Other bloggers refer to the creative spirit that hides in our souls as “the Muse”. Mine, frankly, is a whiner. She demands pampering to get her in the mood to put anything on paper, let alone online, and the past few days, she’s been non-co-operative, no matter what I use to entice her: music, chocolate, crochet, a trip into her rich and occasionally eyebrow-raising fantasy world (^_^)–
So today, operating as I am on about three hours sleep, cranky, whiny, and tired of her brattiness, I’m forced to pull out my big gun. She was singing this song in our shared head, in three part harmony with two other people (I’m afraid to speculate on who they were, except to say that, since she was singing lead and in a lower key than my beloved Wilburn Brothers, it wasn’t them) during those long, painfully moon-bright, humid hours before dawn.
Teddy and Doyle recorded “Simon Crutchfield’s Grave”, written by Damon Black, in 1972. I first heard it, of all places, on the school bus; we had a driver then who played a country station, to the exasperation of all but me, my brother and sister, we being, after all, country from the cradle. It has since become a favorite of bluegrass bands worldwide, but Teddy and Doyle’s rendition is the one that still gives me chills–for the simple fact that, as any hillbilly/knobite will tell you, it’s not entirely outside the realm of possibility that a man’s conscience could drive him–and his paramour–to a dreadful death.
Lord, I hope this makes her settle down and behave.