The Fall

Our homestead is nestled in a forest. We are seeing the leaves fall from the trees; we are seeing the insects gravitate toward our window screens; we are seeing the spiders spin their webs in places that are not acceptable for our human habits and sensibilities. The trees sacrifice their leaves to contribute to the soil, making their contribution to the renewal of life after the tree falls dead. We are entering a season when the temperature falls, the leaves fall, and we are aware that a season of cold weather is ahead of us.

As all the signs of life fall to a lower arrangement, we may contemplate an historic event. . . a fall of a different king, a long, long time ago. . . in which a man and woman fell out of the luxury of a perfect human existence, because they broke the rule that Creator YWHW had commanded them. After Adam and Eve were banished from Eden; they had to make their way in a “fallen” world, where they had to labor for their food. They found themselves in a cruel world in which might makes right. Maybe the lion was the king of the jungle. The earliest men and women had to work for their food. . . whether they were gathering grains and fruits, or slaughtering an animal. Fruits and vegetables are good, but the humans noticed that the wild animals were killing each other, and that some of the wild animals wanted to kill them! Homo Sapiens learned early on that they needed to use their sapiens brains and their strong arms to kill the beast before the beast killed them! And then after the lion or tiger or bear had been killed, the men and women discovered that they could recover the carcass and eat it. Their motto might have been eat the beast before the beast eats me! So the paths of human survival required, like it or not, slaughter. As human families and tribes migrated from land to land, fording streams, eating plants, killing animals. . . their awareness of this world developed inside their brains and their human souls (which the animals did not have) and they began to stack great stones up to build shelters and huts and even towers, such as the tower of Babel, where their bold venture into earthly life crossed some boundaries that Creator YWHW would not allow. So the prideful bluster of human expansion and presumption got knocked back a few stages, when Creator used his ways and means committee to knock Babylon down so that a new strain or two of human endeavor could have some room to make a new start. Along came Abraham; he seemed to be on Creator’s wavelength. So YWHW, having a new leader to work with, appointed Abraham to initiate a new way of living in which the animal sacrifice would be recognized by the man as holy.

This principle of “holy” took on new significance when Moses came along and established the Hebrew faith, beginning with the ten commandments. The new rules forbade men from killing other men women or children. The expansion of the commandments, the Torah, provided a sacrificial system whereby priests acknowledged in their ritual offerings that the animals sacrificed were the Lord’s provision for the sustenance and growth of the people. So we see that religious sacrifice did not do away with killing. Rather, it sanctified the offering of precious life, so that the slaughter of the animals reminded the people of their dependence on the Lord YWHW. This blog started out with this writer’s contemplation of an awareness that the Fall season of this year begins on Tuesday, Sept 22, one day after the Yom Kippur sacrifice for the Hebrew people. But the greater signifigance for me is that the Lord Yahweh utilized the Hebrew sacrifice to change the history of the entire world, and to save this believer’s mortal soul, by the sacrifice of His only Son at Calvary, about 2000 years ago. So the fall of Man has inflicted great trouble on human history, but the shedding of Jesus’ blood constituted a salvation for me, my family, my Christian brethren, and anybody else who believes that good news! He conquered death! By good news, I mean. . . Jesus’ resurrection demonstrated that life goes on after death. You just have to believe it! So follow Him to that eternal realm, and try not to fall down. Glass half-full

Contention Too Much With Us

This contention is too much with us, day and night; Arguing and contending, we twitter into online blight. There’s little we see nowadays we can truly relate to; Do we really know each day and night just what we are to do? We have turned our attentions to magamania and greed Still yet, this natural world supplies our every want and need. The people, some complaining, some sustaining, day and night Talking, screaming, meeming, teeming so much hype and blight For this, for everything, we are clueless; we are out of tune; And yet, and yet, we are a human race who have trod the moon! Whether pagans or believers suckled in a creed outworn, We have lost our way and left our founding documents all torn!

So might I, pecking on this lit-up laptop, stretch a strand of Liberty into the web? Remember We the People, Constitution, Gospel, and common sense.

Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Glass half-Full

The Tom Dooley Tragedy

The legend lives on from Deep Gap on down of the tragic crime of Tom Dooley. The legend, it is said, never resolves the question of who killed Laura Fonda on a mountainside in the Blue Ridge, back in 1866. . . even though a guilty verdict had been laid upon a young veteran of the Civile War, Tom Dula. I first heard about the Tom Dooley tragedy in the 1960’s.from the Kingston Trio. “Hang down your head, Tom Dooley; hang down your head and cry. Poor boy, you’re bound to die.“ In the early 1980’s, my bride and I moved to Boone, about 20 miles up the road from where it happened. A couple of weeks ago, I attended a meeting of our High Country Writers group, to hear a presentation from author Sharyn McCrumb. After our meeting, I bought her book:

Sharon’s authorial coverage of this historic murder consists of personal monologues from two people: Zebulon Vance, Tom Dula’s defense lawyer, and Pauline Foster, a crusty mountain woman who was, more than likely, the real killer in the story. But we’ll never know for sure. The story that McCrumb distills from a sour mash of hillbilly ignorance and licentiousness is a tale to be told, which is why songs have been sung about that fateful love triangle in a mountaineer household that had no ole time religion to keep them on a blessed path, a path that might have saved Laura Foster’s life and Tom Dula’s as well. The tale unfolds in an Appalachian mountain community, Elkville, in Wilkes County, which is the the first county my bride and I drive through when we’re traveling “down the mountain”, out of Boone, to go eastward, through the Piedmont.

I don’t know, but I been told that this story is almost century and a half old, so I’ll not try to reveal all the details about a hillbilly love triangle that had turned fatal. I’ll just drop in some snippets about the fascinating historical background behind this legend, a profound story that. . . if Shakespeare were alive today. . . he could have written one hell of a profound tragedy. It’s an Appalachian tragedy that emerges from the foothills of time. So I’ll just drop a few details and gem quotes from Sharon’s characters: Zebulon Vance, defense attorney: “I had to practice a little law after the (Civil) War ended, before those same trifling government bureaucrats saw fit to let me back into the Congress again. I shall die here, protecting the interests of my fellow Tarheels for as long as God grants me breath and strength.” Pauline Foster, older sister of the deceased Laura Foster, and possibly a partner in crime with her sister Ann, but we’ll never know for sure. Pauline says “I reckon that, to a scared and lonesome soldier, any scrawny gal of twenty can pass for a beauty, though there is handsomess in the Foster line that some say I got a touch of.” Could there be a slightly jealous tone in Pauline’s reckoning? But the older Pauline did not, it seems, get enough “touch of” the beauty to truly win Tom’s love, even though he did lay with her at some point in time. . . and that it was probably her “poc” syphilis that infected Tom, and then the other two sisters, due to the nocturnal adventures of Tom Dula. The closest she ever got to Tom’s love was an occasional roll in the hay with him because Tom’s hankerin’ for friggin’ was a little more than he could manage with one girl, even if he loved that one special girl, aka Laura Foster, her sister, the deceased. Murder mystery, you say? Yep! Sharyn McCrumb weaves, skilfully, some historical background into the saga. Pauline said this about the Civil War, the war that both Zeb Vance, defence layer, and Tom Dula had fought in, back in the day, on the losing side: Pauline’s judgement about the Civil war: “But they never asked our opinion about secession, and most folks up here said it was a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight.” Pauline might have been right about that. The slave owners of the South were a lot richer than those hillbillies in Elkville, Wilkes County, North Carolina. “When you see a baby-faced fellow eyeing you like a starving dog, you know that he may not live to see another spring, he wants you to give him all the springtimes he’s ever going to miss in one gulp.” So Tom Dula’s libido must have so fierce that he couldn’t settle for just the girl he loved, Laura. . . but had to give in to her older sisters who were either jealous or in heat, or both. The legend of Tom Dooley is a mysterious tale that will never be concluded. Three women in a hillbilly household. . . two sisters, one cousin. . . all three being lovers with the same hansom/horny man; the syphilis creeping in, brought in by Pauline, the teller of the tale in Sharyn’s story. . . literally, a clusterf***! If Tom Dula (Dooley) killed Laura Foster, then how was it that Pauline and Ann both knew where the shallow grove was? Why did Ann go crazy with nightmares and hallucinations, and died screaming about seeing black cats on the walls? It’s a mystery that will never be uncovered.

When I finish reading Sharyn McCrumb’s “The Ballad of Tom Dooley” maybe I’ll have more to write about that ole story that happened in a mountain holler that I heard friends of mine talking about, back in the day. (THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS, an imprint of St. Martins’s Press 2111) maybe I’ll have an update. But meanwhile, back at the Blue Ridge, The Ballad of Tom Dooley. How can there be an update? The answer to the big question, who really killed Laura Foster? And why did Tom Dula, while he was standing at a the gallows with a noose around his neck, say that he had never touched a hair on that girl’s head? Glass Chimera

Tell me, tell me, bro’ Bob, about Blind Willie McTell. Tell me.

Tell me the backstory ‘bout that Deep South that I was born into Tell me ‘bout New Orleans and Ole Man River he just keep rollin’ Tell me ‘bout the delta and the swelterin’ heat, them ole cotton fields Tell me ‘bout the delta blues, the crossroads and the cotton bolls Tell me ‘bout the Cajuns who came down from Acadia to Louisiana Tell me ‘bout NewOllins and Missippi. Tell mebout Elvis inMemphis Tell me ‘bout magnolias and moss hangin’ on the cypress trees Tell me ‘bout Louie Armstrong with his trumpet and his sweat Tell me ‘bout Blind Willie in the delta sweat and New’Awlins jazz Tell me ‘bout Big Muddy and Memphis blues and St. Louis. Tell me ‘bout Chicago jazz the blues the brassy tunes good news Tell me how them cotton bolls and ole times not forgotten Tell me ‘bout Little Rock1954, black kids at the schoolhouse door Tell me James Meredith v Ross Barnett at the Ole Miss door. Tell me ‘bout the Freedom Riders and the Edmund Pettis bridge Tell me bout Martin and letter from a Birmingham jail and Tell me ‘bout Dallas and the shot heard round the world Tell me ‘bout the red clay hills of Georgia and Miss’ippi delta and everything in between, strange fruit them delta roots Tell me tell me ‘bout Blind Willie Mctell, blues in delta hell. And that’s the way it was, back in the day. but, but Those days are gone. In dixie land land blacks took their stand and now those days are gone. . . gone. Sho’nuf and Amen! Glass half-Full

Persia and Israel

2560 years ago, King Artaxerxes noticed that his Hebrew servant, Nehemiah, “Why is your face sad?” Nehemiah answered, “Let the king live forever. Why should my face be sad when the city, the place of my fathers’ tombs, lie desolate and its gates have been consumed by fire?” The King: “What would you request?” So Nehemiah prayed to the God of heaven, and he said to the King; “If it please the king, and if your servant has found favor with you, send me to Judah, to the city of my fathers’ tombs, that I may rebuild it.” King Artaxerxes asked gave his consent for Nehemiah’s journey to Jerusalem. Then Nehemiah said: “If it please the king, let letters be to me for the governors of the provinces beyond the river, that they may allow me to pass through until I come to Judah, and a letter to Asaph, the keeper of the king’s forest, that he make give me timber to make beams for the gates for the gates of the fortress which is by the temple, for the wall of the city and the house to which I will go.” The Persian king granted Nehemiah’s request. When Nehemiah left Susa, he was accompanied by officers and horsemen of the Persian kingdom. When he arrived in Jerusalem, he had to convince his own Hebrew brethren that he had been sent by the King. But not all were convinced. Nehemiah wrote: “From that day on, half of my servants carried on the work while half of them held spears and shields. In the contentions that followed, the Persian captains were helping to protect the house of Judah. Nehemiah wrote: “From the day that I was appointed to be their governor in the land of Judah, from the 20th year to the 32nd year of King Artaxerxes, neither I nor my kinsmen have taken advantage of the governor’s food allowance. The Bible reveals that Nehemiah played the game of reoccupation, by the rules that had been established for him by the Persian king. That was then. Things are different now. The Hebrews have established their ancient homeland as the national home for Jews who have immigrated from all over the world, even from the holocaust of Nazi Germany. So what about the Persians now? In the last few months, we Americans have all kinds of rumors about supposed enmity between Isreal and Iran. . . especially now with donald trump’s self-declared war against Iran (Persia). All kinds of rumors are buzzing around on the internet. What are to believe? Where’s Walter Cronkite when we need him? What’s going on over there? What’s happening to our armed personnel in the Persian gulf and the surrounding countries? Now we’ve got a clusterfud of reports. Today I saw a video that seemed to portray the firing of an Iranian nuke on Tel Aviv. Say what? So I turn on the radio, searching the airwaves to hear any report about an Iranian nuke hitting Israel! But what to I find? NOTHING, absolutely nothing. As Sweetwater said back in the day. . . “War! What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!” And apparently our journalists—the 2026 ones—did not learn the lesson of true Journalism. . . the facts, only the facts! We’re depending on these guys:

. . .fired up in the frenzy of their respective national paranoiae, to NOT let the nukes be fired! That includes the Ayatollah in Persia/Iran, and the magamaniac occupant of the Oval office! As for Netanyahu, he better keep his profile low and his mouth shut, and the the Lord Baruch Hashem Adonai to see to it that Jews are protected. As for the person, who produced a fake youtube video of a so-called Iranian nuke striking Israel . . you should make a public apology for throwing bullsh** into the public consciousness! Glass half-Full

Fall

Many moons ago, Ray Thomas of the Moody Blues spoke a recitation at the end of a song: “When the white eagle of the north is flying overhead, and the browns, reds and golds of autumn lie in the gutter dead. . .”

. . . “remember then, summer birds with wings of fire, come to witness spring’s new hope, born of leaves decaying. As new life will come of death, love will come of living.” The autumn season has another name: Fall. . . and for good reason. . . the leaves fall. . . as they will this year, as they have every year. This has happened 75 times since this writer entered this life on earth. Meditating on fall this year reminds me of the many historical falls that have befallen life and life’s institution throughout the history of this earth. There was the original fall of mankind, when Adam and Even fell out of the Creator’s grace and were expelled from garden of Eden. Since that fateful beginning, there have been multitudes of “falls”. The first one that comes to my mind is the fall of the Roman empire. As far as that goes, there have many falls of empires. . . the fall of Babylon, the fall of the third reich, the fall of America into MAGA (make America go away). . . the fall of the house of Usher, an abandoned structure that fell into ruin . . .

The cold hard truth about this life is that, ultimately, we will all go down to the grave, buried in the earth to decay, just like the leaves that fall in the autumn season. Autumn is the season when the life process seems to fall apart. The leaves fall; the temperatures fall. So autumn inspires a metaphor to commemorate the falling apart of all good things that we had earlier depended on, or appreciated. In human history and society, we notice the fall of people into moral depravity, wherein some people fall into sexual infidelity, wherein their marriage to a faithful mate is destroyed. Then there’s also the fall of societal or governmental leaders who forsake their constitutional or moral duties to uphold the standards. . . the principals and laws. . . to which nature and nature’s God had originally bound them. History reveals the fall of great institutions. The fall of the Roman empire released the seeds of Christianity into European history. Dissention among the factions wrought destructions.

And yet, still yet, we are reminded of so many entities and things that fall apart; yet they are sometimes renewed again in some unforeseen way. I am reminded of that Moody Blues recitation: after the browns, reds and golds lie in the gutter dead. . . “Remember then: summer birds, with wings of fire. . . come to witness springs new hope, born of leaves decaying”. . .

The cycle of life and death went uninterrupted through thousands, millions of years. . .until the Son of Man was crucified, then was laid into the earthen tomb, only to defy death itself by His resurrection. You believe that? Think about it. Why not choose victory of Faith over the death cycle of fallen leaves, fallen seasons, fallen years fallen, lives? Glass half Full

Roots Music

Music back in the 1960’s was a curious choice for us teenagers. We had the radio. . . the Motown sound with Otis Redding, The Four Tops. . . we had the radio buzz with Elvis, then the Beatles and all that followed. . . but I was a folky, learning how to play guitar. My friend Johnny showed me a record album that his brother in the Navy had brought from Europe or somewhere. It was a record by Joan Boaz, with her singing old ballads from times long gone. . . Mary Hamilton, Jackaroe, Henry Martin. The liner notes on the back cover were written by a fellow named Bob Dylan. He had written something about when he first heard Joan’s voice and. . . sitting by railroad tracks. . . In 1969, I finished high school and moved to the south side of Baton Rouge to attend LSU. The folk music genre was expanding widely into protest anthems, including songs like Crosby Stills Nash and Young had sung. . . “four dead in Ohio”. Somewhere in all that 1960’s-’70’s confabulation, Doc was brought into the public domain. Doc and Dylan were singing together at the Newport folk festival.

In the midst of all that counterculture passion and intensity, along came a flash from the past: Will the Circle Be Unbroken, a retro-type album by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. My memory of that album always goes back to hearing the voice of a good ole boy from Deep Gap, North Carolina. . . Doc Watson. Doc was an ole feller with a God-given gift for singin’ and pickin’ the guitar. . . a true folk singer who had had no dreams of fame and fortune when he did sing and flat-pick his acoustic until the cows came, or. . , the rest the listening world heard that deep gap sound comin’ out of them thar hills of the Blue Ridge. As Providence would have it. . . for I had never planned what later happened. . . Pat and I moved to Boone, North Carolina, just a stone’s throw from Deep Gap, where Doc, Merle and Rosalee had lived all their lives. We still live there. . . three grown young’uns later. . . about ten miles from Doc’s old homestead in Deep Gap. Around these parts, Doc is a legend. He used to play in downtown Boone and now there’s a bronze statue of Doc “sittin’ on top of the world”, (as the ole bluegrass tells the tune). As you can see, I took the liberty of visiting Doc on the bench.

Doc was the incarnation of authentic, old time, folk music, the born again entrance of authentic, old time, old school FOLK music. . . the real thing! to accompany the new wave of Baez and Dylan and Peter Paul and Mary the Kingston Trio . . . When I was in living in Asheville in the ’70’s, I met David Holt, a scholarly music historian who also had a great talent for playing the banjo, what the mountain folk call a banjer. David plucked his banjo, the old frailing style, on the Life’s Railway to Heaven track of my Revelation 5:9 album in 1979. Somewhere in time, David visited Doc in Deep Gap and interviewed him. Also somewhere in time. . . must have been in the ‘80’s, I was singing a few songs with my guitar, at the Watauga County fair, when Doc’s wife, Rosalee was listening. At the end of my set, she expressed appreciation for my songs. That was a golden memory, coming from Doc Watson’s wife! Still yet later. . .while attending a meeting of the High Country Writers, I met Patricia Payne, who had fancied Merle, back in the day. But her romantic hopes for Merle had never never been fulfilled. I had talked with her, listened to her story, which she had wanted to publish, but that never happened. She passed away. Soon thereafter, I was summoned to a lawyer’s office in Boone, only to discover that she had bequeathed this desk/ bookshelf to me.

And that’s as close as I ever got to the legend of Doc Watson. We do, however, pass the tiny borough of Deep Gap whenever we drive eastward out of Boone. I always gaze out the car window, trying to catch a glimpse of Doc’s place, the house that Patty Payne had showed me before she passed, the homestead where Doc and Merle used to pick their guitars in the Blue Ridge air, the place where authentic folk music had roots deep in Appalachian soil. That’s my Roots Music story and I’m a’stickin’ to it. King of Soul