from the publisher
I make no apologies for my admiration of Trisha Yearwood. I think I was 13 years old at the old Bellevue Center mall with my family when I first saw her. Keep in mind, it was the ’90s; she had big curly hair, and Abercrombie and Fitch was still a preppy store (if any of you remember those days). I wanted her autograph (something we did before smartphones and selfies). I was shy, but my father who is fearless and has never met a stranger, walked into the record store (again that was a thing in the 1990s) and bought her CD. He walked up to the future Mrs. Brooks and said his kids wanted her autograph. She walked over to us, gave us a hug and thanked us for…