AN ALMOST MURDER BALLAD

Last month Jenny and I took a little trip. We approached it in the same manner that has become our norm whenever possible. That is, we choose a few vague destinations, make no reservations, pack the car and head out in a general direction. While this approach may not be for the faint of heart (or certainly not those who are unwilling to take whatever accommodations they may stumble upon), it can be a very freeing and rewarding experience. Any two-lane highway, gravel road, historical landmark, hidden cemetery or offbeat roadside attraction that catches our eye, is ours to explore, without fear of missing a check-in at some long-ago booked hotel. It can of course also lead to anxiety and quarrels, as we sometimes push the envelope of our freedom to the breaking point and find ourselves driving into some small tourist town at midnight, only to be greeted with sign after indifferent glowing sign, blinking, NO VACANCY. We have not yet actually had to sleep in our car, but it has been touch and go on more than one occasion.

This most recent journey featured a couple of nights camping in the Smoky Mountains, some vigorous hiking which managed to incorporate a short stint along The Appalachian Trail, an unplanned visit to the homestead of Alvin P. York, he of Sergeant York fame, and an ill-advised venture through the gauntlet of supremely drunken bridesmaids which is become downtown Nashville on a Saturday Night. Of the more structured elements of our trip were those destinations inspired by the recent Ken Burns documentary of Country Music. I had determined that I felt the need to straddle the Tennessee and Virginia border by standing in the middle of State Street at night and seeing that magnificent lighted sign that welcomes visitors to the city of Bristol, Tenn., and or Bristol, Va. I was drawn to it the same way I was drawn to Devil’s Tower a dozen years back, with a focused, Roy Neary like determination. The difference between the two is that Bristol is a very charming little city with a great hotel and Devil’s Tower is a foreboding colossal rock six hours away from anything resembling civilization. To this day I still hear about my crazed Wyoming Quixote Quest from Jenny, and never in fond tones of “Remember that time…” In Bristol however, we stood on the lovely, rooftop deck of The Bristol Hotel, sipping cocktails and looking out at that big, bright, white sign to our hearts’ content. Unlike that Close Encounters trip, where the nearest interstate was still three hours away after we drank in the sights, this time a comfy bed was awaiting us just three floors down.

Also, in Bristol is the wonderful Birthplace of Country Music Museum, located a block over on the Virginia side of State Street and roughly across the street from the Tennessee site where Jimmie Rodgers, The Carter Family, and others, recorded what are considered the first country music records back in 1927. On that site was once a warehouse where record producer Ralph Peer set up shop and recruited through a newspaper ad, local talent to come in with their songs and commit them to record. Sadly, the building, which housed the Taylor-Christian Hat and Glove Company at the time, is long gone, leaving an empty parking lot in its place. The museum itself was on our agenda as part of our Country Music tour and is well worth the visit if you are ever in the area. It is filled with really wonderful interactive exhibits that immerse you in the gospel, hillbilly, blues and jug band music of the depression era, all of which were incorporated into what would come to be known as Country Music. The museum has its share of relics but is mostly structured toward the hearing of the music and the understanding of its genesis. In addition to the regular exhibits we were treated to a temporary exhibition of Marty Stuart photographs, apropos, as he was such an integral voice in telling the story of the music in Burns’ documentary.

The proximity to Bristol of The Carter Family Fold was another factor that drew us to the region. The Carter Family Fold is essentially the Clinch Mountain home of the original Carter Family, A.P., Sara and Maybelle. The tradition of their music is still carried on there to this day with acoustic concerts most every Saturday Night. Along with the music venue, there stands the log cabin boyhood home of A. P. Carter and the General Store he opened after retiring as a touring musician. The setting is rural and quaint, as well as relatively remote. We stopped by on a Friday afternoon and found ourselves the sole visitors wandering the grounds. A.P. and Sara, once married but later divorced, are both buried in a nearby Methodist Church graveyard, very near each other but not side by side. We paid our respects and I awkwardly replicated a pose I had seen of Johnny Cash laying against A. P.’s headstone and asked Jenny to snap a photograph. An act that made me feel an interloper and poser, and which I immediately regretted. Johnny might have had the clout of country continuity and family connection to pull that off, but I certainly don’t. For me to do it just felt lame and disrespectful. Still, I don’t know how many visitors they get up on that hill, so I hope they appreciated the sincere sentiment of our visit, nonetheless. In another act of self-indulgent fancy, I plucked a little yellow plastic flower off of a bouquet resting on Sara’s headstone, overcome with the sudden determination to carry it to cousin Maybelle’s grave north of Nashville, on our return journey home. A silly and sentimental act that we actually pulled off like thieves in the night, under cover of darkness the following Saturday night. Of course, in doing so, we paused a moment to once again pay our respects to Johnny and June, who are very nearby.

On the return from the Carter sites we skirted the little town of Mendota, Va., just down the road a piece. It was already now late afternoon and we were determined to put some miles behind us on our travel towards home. I spontaneously had the ambitious (alternate to destination Nashville) idea of trying to make it to Memphis that night or get as near as we could. Happening the following day, was the now annual fundraising concert for the preservation and maintenance of the boyhood home of Johnny Cash in the little town of Dyess, Arkansas. We had attended the inaugural concert with Rosanne Cash and Kris Kristofferson a couple of years back and this year along with Rosanne’s return, Marty Stuart would be playing as well. The idea of capping off our adventure in Dyess seemed the perfect finale to our Ken Burns inspired ramblings. Rosanne, who we always try to catch in concert whenever we can, was another prominent caretaker voice featured in the telling of tales throughout the documentary, and of course Johnny Cash left his own distinct mark all over the production. Unfortunately, the realities of geography and fatigue won out and that idea was scrapped. Instead we limped into Nashville late Saturday evening.

But on Friday afternoon back in the tiny town of Mendota, we were searching for a restroom after being away from any facilities for so long. A weathered Pepsi Cola advertisement on the side of a shack had caught my eye earlier and I wanted to stop for a photograph. The shack was sitting next to an old General Store that appeared to be open, despite the utter lack of customer activity or people in general. I reasoned with Jenny, “Maybe we can buy a snack for the long road ahead and if so, maybe they’ll let you use their restroom.” We ventured inside not quite knowing what to expect or who might greet us. The store was laid out much the same as a thousand other late 19th, early 20th century general stores in sleepy, forgotten towns all over America. The old fixtures and display cases were now stocked with local crafts and other gift shop merchandise rather than the canned goods, grains, horse tackle, field tools and dungarees that likely once occupied those shelves. We were greeted by two sisters, who were only slightly older than ourselves, whose father was the last proprietor of the space in its final incarnation as a true general store and confectionary. They were small-town friendly, as only small-town friendly can be. They made us much appreciated fresh coffee and we bought fresh baked cookies for the road. We chatted for about 15 minutes while the coffee brewed. In a Keurig however, not percolating on a cast iron stove as you might imagine. As we talked, they told us a bit of the history of the building and how their father had bought it from the original proprietor sometime in the 1940’s or maybe the 1950’s, I can’t accurately recall. They told us how the purchase had included a large old safe that had been in place since the time the building had been constructed around it and how for so many years no one could get into the safe and nobody had any idea what might be in it. As it turned out, when eventually cracked by one of these ladies’ sons, it was discovered to be containing only thousands of old pennies, some dating back to the 1800’s. They told us too of the man and woman, husband and wife, who had originally owned the store in the first half of the 20th century. They told us that she was a bit of a crazy fanatic and a harpy and a shrew, whose nagging would often drive him up into the hills behind the store for prolonged sabbaticals with a bottle or two. They described her as crazy awful and him as a wily drunkard and suggested that there was constant turmoil between them. And then they showed us the most fascinating thing above our heads.

What it was, was a blemish on the original tin ceiling of the store. Not so much a blemish actually, it was more like a tear. “Do you know what that is,” they asked pointing up. “I can’t imagine,” I replied. As it turns out it was the remains of a shotgun blast that had missed its mark and we were looking at the spot where the shot had torn through the tin. They told the story of how one day the man was working the register at the front of the store, ringing out a regular customer and having a friendly chat, when his wife’s voice came screeching down from their apartment above the store. He ignored whatever query she was currently badgering him with until finally she appeared on the stairs screaming, “Can’t you hear me?” Why don’t you answer?” As the story was told he replied, “I can hear you just fine.” He then reached into the customer’s overalls pocket, pulled out a pint of whisky, took a long swig and next reached under the counter and pulled out his shotgun with means of ending her scolding once and for all. The quick-thinking customer knocked the barrel upward just as he pulled the trigger and the resulting rip in the ceiling is still there all these years later.

That is the story best I can remember the telling of it. A story told in a casual, matter of fact manner befitting the pace of the community in which it occurred. A story that someday will be forgotten when the old store finally crumbles or makes way for a new bend in the road. Such a great story that just might have become immortalized in song or folklore had he not missed his mark. Certainly, it is a story on par with that of Staggolee or Frankie and Johnny. What could have been a classic murder ballad, set right smack dab here at country music ground zero, instead went unwritten because frankly, an ‘almost murder ballad’ is just not that interesting. But I took a crack at it anyway, mostly because I wanted to tell the story. I suppose storytelling is the motivation for most songwriting, certainly that seems to be true in the case of country music. So with my apologies to those classic murder ballads like, Cocaine Blues (Bad Man Ballad), Knoxville Girl, Banks Of The Ohio and so on, I present my take on an almost murder ballad I call, Sally Ann. An entirely made up name for a mostly conjectured set of circumstance. It is intended to be sung, more or less, to the tune of Pretty Boy Floyd, which you can listen to on the media player on this blog’s main page. Will The Circle Be Unbroken? Not if I can help it.

SALLY ANN

It was on a Saturday morning
My best day of the week
When the farmers all come to market
To buy the wares they seek

This dusty July morning
Was still holding last night’s heat
When I turned the lock on the front door
My patrons for to greet

It was after a night of drinking
On the hill behind the store
When that reckless whisky thinking
Had me call my wife a whore

Boys if you want trouble
Like waves upon the shore
Then empty a whisky bottle
And call your wife a whore