Archive for the ‘Folk’ Category

The wind is the singer who sang the first song. . .

This morning a light dampish slightly chilly wind blows through Knobite Corner, under a sunny sky. It’s not always that way: sometimes the wind drives in storm clouds with lightning, hail and hard cold rain. Other times the wind circles back on itself and becomes a tornado, scouring and smashing lives and landscapes–sadly not too uncommon a phenomenon around us.

In gentler moods, though, the wind truly is a singer, the perfect duet partner for pines and willows and tall grass, and a subject for some of my favorite music.

One such song is the one quoted above, recorded by the late John Denver on his 1975 album Windsong. The listing of attributes of the wind makes for some of Denver’s best poetry; wed to the light lilting tune, it’s unforgettable.

“They Call the Wind Maria” is truly sui generis; there’s not another wind song like it out there. From the 1951 Lerner and Loewe musical Paint Your Wagon, it’s been sung by everyone from Vaughn Monroe to Frankie Lane to the Kingston Trio, and, in the 1969 film version, by actor Harve Presnell, but my favorite version is by country music’s great trio The Browns. The orchestral accompaniment and vocals give it a great dramatic punch.

One of the most romantic of all wind songs is Hank Williams Sr.’s “Waltz of the Wind”. Apparently it is, like his mesmerizing “Alone and Forsaken”, a home demo recording, with no accompaniment save his guitar. Ol’ Hank’s reedy tenor turns sweetly seductive here, especially on the line “the trees played the waltz of the wind”.

My alltime favorite song about the wind is also my alltime favorite Sons of the Pioneers song. Recorded on a 1959 album called Cool Water and Seventeen Timeless Favorites of the West, it uses their formidable vocal harmonies and a seamless ebb and swell of dynamics to suggest the rush and whisper of the wind as it passes.

Hope that wherever you are today, the wind sings in its gentlest mood. . .


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In 1958, the Kingston Trio made a recording of a ballad fragment based on a sensational 1866 murder that occurred in the mountains of western North Carolina. They are said to have learned it from a man named Frank Proffitt. The details given in their version are frustratingly vague: only the name of the putative murderer–Tom Dooley–is given, and he, in first person, allows that he met some anonymous her on the mountain and stabbed her to death. A man named Grayson, whom Tom blames for his arrest, is mentioned in passing, and the ballad ends conventionally, with Tom bewailing his fate; he has been sentenced to hang.

In 1964, the legendary North Carolina guitarist/singer Doc Watson recorded an alternate version of the song. Doc, interestingly, grew up a bare five miles from Frank Proffitt, but the two songs on the same topic could not be more different.

In Doc’s version, we learn that the victim’s name was Laura “Laurie” Foster, that the killer “hid her clothes and shoes”, that they were apparently running away to be married, that he buried her in a shallow grave. No cause of death is given for “poor Laurie Foster”. Grayson is given the title of sheriff. And we learn that Tom Dooley was a fairly good oldtime fiddle player.

Embedded in the midst of this information, though, is this verse, which puts a whole new complexion on the story.

I know they’re gonna hang me,
Tomorrow I’ll be dead,
Though I never even harmed a hair
On poor little Laurie’s head. . .

Novelist Sharyn McCrumb, whose 2011 book The Ballad of Tom Dooley, is based on the murder of Laura Foster and the subsequent hanging of Tom Dooley, makes a very strong case for the truth of this verse. She researched the surviving trial records and local lore for several years before writing the book. On a trip to North Carolina, which she detailed for Blue Ridge magazine, she was told again and again by locals that Tom was not the murderer. The constant verdict was Ann did it.


His surname was not Dooley; it was actually spelled Dula, although it was pronounced Dooley. In 1866, when he was accused of killing a local woman named Laura Foster, he was barely twenty years old and only a year home from the Civil War. And–shall we say–he had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man.

His one true love, it seems, was a childhood sweetheart named Ann Foster. And there is one fact in this tangled tale that is beyond dispute: Ann Foster was a staggeringly beautiful–and staggeringly selfish–woman. She came from a family that had a reputation for promiscuity, but she had married a respectable local farmer and shoemaker named James Melton in 1859, and was, by 1866, the mother of two. Her marriage, however, was no insurmountable bar to a continuing sexual relationship with Tom Dula. She and Tom often made love and slept together in a bed with James Melton sleeping alone in a separate bed in the same room.

Among other women with whom Dula was involved were cousins of Ann Melton: Pauline Foster and Laura Foster. Pauline Foster had come over the mountains from Tennessee early in 1866, and she became a catalyst for murder.

Pauline Foster was being treated for pox; not smallpox, but syphilis, by a Wilkes County doctor. It is believed that she infected Tom Dula, who in turn infected both Ann Melton and Laura Foster.

Laura Foster was described in newspapers of the time as beautiful but frailfrail being a euphemism for promiscuous. Although of marriageable age, she was keeping house for her widowed father and raising several younger brothers. Rumor had it that she was engaged to Tom Dula (although he had been heard several times to declare he cared absolutely nothing for the girl) and that they were planning to run away to be wed.

(It is a measure of the brutality of Laura’s short life that her father declared, after her disappearance, that he didn’t care if she never came back, but he did want his mare back.)

Sometime on or around May 26, 1866, Laura Foster took a bundle of her clothing and a pair of leather shoes (made for her by James Melton), stole her father’s mare, and left home. The mare came home a couple of days later, unharmed. Laura was never seen alive again.

Tom Dula was suspected from the beginning of having done away with Laura; both he and Ann Melton apparently suspected she was the source of the pox, although Tom had also been intimate with Pauline Foster, who undoubtedly had the pox at the time of their relations, while Laura did not.

Laura’s body, buried in a shallow, four-foot-long grave, was finally located in August of 1866. Dr. Carter–the local physician who was also treating Pauline Foster for syphilis–found that she had died of a single stab wound through the ribs, and put paid to another rumor: she had not been pregnant at the time of her death.

Tom Dula ran away first to Watauga County, where he worked for a farmer named Grayson for a few weeks before crossing over into Tennessee. He was captured by North Carolina sheriff’s officers in Trade, Tennessee, and returned to North Carolina.

He and Ann Foster Melton, based on the testimony of Pauline Foster, were both charged with murder. Tom, twice convicted, was hanged in May 1868, two years after Laura’s murder. Before he was hanged, he laboriously wrote out a statement in which he completely exonerated Ann. She was acquitted and sent home. Several years later, she died, still in her thirties, possibly of tertiary syphilis. Doc Watson, whose great-grandmother was at Ann’s deathbed, said the dying woman complained continually of black cats stalking the room and–perversely significant–of a sound like frying bacon.

The mountain people, though, believe Ann was the actual killer of Laura Foster–and not only because she suspected Laura of passing the pox to Tom and thus to her, but for the oldest motive in the world: jealousy.

McCrumb, after studying trial transcripts and newspapers of the period, concurs. Her novel about the case, therefore, is not a whodunnit, but a whydunnit–and her contention is that Ann Melton was provoked to a killing rage through the machinations of Pauline Foster. Tom Dula, in this view, literally did not even harm a hair on poor little Laurie’s head; he merely helped small-framed and lazy Ann bury the body.

Some of her points–such as the identity of the man Laura Foster was meeting the morning she disappeared (it wasn’t Tom)–are purely speculative, but in the absence of other facts as plausible as any. The most compelling aspect of her story, however, is the presentation of the character of Pauline Melton–a homely, loveless female Iago who sets out to destroy her cousin Ann out of sheer hatred and tangles two relative innocents in the web.

If you’re interested in historical fiction, this novel is definitely worth a read.

In passing let me note that I have never run across any references to ghosts of Tom, Laura, or Ann. McCrumb herself points out that she regards the story as an Appalachian version of Wuthering Heights–which I regard as somewhat of a stretch, but what the hey, it’s her story–and has one character blatantly crib from Bronte and declare that he could not imagine “unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.”

So, it seems, that whatever their trials in life, they rest in peace.

Laura and Ann are buried in marked graves, as is Tom. As for Pauline Foster, she is said to have given birth to a mixed-race child after having married a much older man; beyond that, she simply disappears from the historical record.

For the record: I was convinced of Ann Melton’s guilt from the first time I heard Doc’s version of the ballad, thirty years or more ago. Call it woman’s intuition. 😉

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. . .licht, licht’s the luve that can be coft
wi’ gowd an’ buskins gay
. . .”The Green Ladye o’ Newton” old Scots ballad

As the wisdom of our grandmothers through a long descent has it, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

Or, perhaps, in other ways modesty prevents me from mentioning. (^_^)

Or you could try the way that the Green Lady of Newton Castle, the hapless Jean Drummond, tried: enlisting the help of the faery folk of Scots legend.

On the whole, I can’t say I’d recommend it.

Newton Castle, near Blairgowrie in Scotland, dates in part to the fourteenth century. Newton has long been the favored haunt of a Green Lady. In life she was the daughter of the castle’s contemporary owner; her name was Jean Drummond.

Lady Jean had, in those long-ago days, fallen desperately in love with the laird of a nearby castle. Lord Ronald, as he was called, had seemed in the beginning to return her passion. His was transitory as hers was constant, and he eventually moved on to another woman.

Like many another woman before and since, Jean refused to give up on her faithless lover. She wanted him back, and to entice him took to dressing in fine clothing: dresses of silk, silver-buckled shoes of the finest leather. She had a mane of long black hair, and she braided it with pearls and precious stones.

Lord Ronald looked her up and down, complimented her on her fine appearance, and made some excuse to go back to his dowdier but dear new lover.

Lady Jean fell into a deep gloom, and drove the other inhabitants of Newton half-frantic by retreating to a window in the north tower, where she sat day after day, singing maudlin and sometimes morbid songs of lost love.

Nearby there lived an old lady described by some as a fortune-teller, by others as an outright witch. After some time, Jean aroused from her funk long enough to go to consult this old lady. Perhaps she hoped the woman would foretell Lord Ronald’s return to her arms; perhaps she hoped for a love charm.

Well, the old lady advised that last. Her fine clothes were no use at all, she said; if she wanted her man back, she would have to try the magical garb of the faery folk: the witchin’ claith o’ green, she called it.

First, she said, Lady Jean must gather some of the long green grass that grew in the local kirkyard. Then she was to go to the hill where the town’s gallows stood; atop that hill stood a rowan tree, and she must cut a branch from it. Then she was to tie grass and branch together with a braided reed.

So far, so good. When Lady Jean had gathered this magical accoutrements, she was to take them, as darkness fell, to the nearby Cobble Pool, a still place in the River Ericht. In the Cobble Pool there was a great ancient boulder known as the Corbie Stane (Scots for stone). She was to sit all night on the Corbie Stane, close her eyes, and wait for what would happen in the wee hours. Whatever she might hear, the old lady emphasized solemnly, she must not open her eyes.

So Lady Jean, just at twilight, waded out to the Corbie Stane, climbed up onto it, and closed her eyes.

In the wee hours she was startled and frightened by sounds of laughter all around her. A sudden cold wind arose, and she felt hands pulling at her clothes. So frightened did she become that she no longer needed to close her eyes; she fainted, and did not rouse until she heard roosters greeting the dawn.

The clothes she had worn the night before were gone, never to be seen again. In their stead, she wore a dress of green: the green favored by the faery folk.

She presented herself to Lord Ronald. The faery magic worked; he returned to her, and they were to be married at once. The bride wore that strange and beautiful green dress for their wedding.

At the altar, though, she seemed oddly distracted, her eyes suddenly dark and lifeless. Lord Ronald noticed that her hand in his was deathly cold.

Without warning, Jean screamed a terrible scream, and collapsed at Ronald’s feet. Taken to the bed where she would have lain with her husband on their wedding night, she lingered for a few days before dying.

Only then did the story of the green dress come out. The old lady had kept from her the most terrible aspect of her magical deception: that none save true faery folk could wear the witchin’ claith o’ green with impunity.

As she died under enchantment, Jean could not be buried in kirk. She was laid to rest in unhallowed ground on Knockie Hill, and a simple stone put up to mark the spot.

They say that on Halloween nights, all these many centuries later, that gravestone turns around three times. Then the Lady Jean, still clad in that lovely uncanny dress of faery green, makes her way down the hill and into the north tower of Newton Castle, where she spends that night when the veil between living and dead thins singing sad love songs, as she did in life.


Dane Love, Scottish Ghosts (1995)

Lily Seafield, Ghostly Scotland (2006).

The full text of “The Green Ladye o’ Newton” can be found here.

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Now if you see that girl of mine
Tell her if you please
That when she bakes those biscuits
To roll up her sleeves. . .

With temperatures hovering, following TS Lee’s progress like a rainy monarch through Knobite Corner, in the upper sixties–a great relief after a high of ninety-eight last Saturday–I’ve spent three of the last four days cooking. Monday, I made a beef Veg-All cheddar casserole. Yesterday, I made a pot of vegetable soup and cornbread muffins. The soup is excellent, even if I do say so myself; the casserole needs extensive tinkering but is edible. As for the cornbread muffins–hey, who can eff up a Martha White cornbread mix?

Today, feeling frightfully brave, I decided I’d do some more baking.

So I began with my one and only five-star accomplishment: apple raisin muffins. Lacking the requisite two cups of raisins, I was about to throw up my hands in disgust when I heard Her Majesty Queen DinoSnob murmur, use what raisins you have and add extra apple, dingbat.

Excellent idea, Your Majesty, I said aloud.

Aren’t they all?, she said. She loses no chance to remind me that, in addition to being a traditional country music maven, she has a fearless culinary heart; one failure and I’ll never make a dish again, while she’ll try till she gets it right.

So, I used my scant half-cup of raisins, chopped up not one but two Red Delicious apples in place of the rest, mixed up my muffins, and set them to bake in my funky square muffin pan.

As the rest of my sad story has nothing to do with the muffins, allow me to say that A) Her Majesty was correct in her choice of ingredients and thinks next time I should eschew raisins altogether and B) Mom, my captive test subject, announces unequivocally that I have outdone myself.

With the homey fallish scent of apples, cinnamon and nutmeg wafting through the house, I decided I’d use up some more of the quart of milk I’d invested in to make the cornbread muffins and make biscuits.

After all, who can eff up the recipe on the Bisquick box, right?

But that was before I realized that box of Bisquick had been in the cabinet since the Christmas Her Majesty made Jimmy Dean Sage Sausage Balls for a brunch– sometime, I fancy, in the Stone Age, because it was hard as rock and crawling with mealworms.

Ewwwwwwww! Her Majesty and I chorused as I slamdunked the box into the trash.

Then I decided to try the recipe the way it was given on the White Lily bag of flour I’d used in making the highly successful muffins.

Her Majesty pointed out, You don’t have Crisco. . .

No, I said stoutly, but I have cooking oil.

That, said Her Majesty, isn’t what worries me.

Ah, c’mon, where’s that fearless culinary heart?

She left me alone to court disaster.

Bake them biscuits, baby
Bake ’em good and brown,
Cause when I’ve had my breakfast
I’m Alabama bound. . .

All went fairly well, I guess one could say, at first: I put out my two cups of flour (self-rising; I’m a lazy woman 😉 ), then added two thirds of a cup of milk and enough cooking oil to make three-quarters of a cup of liquid.

And I mixed it up, and it did form a nice doughy ball.

So I’m home free, right?

Wrong. I’d forgotten–my two previous adventures in biscuitmaking having induced traumatic amnesia–how damned sticky the dough can be.

The rest of the story is too painful to share save in outline.

I did manage to salvage seven biscuits from a doughball that should have made a dozen.

I had to vacuum up a copious amount of flour from the floor around my worktop.

There’s still dough clinging to the ceiling and a light dusting of flour in my hair and eyebrows, which has a peculiar aging effect.

But–to my surprise–such biscuits as did come out of this round of insanity are the best ones I’ve made yet.

And I comfort myself with this:

My sister, a world-class cook, can’t make biscuits at all.

Nanny nanny boo boo. . . 😉

Walkin’ in my sleep, babe,
Walkin’ in my sleep
Up and down that Dixie line
Walkin’ in my sleep. . .

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Six tornadoes touched down within a twenty-mile radius of our little house across the road from the creek here in Knobite Corner during the outbreak of storms on April 27. We were lucky; despite fierce wind, rain and hail my immediate family is safe, though not all in their homes thanks to ongoing power outages.

For me, it’s a day of set pieces:

Mom in her wheelchair in the hall in the center of the house.

My nephew and his carpool buddy outrunning a tornado that chased them back up Route 95 on their way home from work.

My older niece spotting a funnel cloud as she approached town, hovering over her neighborhood, and turning back to the relative safety of Mamaw’s house.

My younger niece and brother-in-law taking shelter in the basement of a nearby church while lightning did a merry danse macabre over the graveyard.

Our local NBC station, WBIR-TV, Channel 10, Knoxville reports this morning that in our area the NWS issued sixty-nine tornado warnings and twenty-four severe thunderstorm warnings within a fifteen hour period, with a lead time of reaching safety that averaged out to about twenty-nine minutes. I’m sure that in other areas the total numbers are much higher, and there was less lead time.

In the old days, before our present early warning systems, there was no lead time at all.

All these circumstances reminded me of another spring, and a monstrous storm that came seemingly out of a clear blue sky. Out of that storm came a heartwrenching song by the great Original Carter Family–and a ghost story, with echoes right down to the present day.

Up until one o’clock in the afternoon, or thereabout, May 2, 1929 had been a quiet, very normal day in the little Scott County, Virginia town of Rye Cove. It was a school day; Rye Cove Consolidated School, with around one hundred fifty students ranging from first graders to high school seniors, was just settling in for an afternoon’s work following the midday lunch break.

Just east of nearby Cove Ridge, a bad storm was moving through a valley. A farmer out in his field was the first to notice that the storm was circling back on itself and becoming a “cyclone”, as Appalachian old people often still call tornadoes.

The school’s principal, who had gone to his boarding house for the lunch break, reached the school just about the same time the tornado did, entering through a door that splintered around him.

~~wood and glass sailing through the air, cutting down anything and anyone in their wind-driven path.

~~pencils, blackboards, hot coals from the stoves that still were in use that May afternoon, smashing, stabbing, and burning against flesh and walls.

~~and the screams. Oh, God, the screams, rising above the roar of the wind.

It was all over in little more than a heartbeat.

Of the one hundred fifty-odd people who were in Rye Cove Consolidated School that day, more than fifty were transported to area hospitals.

Ten were found dead at or near the scene, including one teacher, whose body was found seventy-five yards away from the ruins, where the storm had dropped her. Two students died during transport; another died the next day in a Kingsport, Tennessee hospital, bringing the total of deaths to thirteen. The teacher who died was a twenty-four-year-old; of the students who were killed, the oldest were eighteen, the youngest six.

Three of the dead bore the surname Carter. They weren’t relatives of the famous A. P. Carter, songwriter and song collector; he was visiting friends in the next valley over when he heard of the disaster and rushed over to offer his assistance, however it might be needed. Carter wrote a song about the tragedy: he called it “Cyclone at Rye Cove” and a year or so later he, wife Sara, and sister-in-law Maybelle Carter recorded it.

Oh listen today and a story I’ll tell,
In sadness and tear rimmed eyes,
Of a dreadful cyclone that came this way,
And blew our schoolhouse away.

cho: Rye Cove (Rye Cove), Rye Cove (Rye Cove),
The land of my childhood and home,
Where life’s early morn I once loved to roam,
But now it’s so silent and lone.

When the cyclone appeared it darkened the air,
And the lightning flashed over the sky,
And the children all cried, don’t take us away,
But spare us to go back home.

There were mothers so dear and fathers the same,
That came to this terrible scene,
Searching and crying each found their own child,
Dying on a pillow of stone.

Oh give us a home far beyond the blue sky,
Where storms and cyclones are unknown,
And there by life’s strand we’ll clasp the glad hand,
Our children in their heavenly home.

The Rye Cove storm was one of a series of tornadoes that struck western Appalachia that spring; the others were less deadly.

Rye Cove held no school term in 1929-1930. In the fall of 1930, a new school, called the Rye Cove Memorial High School, opened some little distance away, and a memorial plaque with the names of the thirteen dead was placed on an outer wall. Other memorials are nearby.

They say that there are less tangible reminders of that dreadful day in Rye Cove, though–

for on May 2 each year, so it’s said, you can hear the freight-train rumble and roar of a circular storm tearing its way up the valley, hear wood being rent from wood and glass splintering and flying in an ominous tinkle, and hear the screams of the injured and the dying, even when the sky is a clear blue and no clouds blacken the sun.

For more information on the Rye Cove cyclone, check out Nancye’s site, which contains several contemporary newspaper reports about the storm and its aftermath. My favorite collector of Appalachian ghost tales, the great Charles Edwin Price, wrote briefly about Rye Cove in his 1993 book The Mystery of Ghostly Vera and Other Haunting Tales of Southwest Virginia. He expanded on the material in that book in an article called “Death in the Afternoon” in the May/June 1998 issue of Blue Ridge magazine.

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First, there was a battle.

On January 8, 1815, American troops under the command of the incomparably ornery Andrew Jackson met in pitched battle with British troops under the equally ornery Edward Pakenham some five miles from what is now downtown New Orleans. This was in effect the last battle of the War of 1812, and a useless one at that; the war had ended with the signing of the Treaty of Ghent on December 24, 1814, but news of the treaty would not reach the United States until February. I won’t bore you with details, save to say that Jackson and his forces, outnumbered two to one, trounced Pakenham’s troops, and Pakenham was killed. Although they had reinforcements nearby, the new British general retreated from the field, and Old Hickory’s legend acquired new burnish.

Next, there was a fiddler.

Sometime after the battle, a frontier fiddle player, whose name is lost to history, composed a little lilting tune he called “Jackson’s Victory” in honor of Jackson. Most fiddle tunes have some English, Scots or Irish background; this one is generally agreed to be purely American in origin. Sometime around the Civil War era, when Jackson’s popular reputation went downhill–most likely as a result of memories of his staunch Unionist sentiments–the name of the tune was changed to ‘Eighth of January,” in commemoration of the battle but not of the commander.

Fast forward to 1936. In that year, a high school teacher who was also a musician and songwriter had the brilliant idea of composing a song about the great battle in order to get his students more interested in history, which is way too often merely a collection of dates and places and lifeless themes. The teacher’s name was James Corbitt Morris (1907-1998). He would in the 1950s legally change his name to Jimmy Driftwood, and he would write other great story songs in his time, but “The Battle of New Orleans,” which he set to the old tune “Eighth of January,” is still the best known.

In eighteen fourteen we took a little trip
Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Mississip
We took a little bacon and we took a little beans
And we fought the bloody British in the town of New Orleans. . .

Driftwood wrote a total of thirteen verses and a chorus of the song. In 1957 he recorded it on an album called NEWLY DISCOVERED EARLY AMERICAN FOLK SONGS; the recording was unfortunately deemed unsuitable for radio play because the lyrics contained the words “hell” and “damn.”

However, one person who did hear the album was a country singer in dire need of a hit: Johnny Horton (1925-1960). Horton had recorded a number of story songs, and when he heard “The Battle of New Orleans” he knew it would be a hit. Trimmed down to four verses and a chorus, Horton’s version was released in 1959, and in 1960 won a Grammy for Best Country and Western Recording.

Horton’s hearty rendition of the song remains remarkably fresh and memorable even now. Awhile back a workmate of mine came in chuckling about his son coming home talking about what “a great new song” he’d heard in class that day. Asked what it was, he said, “The Battle of New Orleans.”

No doubt the last verse of Horton’s version still raises hackles at PETA, with its genial (and obviously tall-tale) use of an alligator for warlike purposes:

We fired our cannon till the barrel melted down
So we grabbed an alligator and we fought another round
We filled his head with cannonballs and powdered his behind
And when we touched the powder off the gator lost his mind. . .

And what can compare to the description of the British retreat?

Yeah, they ran through the briars and they ran through the brambles
And they ran through the bushes where a rabbit couldn’t go
They ran so fast that the hounds couldn’t catch ’em
On down the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. . .

There is one last witticism about the outcome of the battle that not even Jimmy Driftwood would touch, however. Lord Pakenham, the British commander who was killed, was packed into a keg of rum for shipment back to his family burial ground in County Westmeath in Ireland. Pakenham was infamous for his surly temper, and it is said that when the rum keg arrived, bearing his remains, a relative of his remarked brightly, “The General has returned home in better spirits than he left.” 😉

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All day yesterday and most of today, our weather forecasters (the ones who get paid the big bucks to tell us what the weather will be like any given time, and about half that time are wrong) here in the knobs have been calling for snow–although I doubt any of them know, as I mentioned in my previous post, that thunder in January means snow within ten days of the time a thunderstorm rumbles through. Having said which, I’ve seen my RNP, got medicine, got food, got yarn, and got books, and if it does snow I’m set!

Did think it would fun, though, to post a little “snow music”. These are some of my favorites.

This first is my all-time favorite snow song–George Hamilton IV’s recording of Gordon Lightfoot’s “Song for a Winter’s Night.”

And I’ve got to throw in this bluegrass classic by the immortal Bill Monroe–his 1945 recording of “Footprints in the Snow.

The next two, both performed by the velvet-voiced Jim Reeves, could not be more different from each other: one a jaunty flirtatious love song, the other a spectacularly morbid ballad about a cowboy, a horse, and a blizzard.

And I fell in love with Loreena Mckennitt’s dreamy setting of Archibald Lampman’s poem “Snow” the first time I heard it.

I would add “Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!” but for the fact that my musical multiple personalities cannot agree on a suitable version.

Ladies, behave!!! 😉

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