Fingers stiff and crooked from arthritis rest on the steel strings on an acoustic guitar plucking out a simple melody, thick callouses rubbing the familiar frets as the hand slides up and down the guitar's neck. It's clear that these digits belong to a seasoned musician but, despite the ASCAP and Grammy awards that sit gathering dust on shelves in his den and the connections he's made over his nearly 50 years in the music industry, fame and the spotlight aren't Bob Morrison's style.

Haven't heard the name before, have you?

That's not an uncommon response.

In fact, even when dining at iconic Nashville eateries such as Martin's Bar-B-Que Joint or the Legends Corner bar, Morrison receives little more than a passing glance. He never has to fight off nosy paparazzi or adoring fans; his accolades don't even garner him a discount on drinks.

Not a single person recognizes the face of the man who's written songs for The Dixie Chicks, Johnny Lee and Kenny Rogers, even in the heart of the city that lives and breathes country music.

And yet, this lack of recognition never frustrates Morrison, despite being the complete antithesis of the reason behind his interest in the music business. He speaks of his teenage years with a smile on his face, and laughter trailing his words:

"I was a 15 and a half-year-old down in Biloxi, Mississippi, and there was this guy who was dating a Biloxi girl, driving his pink Cadillac down to the coast to see her," he begins with a smile in his words, "I heard the girls were screamin' about it, and I never made a sighting - he was dating a Cajun girl down there, a beautiful girl...it was right then and there I said 'Hey, if this guy can get girls screamin' at him, maybe I can get a date.'" He laughs, rich and a bit raspy from age. "I became one of the millions of all-American boys who ended up getting a guitar. Every guy wanted to be Elvis. Cause every girl wanted to be with Elvis.

"In 1977, I had two co-written songs on an Elvis session. The tracks were cut. All that was missing was his vocal. Elvis wasn't feeling well. He went back to Memphis. And you know the rest of the story. I never had the chance to meet the man and thank him personally. "

The truth is that with over 200 recorded versions of his songs, 50 ASCAP songwriting citations, four recognitions as the ASCAP Country Songwriter of the Year and another from the Nashville Songwriters Association International, and even as an inductee into the Nashville Songwriters Hall of Fame, more than anything, Morrison is a retiree with one grandchild in college and another honorary grandson about to turn two. He's called Nashville home since 1973 and just celebrated his 50th wedding anniversary with his wife, Barbra. He loves his two dogs, a purebred Husky and an adopted Rottweiler mutt, has a membership at his local YMCA, and is something of a fitness fanatic.

Even at 75, he's full of life when he speaks, sitting at the far end of a dining table entirely too formal for a midweek dinner; half of the wrinkles etched onto his face are smile lines - Morrison fancies himself something of a comedian. At times, his words sting with blunt, biting wit. He is never afraid to speak his mind, and admires those who do; there's no shortage of things on his mind to speak of, either. He zips from topic to topic like an eager child, ending up on long tirades or relaying rambling anecdotes completely unrelated to what started the conversation, but it's this lively storytelling that captures a room in silence or sparks an intelligent debate.

Once again, Morrison launches into the story of the letter to the editor he submitted to the Nashville Tennessean. "You know, with so many people not thinking," he says, between taking bites of his salad. "But watching this device--"

He holds up his iPhone 6, which he's still adapting to after having nothing but a Nokia 3310 for most of his adult life. "You have to have silence in order to create; you have to let your mind go free. If you're always engaging your mind, it blocks up all the...the flow!" He slaps the phone down on the table, appearing frustrated in the way he sighs, shoulders holding some tension. "It's a great device, but I'm wondering who's the tool, and who's the device-- you know, I mean who's who? Are you the slave, or is this the slave?" Crooked fingers jab clumsily at the large screen accusingly.

However, dinner does not signal the end of his night as it might for many over the age of 70.

Most evenings, once the plates are cleared, he and Barbra - or "Bobbie," as he affectionately calls her - retreat to the upstairs loft, which serves as their den, and settle on the white leather sofa to watch a pre-recorded news show together. His favorites include "Meet The Press" with Chuck Todd, "NBC Nightly News" with Lester Holt and particularly "Real Time" with Bill Maher.

The Rottweiler, named Jim Bob, attempts to jump onto the couch with them only to receive a stern look and "No, Jim," from Barb, who points a finger and instructs him to "go lay down."

As soon as he does, she drops the harsh look and begins to coo at him using a comically deep voice. Nanooka, their Husky, settles easily, piercing blue eyes looking mildly annoyed at her "little brother's" goofball attitude.

At opposite ends of the wall behind the television sit his golden Grammy and the crystal-cut ASCAP award on tiny perches, indeed sporting a noticeable film of dust. They're visible, yes, but nearly the opposite to Morrison; he pays them no mind, even around company.

They're achievements he takes pride in, but they aren't the reason he writes music.

"I guess because...I heard it a long, long time ago - my father was a jukebox operator - I heard music from the time I was 6, 7," he said, thinking hard about the best way to answer. "He would bring home records, and I think it just kind of entered into my soul, in a way." He pauses.

"You know, you don't really know why you do certain things. I just know I have to. I had to do it. I had all this backlog of all these great records that I'd heard all along - I think what went in finally came out."

Raised in a home filled with music, it came to run like blood through his veins. It was more than just pretty notes strummed on a guitar or cliche words scratched on scrap paper; it wove his identity into the notes of a folk song and created a melody that would resonate through his family for generations.

∘ ∘ ∘

The year is 1948. In the small Southern town of Biloxi, Mississippi, inside of a hip yet home-town diner on Main Street, a young boy of perhaps 6 or 7 sits on the floor beside his father, who is bent over and working diligently on the diner's lone jukebox.

The father props open the machine's primary compartment to access the vinyl records stored inside, which he will carefully remove and replace with those host to more popular, current tracks. As he does this, he tells his young son everything he knows about music: what style is considered a hit at the time, why these songs are popular or which personally stand out as favorites. He stands again and sighs, giving his work a satisfied once-over before closing the jukebox once more.

After he puts the final pieces in place, the man feeds the jukebox a dime and picks a song to make sure it works. The jukebox begins to play, and as the notes of a snappy swing melody bounce of the walls of the sleepy diner the man and his son dance together on the checkered linoleum floor, smiling and tapping their feet in the warmth of a southern afternoon.

With his father working as a jukebox technician in southern Mississippi, Morrison had no lack of exposure to music. His musical education began at a young age and was overflowing with cultural influences from the melting pot of backgrounds that converge in the United States.

"He was responsible for my love of music," Morrison says of his father. "I got all the top records of the day. Every genre. From Sinatra to Johnny Cash to Muddy Waters. An accidental education. But I never dreamed that I would end up writing songs. I just loved the music."

∘ ∘ ∘

Despite his dreams of being as famous a performing artist as Elvis falling flat, Morrison was one of the lucky few to attain success early on; he was discovered by John Hammond while still working towards his degree in nuclear engineering at Mississippi State. He graduated in 1965 and had recorded the LP "Friends of Mine" through Capitol Records by 1971. In 1973, his Southern roots called him back to Nashville, Tennessee, where he became a songwriter under Combine Music. He was paired with established songwriter Johnny MacRae, whom he credits as a significant mentor in those early years. He kept writing professionally until 1995.

To Morrison, "retired" is just a seven-letter word; even now, he writes new songs and polishes those that never made it out of his studio. For him, music isn't a job that he can simply leave behind once he's had enough.

"I still have the joy of songwriting. I still love the process. It's like a crossword puzzle with no clues. I always tell people, when they ask if I'm still writing: 'Yes. I've still got it, but nobody wants it.'" Morrison said in his speech for his induction to the NSAI Hall of Fame. "I'm choosing to believe that's the truth. Johnny Mac and I once wrote a song that sort of resonates more and more with every passing year: The title was: "I'll Keep On Goin' 'Til I'm Gone." That's my plan."

In his cramped 14-foot by 14-foot basement studio sits a swivel chair surrounded by microphones, synthesizers, filing cabinets and other bulky recording equipment. This space is most definitely "personal," seeing as there's barely room to stand between the doorway and the chair.

This isn't where he does his writing.

Instead, try looking for him in the upstairs loft, the acoustic chords drifting through the living and dining rooms below as he works through the melody to his most recent number. Lyrics seem strangely absent; he has a tendency to sing them under his breath as he goes, barely louder than a whisper. It's a habit he can't break even when someone else is listening in.

"They say life's a bowl of cherries — but sometimes it's the pits / We all want a storybook ending — But sometimes the slipper just don't fit / Some promises don't deliver — but now and then some do / So how do we handle this crazy world — well just between me and you…"

Morrison is frustrated with the first line, all too aware it's been used in a thousand different country songs in one way or another. He finds the wording cliche, and yet understands that often times these words can impart the most value on the audience out of sheer familiarity. He doesn't know if these songs will ever reach anyone's ears but his own. But he doesn't let those hitches stop him.

Music tells stories, unites nations, and starts a rhythm in people's hearts. Morrison doesn't write because he can; he writes because he has to. There is no other option because music touches us in ways the spoken word cannot. Morrison was touched by it from an early age and made it his mission to help music touch others in the same way.

Even when the paychecks stopped coming, he kept writing because it was his calling. He knows there are few lessons that cannot be taught through simple lyrics strung over a soft acoustic melody.

"So love like there's no tomorrow / Accept what you can't change. / Do what you can—But understand / Sometimes it shines — sometimes it rains. / Be thankful for your blessings / Even when they seem small / Live each day as it comes your way / Build bridges instead of walls."