She’s almost ninety-six. And when she talks, it sounds like lightning bugs, swarming over a mossy pond.
She admits, most days she doesn’t do much talking. She sits beside her window, reading, or sleeping. But she has good eyes, she has her mind, and she still has a voice.
“Started making up songs when I’s a girl,” she says. “They helped me through some very hard times.”
The hardest of times, you might say. She asks me not to dwell on this part of her story—so I won’t. But when she was ten, her father killed her mother, then himself.
Her brother and sister raised her. Her childhood was spent in a plain, plank house beside a creek. She led a lonely life—kids her age rejected her.
Her first made-up song was meant to help her sleep.
“Got so dark in my bedroom,” she says. “Thought I’s seeing ghosts and spirits, it was terrible.”
“Don't wanna be afraid,
So I won't be, I won’t be,
Not gonna be afraid, no,
Nobody here but me…”
Her voice is cracked and old. Sweet, but sad.
I wish she'd hold me.
After the War, she fell in love. They settled and had two kids. She helped him forget a battlefield. He helped her forget childhood trauma. He played guitar. She sang.
She made many songs with him. Like the one for her son, when he fell from a tree.
“Oh, John, don’t you frown,
It ain’t right to get so down,
Dosey-doh, and don’t you know,
There’s always someone sadder…”
Her voice is the Great American South. It’s tiny meeting houses, hardware stores with live-bait wells, fiddles playing…