicago, signing copies of his book Man in White at the downtown Kroch’s and Brentano’s, I stood in a long line to get his autograph. He seemed bigger and more weathered in person. Johnny was wearing his signature black and signing book after book. When my turn came, I mustered up my courage and asked if he could address it to my dad. “Could you write, ‘To Neil: Another great musician?’” Johnny looked up at me, and he grinned. The second time I saw Johnny was at a concert at Chicago’s Cubby Bear venue. The place was packed with an odd assortment of people: punks, little old ladies, hard-core motorcycle dudes, and assorted country people wearing cowboy hats. Standing room only. My dad pushed to the front of the stage to see the man he so admired. I stood a bit back with my mom where it was less claustrophobic. The crowd began to ch