From the heartland of America, Johnny Cash sang for the people who are the heart of America.      

How do I write songs?  There is no formula, no set method; it happens all sorts of ways, and so the answer differs from song to song.  For instance, I wrote I Walk the Line when I was on the road in Texas in 1956, having a hard time resisting the temptation to be unfaithful to my wife back in Memphis.  I put those feelings into the beginnings of a song and sang the first two verses for Carl Perkins backstage before a show.      I keep a close watch on this heart of mine      I keep my eyes wide open all the time      I keep the ends out for the tie that binds      Because you're mine, I walk the line      I find it very, very easy to be true      I find myself alone when each day's through      Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you      Because you're mine, I walk the line What do you think? I asked.   I'm calling it 'Because You're Mine.' Hmm, Carl said.   Y'know, 'I Walk the Line' would be a better _title_.  Then he went on stage, and I finished the song while he did his set.  It came fast and easy, almost without conscious thought.      

Mama had faith in me.  She wanted me to have singing lessons, so she took in schoolteachers' laundry to pay for them.  A whole day's work earned her three dollars, the cost of one lesson.  I didn't want any part of it, but she insisted, and I was glad she did.  When I showed up for the first lesson I found a good reason to go back for a second: the teacher was young, kind, and very pretty. She wasn't meant for me, though.  Halfway through my third lesson, after she'd accompanied me while I sang Drink To Me Only With Thine Eyes, I'll Take You Home Again, Kathleen, and all those other popular Irish ballads, she closed the lid on her piano. Okay, that's enough, she said.   Now I want you to sing to me, without accompaniment, what you like to sing.  I sang her a Hank Williams song

The day my voice broke and my mother heard my new bass tones for the first time . . . I was singing as I walked in the back door, and she wheeled around from the stove in shock and said, Who was that? I sang some more for her, exploring my new range, and as I found out how deep I could go, her eyes teared up and she said, You sound exactly like my daddy. I don't think Mama really wondered who was singing; she knew it was me.  And that was the first time I remember her calling my voice the gift. Thereafter she always used that term when she talked about my music, and I think she did so on purpose, to remind me that the music in me was something special given by God.  My job was to care for it and use it well; I was its bearer, not its owner.