E arly in the current century, I worked and wrote for a website that modeled itself as cabal of bloggers. It was part online magazine part blog. And, some of the stories I wrote, places I visited, and people I talked to shaped me, not only as a writer, but as a person. I Some of these memories are the fondest of my life. One memory in particular happened in early 2007. I had the distinct privilege to interview Hal Ketchum on the release of his One More Midnight Album.

I once heard you shouldn't meet your heroes--that they would never live up to whatever bigger-than-life expectations you've created in your mind. Over the years, sometime in the line of work, others because of blind dumb luck, I met people I admired. Sometimes the warning rang true. Other times. No.

Then again, my admiration for Ketchum was in his mastery of story telling. He was the kind of artist who could encapsulate an entire story in the typical three minute thirty second landscape of a radio hit. Or could deliver a ten minute epic that would make you think no time passed at all.

When I conducted interviews, I had a set of rules for myself. One that I felt was important was to not take up too much time. I knew the people I talked to were busy. They were promoting their latest releases and I was one of several people they had to speak to. I'd prepare a long list of questions. Order them from what I deemed most important to least. And kept a keen eye on the clock. Sometimes, interviews were done face-to-face, but often they were over the phone. As was the case with Hal Ketchum.

I wasn't more than a few minutes in, when I knew all of best laid plans were going to be send out the window. This wasn't going to be a typical interview. I always tried to ask questions that went a little deeper, and tried to avoid the tidbits that could be found in every other article written. Ketchum was so personable, and decided pretty early on we were just going to talk. I'd ask a question--one that could be answered in three or four sentences--and he would talk and talk, and then ask me a question. Like i said, a conversation. My laser focus somehow drifted from the clock, and my legal pad with my list of questions brushed aside. Before either of us realized it we had been talking for two hours.

I apologized for taking up so much time. He laughed and assured me there was nothing to apologize for. we closed the conversation, and I immediately went to work on my article (Which in the end became four articles) while it all was so fresh in my memory.

I continued to follow Ketchum's music, bought his CDs and would listen to or read other articles about his music long after I'd moved on from writing about music. When I heard of his passing a few years ago, I was deeply grief stricken.

From time to time I will put on one of my playlists that features Ketchum music. I will listen and reflect about his story-telling craft and try to learn from a master. I regret never seeing him perform live after the afternoon we talked. But, most of all, I remember the lessons I learned the day I interviewed him. How to throw rules away. How to not worry so much about time, and focus on the person you're talking to. The conversation.