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The Hills of Arkansas Backstory
I grew up off of Hwy 215, 6 miles north of Interstate 40 at Exit 24. However, when we moved there, there was no interstate. I had my 9th birthday in Arkansas at the Old Lambert’s place. We were renting that house while we built our house up on the hill just a mile or so away.
Both my parents worked and so my little brother, older sister, and me were left to occupy ourselves if we weren’t in school, doing homework, or doing chores. I went on walks through the woods, finding all those things you can find in the woods. I discovered Boysenberry Branch, Piney Road, and cliffs all around that place we rented.
Once we moved into our house we built, one of my chores was building fence. We had posthole diggers, and an old car axle that was sharpened on one end and had the wheel hub on the other. It could be used alternately to chip rocks in the ground or tamp them into the posthole. I wore out more than 1 pair of posthole diggers building barbed wire fences with cedar posts we had cut up around the old CCC camp by the dam at Shore’s Lake. The land up on top of the hill was once owned by a McCollum who raised berries, so much of it was cleared. Other parts we cleared ourselves and raised cattle - and a few horses. I picked up a lot of rocks while clearing that ground trying to get grass to grow. Often the rocky ground didn’t grow grass very well. It was a struggle to keep it watered during the hot Arkansas summers. That’s why rain was so welcomed in the hills.
Sometimes I would camp out under the open stars. Far from any light or noise pollution I could lay and gaze at the ancient sky spread over the hills and meadows like an ever watchful guardian. Familiar constellations and campfires provided comfort even when I was alone and far from any warmth of home lights or fires.
I spent hours a day walking or riding my horse through the hills and creeks around our house. I discovered foxes, possums, raccoons, squirrels, crawdads, minnows, sow bellies, centipedes, scorpions, copperheads and cottonmouths, ticks, chiggers - and lots of other things that made life both good and bad. Anyone who has ever stood on the edge of a cliff beside a stand of pines knows the soothing whisper of those pine needles singing in the breeze.
To me it was both comforting and haunting. Sometimes I would find an old home place that was just a foundation of rocks - or a part of a rock wall. I would imagine what those peoples’ lives were like during bygone days. I could imagine them hauling water from the creek or spring I’d discovered, gathering wood from the forest, or clearing a spot for a garden. That’s when the whispers of the pines would haunt me - like the ghosts of people who had long ago lived out their lives in that place. What I found as a lonely disquieting spot in the woods, someone else once called home. They spent their days struggling against the elements, growing plants, and chasing away (or cooking) critters in order to make a living. Happening upon meadow in the midst of an oak forest was a change of scenery that reminded me of the variety those hills provide.
Our lives were not much different during my early years. I didn’t know then that we would be considered poor, but I did often wish for better days. My friends at school who lived in the big town of Mulberry, AR (population 1,490) seemed to have such an easy life compared to mine. They had paved streets, the Dairy Dip, 2 grocery stores, Red’s Pool Hall, and lots of other amenities I did not experience regularly. I was a ‘country boy’ stuck in the woods. My daily companions were sledge hammers and splitting wedges, posthole diggers, pruning shears, axes, rakes, hoes, shovels, and chainsaws.
I did not realize it then, but it was a privileged life fewer and fewer people get to experience. Nearly every day - and certainly every week - the hills of Arkansas are calling me back home.
Musicians and the music
Tim Crouch does a great job on the banjo to give the intro a happy feel, setting the tone for the rest of the song. I play the acoustic guitar throughout, accenting some of the licks I learned sitting in our yard at night with the seasoned musicians. I fill in with only a few mandolin parts here and there on this song because I liked how the others sounded so much better.
Michael Brinson does a masterful job of making the dobro match the haunting I felt as a child, even mimicking the wind in the pines. Tim Crouch makes the mandolin trill like the creeks did when the water flowed down those rocks in the hollers. Elijah Brinson puts in some mandolin licks that also sound to me like the land that time forgot. Also in between the chorus repeat.
Elijah plays one of the best mandolin parts on the whole album. He walks down the notes to merge perfectly with the final chorus. Brandon Patterson played upright bass, changing the rhythms from verse to chorus to match the mood perfectly. On the last chorus he adds the percussion slap to add a little pep, ensuring that the song ends on a happy note. Tim Crouch also puts in some of the most tasteful fiddling I’ve ever heard. Dennis and Brenda Smith are top artists, adding just the right touch of background vocals in all the right places to sweeten the deal to perfection. Dennis also has a natural gift for the percussion parts, which can often make or break the entire arrangement. In my humble opinion, he makes it. Finally, almost unnoticed except in all the sweet spots, Rick Endel plays the Hammond B3 organ with the expertise of someone who choreographed arrangements for a living, providing a solid bed for all the other instruments to come and go as they need to.
All in all, I couldn’t be happier with the arrangement. But that’s just me.
Both my parents worked and so my little brother, older sister, and me were left to occupy ourselves if we weren’t in school, doing homework, or doing chores. I went on walks through the woods, finding all those things you can find in the woods. I discovered Boysenberry Branch, Piney Road, and cliffs all around that place we rented.
Once we moved into our house we built, one of my chores was building fence. We had posthole diggers, and an old car axle that was sharpened on one end and had the wheel hub on the other. It could be used alternately to chip rocks in the ground or tamp them into the posthole. I wore out more than 1 pair of posthole diggers building barbed wire fences with cedar posts we had cut up around the old CCC camp by the dam at Shore’s Lake. The land up on top of the hill was once owned by a McCollum who raised berries, so much of it was cleared. Other parts we cleared ourselves and raised cattle - and a few horses. I picked up a lot of rocks while clearing that ground trying to get grass to grow. Often the rocky ground didn’t grow grass very well. It was a struggle to keep it watered during the hot Arkansas summers. That’s why rain was so welcomed in the hills.
Sometimes I would camp out under the open stars. Far from any light or noise pollution I could lay and gaze at the ancient sky spread over the hills and meadows like an ever watchful guardian. Familiar constellations and campfires provided comfort even when I was alone and far from any warmth of home lights or fires.
I spent hours a day walking or riding my horse through the hills and creeks around our house. I discovered foxes, possums, raccoons, squirrels, crawdads, minnows, sow bellies, centipedes, scorpions, copperheads and cottonmouths, ticks, chiggers - and lots of other things that made life both good and bad. Anyone who has ever stood on the edge of a cliff beside a stand of pines knows the soothing whisper of those pine needles singing in the breeze.
To me it was both comforting and haunting. Sometimes I would find an old home place that was just a foundation of rocks - or a part of a rock wall. I would imagine what those peoples’ lives were like during bygone days. I could imagine them hauling water from the creek or spring I’d discovered, gathering wood from the forest, or clearing a spot for a garden. That’s when the whispers of the pines would haunt me - like the ghosts of people who had long ago lived out their lives in that place. What I found as a lonely disquieting spot in the woods, someone else once called home. They spent their days struggling against the elements, growing plants, and chasing away (or cooking) critters in order to make a living. Happening upon meadow in the midst of an oak forest was a change of scenery that reminded me of the variety those hills provide.
Our lives were not much different during my early years. I didn’t know then that we would be considered poor, but I did often wish for better days. My friends at school who lived in the big town of Mulberry, AR (population 1,490) seemed to have such an easy life compared to mine. They had paved streets, the Dairy Dip, 2 grocery stores, Red’s Pool Hall, and lots of other amenities I did not experience regularly. I was a ‘country boy’ stuck in the woods. My daily companions were sledge hammers and splitting wedges, posthole diggers, pruning shears, axes, rakes, hoes, shovels, and chainsaws.
I did not realize it then, but it was a privileged life fewer and fewer people get to experience. Nearly every day - and certainly every week - the hills of Arkansas are calling me back home.
Musicians and the music
Tim Crouch does a great job on the banjo to give the intro a happy feel, setting the tone for the rest of the song. I play the acoustic guitar throughout, accenting some of the licks I learned sitting in our yard at night with the seasoned musicians. I fill in with only a few mandolin parts here and there on this song because I liked how the others sounded so much better.
Michael Brinson does a masterful job of making the dobro match the haunting I felt as a child, even mimicking the wind in the pines. Tim Crouch makes the mandolin trill like the creeks did when the water flowed down those rocks in the hollers. Elijah Brinson puts in some mandolin licks that also sound to me like the land that time forgot. Also in between the chorus repeat.
Elijah plays one of the best mandolin parts on the whole album. He walks down the notes to merge perfectly with the final chorus. Brandon Patterson played upright bass, changing the rhythms from verse to chorus to match the mood perfectly. On the last chorus he adds the percussion slap to add a little pep, ensuring that the song ends on a happy note. Tim Crouch also puts in some of the most tasteful fiddling I’ve ever heard. Dennis and Brenda Smith are top artists, adding just the right touch of background vocals in all the right places to sweeten the deal to perfection. Dennis also has a natural gift for the percussion parts, which can often make or break the entire arrangement. In my humble opinion, he makes it. Finally, almost unnoticed except in all the sweet spots, Rick Endel plays the Hammond B3 organ with the expertise of someone who choreographed arrangements for a living, providing a solid bed for all the other instruments to come and go as they need to.
All in all, I couldn’t be happier with the arrangement. But that’s just me.
All Dog's Go To Heaven Backstory
If you’ve read any other of my back stories or listened to any of my songs, you already know how much I love dogs. They are the best companions. When my kids were little, we got a German Shepherd and named him “Allison’s Dutchman Duke.” That’s what his papers read, but of course we just called him Duke. Those were the days before digital cameras or phones, so there aren’t many pictures of Duke. But he was, next to Odin, the smartest dog I’ve ever had. And was definitely the smartest before Odin.
Duke would run in front of our children any time there was something unknown approaching. One time he tried to drag a burning piece of carpet out of a fire where we were burning waste from building our new house. He barked at fire, and was extremely responsive to and all commands. He trained himself for the bathroom and never ever had an accident inside. With just 2 weeks of training he would do all of the basic commands even off-leash-including stay.
Duke moved with us to the country into a new house. The kids were both smaller; about 8 and 5 years old when we moved. Unbeknownst to me, the road we had built our house on was a death-trap for free roaming dogs. Our road was narrow, the speed limit 25. But it was a paved county road and the trees on either side of it formed a sort of corridor with a very limited field of vision. Deep ditches on either side gave way to full grown trees, making it dangerous to walk on. In addition, many people did not adhere to the posted 25 mph speed limit. But I hadn’t lived there long enough to know how pervasive the speeders were on that road.
Hence the first verse. We had not been moved in but a few very short weeks. I had fallen asleep in my recliner just cat-napping. We had a larger yard than we’d ever had, about 1⁄2 acre both in the front and in the back. We also had about 3 acres that extended toward the back in a mostly open field. I heard a terrible screeching sound of tires and what I thought was a scream. I jumped up and ran outside. My worst fear in that instant was that it was one or both of my children who were wont to go outside into the yard and explore-even though they had strict instructions to stay away from the road-that was my immediate thought.
It was the next worst thing. As I ran the 30 or so yards up our driveway, I saw a car speeding down the road. And there was Duke standing in the deep ditch beside the road. As I ran up to him he was panting and his mouth had drops of blood. My heart both sank and imploded. When I got close enough to touch him-but not until- he collapsed. Within seconds he took one long, last breath. The skid marks from the car indicated they were doing well above the speed limit. They were traveling twice that when I saw them driving away. We (me and the kids) took him out in the field where we had played with him for those few short weeks and dug him a resting place where we could check on him. The marker we prepared for him simply said, “Here lays Duke. He was a good dog.” That statement was the epitome of understatement. I will never forget that day as long as I live-nor the feelings that it evoked in me. I am not and never have been prone to emotive expression. In fact I hardly ever show much in the way of sadness or pain. But that day I cried. A lot.
I wish I could say that was the last dog we lost while we lived there, but it was not. We took in several other strays, but between the digging out of fences and the screaming traffic, a few others met a similar fate to Duke. I always felt very responsible for Duke as I had let him roam freely in our yard. I felt he deserved the freedom after being pent up for his early years in a fenced yard in the city. How many times I’ve wished I could turn back the clock and take that freedom away from him in order to save his life. But of course, that’s not possible.
I never got close to another dog until Odin acceded to that spot 20+ years later. You can read about his entrance into our lives in Ode To Odin Backstory on another page of the website. To this day, I can’t allow myself to think of Odin’s departure without breaking down. So I just don’t think about it.
I do believe our friends will be there to meet us in Heaven. If you are worried about the theology, just remember, there is a lion, an ox, and an eagle stationed around the Throne of God constantly. Jesus is coming back to earth on a white horse. Where is He coming from? Heaven. So there must be at least those four animals in Heaven. Dogs are mentioned dozens of times in the Bible and were the only creature who offered the beggar Lazarus any comfort.
Duke would run in front of our children any time there was something unknown approaching. One time he tried to drag a burning piece of carpet out of a fire where we were burning waste from building our new house. He barked at fire, and was extremely responsive to and all commands. He trained himself for the bathroom and never ever had an accident inside. With just 2 weeks of training he would do all of the basic commands even off-leash-including stay.
Duke moved with us to the country into a new house. The kids were both smaller; about 8 and 5 years old when we moved. Unbeknownst to me, the road we had built our house on was a death-trap for free roaming dogs. Our road was narrow, the speed limit 25. But it was a paved county road and the trees on either side of it formed a sort of corridor with a very limited field of vision. Deep ditches on either side gave way to full grown trees, making it dangerous to walk on. In addition, many people did not adhere to the posted 25 mph speed limit. But I hadn’t lived there long enough to know how pervasive the speeders were on that road.
Hence the first verse. We had not been moved in but a few very short weeks. I had fallen asleep in my recliner just cat-napping. We had a larger yard than we’d ever had, about 1⁄2 acre both in the front and in the back. We also had about 3 acres that extended toward the back in a mostly open field. I heard a terrible screeching sound of tires and what I thought was a scream. I jumped up and ran outside. My worst fear in that instant was that it was one or both of my children who were wont to go outside into the yard and explore-even though they had strict instructions to stay away from the road-that was my immediate thought.
It was the next worst thing. As I ran the 30 or so yards up our driveway, I saw a car speeding down the road. And there was Duke standing in the deep ditch beside the road. As I ran up to him he was panting and his mouth had drops of blood. My heart both sank and imploded. When I got close enough to touch him-but not until- he collapsed. Within seconds he took one long, last breath. The skid marks from the car indicated they were doing well above the speed limit. They were traveling twice that when I saw them driving away. We (me and the kids) took him out in the field where we had played with him for those few short weeks and dug him a resting place where we could check on him. The marker we prepared for him simply said, “Here lays Duke. He was a good dog.” That statement was the epitome of understatement. I will never forget that day as long as I live-nor the feelings that it evoked in me. I am not and never have been prone to emotive expression. In fact I hardly ever show much in the way of sadness or pain. But that day I cried. A lot.
I wish I could say that was the last dog we lost while we lived there, but it was not. We took in several other strays, but between the digging out of fences and the screaming traffic, a few others met a similar fate to Duke. I always felt very responsible for Duke as I had let him roam freely in our yard. I felt he deserved the freedom after being pent up for his early years in a fenced yard in the city. How many times I’ve wished I could turn back the clock and take that freedom away from him in order to save his life. But of course, that’s not possible.
I never got close to another dog until Odin acceded to that spot 20+ years later. You can read about his entrance into our lives in Ode To Odin Backstory on another page of the website. To this day, I can’t allow myself to think of Odin’s departure without breaking down. So I just don’t think about it.
I do believe our friends will be there to meet us in Heaven. If you are worried about the theology, just remember, there is a lion, an ox, and an eagle stationed around the Throne of God constantly. Jesus is coming back to earth on a white horse. Where is He coming from? Heaven. So there must be at least those four animals in Heaven. Dogs are mentioned dozens of times in the Bible and were the only creature who offered the beggar Lazarus any comfort.
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Dennis Smith provides a percussive touch that makes the feel of the song ethereal. I am using a straight pick but picking individual strings for the melody on my D28. Rick Endel plays the strings and piano. Right before the bridge after the second verse, the accent of higher strings, followed by the Dobro, then harmonized ooooohs, take the song to the next level where you can literally see your favorite friend running past the Pearly Gates to greet us to our forever home. On the bridge Rick plays a piano part hitting the 9ths repetitively that fits the heavenly frame of the song. Elijah Brinson is on the bass and his dad Michael is playing Dobro. With his permission, I’m going to tell this story about Michael.
Michael is one of the best guitarists I’ve ever heard, and he is an extremely multi-talented individual. He also has the look of a typical country Oklahoma boy-which he is. But during the studio session where he was playing on this song, he wiped his eyes and said the song was making him cry. I thought (not knowing him that well at that point) he was joking and sort of hamming around. So I laughed it off. But after a second look, he was literally wiping tears out of his eyes in between takes. Afterward, I asked about and discovered he also had a sad dog story where someone had shot his best friend. Then I felt bad for laughing at the guy who was crying at my song. But I was extremely humbled that the song would touch anyone else but me in that way. It was hard for me to get through and I only hope it helps others cope with the loss we feel when we have to let our pals cross that golden bridge before us.
Grandpa Joe Played The Mandolin Backstory
As a little boy I spent quite a few days staying with Grandma Eula, my mother’s mom. Sometimes I would spend the night there as well. They lived at the end of a long and winding driveway up Polecat Holler. (‘Holler’ is backwoods vernacular for ‘hollow’ or ‘canyon’. Although a lot of hollers don’t rise to the level of a canyon on a map.) I would walk up that long driveway and see my grandma bent over in the dirt of their large garden. It started just past the hog pen. The little path that went to the hog pen opened up a little into an old road that went on down to Little Mill Creek and followed it for quite a ways.
Anyway, grandma would be on her knees or squatting in the dirt pulling weeds or picking from the plants in the garden, carrying water, or other chores related to growing a garden. She would often stop what she was doing, and walk with me to the house where she would make me a peanut butter and ‘white’ syrup sandwich.
Sometimes when I would spend the night, I would talk to my Aunt Lorene who was still living at home. She was the youngest of four and was soon married. But in that Jim Walters home without any electricity, she would tell me ghost stories of epic proportions. The nights in that holler were as dark as the moonless sky. Although stars made a dim ambient lighting, the sky in the holler was surrounded by trees on 3 sides and a field to the east. If clouds covered the night sky, it was impossible to see even your hand in front of your face.
Memories of those times are blurred of any chronology, but the events are vivid in my mind. They raised their own garden for canning, egg-laying and frying chickens, and hogs for butchering and selling. Grandma had 2 large black kettles where she would kindle a fire for washing clothes, making lye soap, or boiling freshly beheaded chickens for plucking. She also had a washing machine that was a ‘ringer’ only for squeezing the water out of clothes before hanging on the line to dry. Grandpa was always building some type of out-building for some utilitarian purpose. I remember a smokehouse, a shed just for lumber, another just for storing tools, a chicken house and pen, and a barn for a milk cow. There were wooden pens for the hogs, and chicken wire pens for the chickens.
Grandpa also worked at the Mulberry pallet plant at different times, and laid rocks and bricks-but was always working on something around their place as well. There was an old ‘dug’ well for watering the garden and livestock and a drilled well with a long skinny bucket for drawing drinking and cooking water.
Down that road going by Little Mill Creek was Uncle Son’s mill. I remember occasionally walking through those woods down that path when Grandma needed some kitchen item. We walked about 15-20 minutes through the woods, finally crossing a footbridge across the creek right before traipsing up the hill to Uncle Son’s and Ain’t Ocoee’s. As a little kid, I thought the entire world was like this. I didn’t know they worked hard for almost nothing.
Uncle Runt was actually named Luther and lived about 1⁄4 mile north from Grandpa’s driveway on Hwy 215. As far as I know, he didn’t actually operate a still, but every memory I have of seeing him is accompanied by remembering the alcohol on his breath and the wild stories he would tell of hearing and seeing things in the deep woods while hauling out logs with a mule. I remember one story when he was snake bitten (probably by a copperhead). He was pulling a log with his mules through a briar patch and just thought it was the briars. He cussed those mules all the way home, it was said. That night when his leg swelled up, he noticed the two tell-tale signs of the fang marks. His response was to take out a fifth of whiskey. He poured some on the bite wounds and downed the rest to stave off any infection. After a day or two, he was back to normal.
Years later Aunt Hailey (his wife) was killed in a car accident about 3 miles north of Mulberry on a blind curve. The insurance settled for several tens of thousands of dollars. Uncle Runt went around bragging about this cash while he was inebriated. Not too long after that he came up missing. I remember law enforcement of all levels combing the woods around their house for several days. Then one day after several days of searching, his body was found just yards from his house in the ditch by the highway, covered by the tall grass. He had sustained a fatal shotgun wound to the back. Strangely enough, this was later ruled as a suicide and the case was closed. (I know, right?) Grandpa Joe said on more than one occasion he knew who had done it, and he planned on proving it-although to my knowledge he never did).
In any direction of the compass I could walk down a hill, up a holler, across a creek, or over a ridge and chances are the first house I came across would be kinfolk. I grew up within hollerin’ distance of uncles, aunts, and more cousins than you could shake a stick at. That part of the country was populated from Fern Mountain to Maxey Mountain with 80% either Pattersons or in-laws to Pattersons.
From time to time we would gather folks from around the country for a ‘music.’ Here Grandpa Joe would play the mandolin, fiddle, or bass. Uncle Grover would play the guitar (usually a 12-string). Mom would play guitar or auto-harp. “OP” or Uncle Omer Van Brunt would usually join us with his electric guitar. He was the more progressive musician, making money from playing gigs and bars. Although before that, Grandpa, Uncle Grover, and even Uncle Runt played as the Ozark Mountain Trailblazers for Jack Hoxie. Those musics are where I first learned to play with others, and many of the old bluegrass tunes that have endured the years. That was when people played music for the sheer joy of playing music. It helped divert their attention from the hard labor required to make a living. It brought joy and a sense of community to simple country folk who fought so hard to carve a living out of the rocks and briars that litter the Ozarks.
Musicians and the music
The song starts with just the guitar and a hammer note to emphasize the repetitive work necessary for the hill folk to survive. The banjo and all other instruments come in just when all the rest of the family folk are mentioned. The verses and courses end in a minor which intensifies the mood and is accented on the fiddle by Tim Crouch. Tim also plays the majority of the mandolin parts-including the chops and the picking after the lyrics, “Grandpa Joe played the mandolin.”
Michael Brinson adds the dobro. His part on the bridge right after the words, “We built our lives with just our wills,” sounds like the groans elicited by those unyielding rocks on the hillsides where we built fence and cleared land. “Those dark and lonely hills” reminds me of the nights in the holler so far from any modern conveniences or comforts. Brandon Patterson plays the upright bass throughout while I am again on the acoustic guitar. Dennis Smith plays a percussion part that also reminds me of the relentless work that required sweat and blood to survive. The song ends with the haunting sound of a hammer and anvil that echoes as hard as the life we led in the Ozarks.
One arcane fact about the Ozarks is they were much taller in the ancient geologic past. Erosion has worn them down. They stretch from northeastern Oklahoma (the scene of “Where the Red Fern Grows” by Wilson Rawls) to southern Missouri encompassing much of northern Arkansas. This makes the Ozarks the largest relief feature between the Appalachins and the Rockies. The are also roughly 250 to 450 million years old, making them some of the oldest rocks in the United States.
Anyway, grandma would be on her knees or squatting in the dirt pulling weeds or picking from the plants in the garden, carrying water, or other chores related to growing a garden. She would often stop what she was doing, and walk with me to the house where she would make me a peanut butter and ‘white’ syrup sandwich.
Sometimes when I would spend the night, I would talk to my Aunt Lorene who was still living at home. She was the youngest of four and was soon married. But in that Jim Walters home without any electricity, she would tell me ghost stories of epic proportions. The nights in that holler were as dark as the moonless sky. Although stars made a dim ambient lighting, the sky in the holler was surrounded by trees on 3 sides and a field to the east. If clouds covered the night sky, it was impossible to see even your hand in front of your face.
Memories of those times are blurred of any chronology, but the events are vivid in my mind. They raised their own garden for canning, egg-laying and frying chickens, and hogs for butchering and selling. Grandma had 2 large black kettles where she would kindle a fire for washing clothes, making lye soap, or boiling freshly beheaded chickens for plucking. She also had a washing machine that was a ‘ringer’ only for squeezing the water out of clothes before hanging on the line to dry. Grandpa was always building some type of out-building for some utilitarian purpose. I remember a smokehouse, a shed just for lumber, another just for storing tools, a chicken house and pen, and a barn for a milk cow. There were wooden pens for the hogs, and chicken wire pens for the chickens.
Grandpa also worked at the Mulberry pallet plant at different times, and laid rocks and bricks-but was always working on something around their place as well. There was an old ‘dug’ well for watering the garden and livestock and a drilled well with a long skinny bucket for drawing drinking and cooking water.
Down that road going by Little Mill Creek was Uncle Son’s mill. I remember occasionally walking through those woods down that path when Grandma needed some kitchen item. We walked about 15-20 minutes through the woods, finally crossing a footbridge across the creek right before traipsing up the hill to Uncle Son’s and Ain’t Ocoee’s. As a little kid, I thought the entire world was like this. I didn’t know they worked hard for almost nothing.
Uncle Runt was actually named Luther and lived about 1⁄4 mile north from Grandpa’s driveway on Hwy 215. As far as I know, he didn’t actually operate a still, but every memory I have of seeing him is accompanied by remembering the alcohol on his breath and the wild stories he would tell of hearing and seeing things in the deep woods while hauling out logs with a mule. I remember one story when he was snake bitten (probably by a copperhead). He was pulling a log with his mules through a briar patch and just thought it was the briars. He cussed those mules all the way home, it was said. That night when his leg swelled up, he noticed the two tell-tale signs of the fang marks. His response was to take out a fifth of whiskey. He poured some on the bite wounds and downed the rest to stave off any infection. After a day or two, he was back to normal.
Years later Aunt Hailey (his wife) was killed in a car accident about 3 miles north of Mulberry on a blind curve. The insurance settled for several tens of thousands of dollars. Uncle Runt went around bragging about this cash while he was inebriated. Not too long after that he came up missing. I remember law enforcement of all levels combing the woods around their house for several days. Then one day after several days of searching, his body was found just yards from his house in the ditch by the highway, covered by the tall grass. He had sustained a fatal shotgun wound to the back. Strangely enough, this was later ruled as a suicide and the case was closed. (I know, right?) Grandpa Joe said on more than one occasion he knew who had done it, and he planned on proving it-although to my knowledge he never did).
In any direction of the compass I could walk down a hill, up a holler, across a creek, or over a ridge and chances are the first house I came across would be kinfolk. I grew up within hollerin’ distance of uncles, aunts, and more cousins than you could shake a stick at. That part of the country was populated from Fern Mountain to Maxey Mountain with 80% either Pattersons or in-laws to Pattersons.
From time to time we would gather folks from around the country for a ‘music.’ Here Grandpa Joe would play the mandolin, fiddle, or bass. Uncle Grover would play the guitar (usually a 12-string). Mom would play guitar or auto-harp. “OP” or Uncle Omer Van Brunt would usually join us with his electric guitar. He was the more progressive musician, making money from playing gigs and bars. Although before that, Grandpa, Uncle Grover, and even Uncle Runt played as the Ozark Mountain Trailblazers for Jack Hoxie. Those musics are where I first learned to play with others, and many of the old bluegrass tunes that have endured the years. That was when people played music for the sheer joy of playing music. It helped divert their attention from the hard labor required to make a living. It brought joy and a sense of community to simple country folk who fought so hard to carve a living out of the rocks and briars that litter the Ozarks.
Musicians and the music
The song starts with just the guitar and a hammer note to emphasize the repetitive work necessary for the hill folk to survive. The banjo and all other instruments come in just when all the rest of the family folk are mentioned. The verses and courses end in a minor which intensifies the mood and is accented on the fiddle by Tim Crouch. Tim also plays the majority of the mandolin parts-including the chops and the picking after the lyrics, “Grandpa Joe played the mandolin.”
Michael Brinson adds the dobro. His part on the bridge right after the words, “We built our lives with just our wills,” sounds like the groans elicited by those unyielding rocks on the hillsides where we built fence and cleared land. “Those dark and lonely hills” reminds me of the nights in the holler so far from any modern conveniences or comforts. Brandon Patterson plays the upright bass throughout while I am again on the acoustic guitar. Dennis Smith plays a percussion part that also reminds me of the relentless work that required sweat and blood to survive. The song ends with the haunting sound of a hammer and anvil that echoes as hard as the life we led in the Ozarks.
One arcane fact about the Ozarks is they were much taller in the ancient geologic past. Erosion has worn them down. They stretch from northeastern Oklahoma (the scene of “Where the Red Fern Grows” by Wilson Rawls) to southern Missouri encompassing much of northern Arkansas. This makes the Ozarks the largest relief feature between the Appalachins and the Rockies. The are also roughly 250 to 450 million years old, making them some of the oldest rocks in the United States.
Stay Awhile Backstory
In the early 2000’s I went through a divorce of a marriage of more than 20 years. It wasn’t for a few years after that I got together with my current wife, and love of my life.
During our courtship there was a day we had met at a coffee shop then sat in our car together talking for a long time. When I hugged her goodbye for the first time, I whispered, “stay awhile.” But on the inside of me it was a loud cry. She had smaller children she had to get back to. Mine were older and needed less of my attention at the time. I sat in my vehicle for quite a while listening to the rain falling on my car. My feelings at that moment were overwhelming. Even though I’m not an emotionally expressive person, I feel things deeply. This song was out of both a longing to extend the present moment, and a hope that our future could hold.
Today Donna and I enjoy a full life from finding each other's love. We enjoy each other and our dogs. We also enjoy the four adult children we have between us. As you may have learned from other songs I have written, Odin is the best dog I ever had - and I’ve had some good ones. I am the disciplinarian, and Donna adds a big dose of love and pampering for all of our family. This makes me love her all the more.
Musicians and the music
The guitar is pretty simple here with finger picking and a single pass recording. The idea was for the guitar to sound as bare as my feelings of loneliness made me feel. Harmonies, bass, and mandolins come in on the course to add the breadth and depth that my heart felt when I was with Donna. The stark contrast in the music is meant to portray the contrast in my feelings from being alone to being together.
The violin was played by Rick Endel on a keyboard and did a marvelous job of capturing the feeling. As always, Elijah Brinson does a great job on the bass.
That’s about it on this one. I felt like the vocals told the story of how different my life was alone, versus how full it was after Donna came into it. Dennis and Brenda Smith do a tremendous job at helping me express that fullness.
During our courtship there was a day we had met at a coffee shop then sat in our car together talking for a long time. When I hugged her goodbye for the first time, I whispered, “stay awhile.” But on the inside of me it was a loud cry. She had smaller children she had to get back to. Mine were older and needed less of my attention at the time. I sat in my vehicle for quite a while listening to the rain falling on my car. My feelings at that moment were overwhelming. Even though I’m not an emotionally expressive person, I feel things deeply. This song was out of both a longing to extend the present moment, and a hope that our future could hold.
Today Donna and I enjoy a full life from finding each other's love. We enjoy each other and our dogs. We also enjoy the four adult children we have between us. As you may have learned from other songs I have written, Odin is the best dog I ever had - and I’ve had some good ones. I am the disciplinarian, and Donna adds a big dose of love and pampering for all of our family. This makes me love her all the more.
Musicians and the music
The guitar is pretty simple here with finger picking and a single pass recording. The idea was for the guitar to sound as bare as my feelings of loneliness made me feel. Harmonies, bass, and mandolins come in on the course to add the breadth and depth that my heart felt when I was with Donna. The stark contrast in the music is meant to portray the contrast in my feelings from being alone to being together.
The violin was played by Rick Endel on a keyboard and did a marvelous job of capturing the feeling. As always, Elijah Brinson does a great job on the bass.
That’s about it on this one. I felt like the vocals told the story of how different my life was alone, versus how full it was after Donna came into it. Dennis and Brenda Smith do a tremendous job at helping me express that fullness.
Ode To Odin Backstory
We had a couple of German Shepherds when I was a little boy. A father and a son. They had direct ties to Rin Tin Tin in their pedigree. I’ve always been a fan of the breed, and dogs in general. But in my 50’s I thought I was done with owning dogs. And then my son Grant brought a puppy by our house one day and said, “Meet Odin.” He and his siblings had been dumped in the woods at the end of a dirt road. It just so happened his colleague lived at the end of that road and found the litter. They decided to split the puppies between them and their friends and find them all a home.
After he left our house that day, my wife Donna said to me; “That’s your dog. Go get him.” She is both intuitive as a woman and sensitive to the voice of the Lord. Who am I to question those two criteria?
And so Odin came to live with us. At the time we had an older basset hound named Sadie, who came with Donna when we got married. She was a little temperamental when it came to other dogs, so we were careful when Odin moved in. It turned out Sadie loved to have her ears pulled on by Odin’s little needle-like teeth. She became a little toddler again with him; romping, tucking her butt running from him, barking and chasing each other all over the house. Not too long after that Sadie passed away from complications during a hysterectomy. Odin became the center of attention in our home as our kids had all grown up and moved out. We planned our vacations and even our day trips around how he would be taken care of. He started going to doggie daycare since Donna and I both work outside the home.
Even though we thought he must be a mountain cur mix from online pictures, we really don’t know what his exact mix is. Pretty sure he has some Catahoula Leopard Dog, but we still call him the good ol’ mountain cur, just because it has a nice ring to it. Yes, we could have him tested, but it doesn’t matter to us.
Odin is the smartest, most beautiful dog I’ve ever had-and I’ve had a lot of them. While German Shepherds remain my favorite breed (that’s what ‘Duke’ was in All Dogs Go To Heaven), Odin is an exception that overrides that propensity.
He is bonded to me in a way no dog ever has been. If I leave, he won’t get off the couch, go outside to the bathroom, or respond in hardly any way to anyone until I come back through the door. He tries with every fiber of his being to do whatever I ask him to do-including tricks. He was easily trained to walk with me off leash. On our trips to the woods for exploration he runs ahead of me on the trail until I’m out of sight, at which point he turns around and runs back toward me until he sees me again. Only then does he turn around and continue forward. He rides with me in my old 1957 pickup and loves chasing squirrels at the park or in the woods. He is my constant and closest companion (after my wife) and we are never fully at peace unless we are with each other. While dogs are the best friends for humans, Odin is the best of all dogs.
After he left our house that day, my wife Donna said to me; “That’s your dog. Go get him.” She is both intuitive as a woman and sensitive to the voice of the Lord. Who am I to question those two criteria?
And so Odin came to live with us. At the time we had an older basset hound named Sadie, who came with Donna when we got married. She was a little temperamental when it came to other dogs, so we were careful when Odin moved in. It turned out Sadie loved to have her ears pulled on by Odin’s little needle-like teeth. She became a little toddler again with him; romping, tucking her butt running from him, barking and chasing each other all over the house. Not too long after that Sadie passed away from complications during a hysterectomy. Odin became the center of attention in our home as our kids had all grown up and moved out. We planned our vacations and even our day trips around how he would be taken care of. He started going to doggie daycare since Donna and I both work outside the home.
Even though we thought he must be a mountain cur mix from online pictures, we really don’t know what his exact mix is. Pretty sure he has some Catahoula Leopard Dog, but we still call him the good ol’ mountain cur, just because it has a nice ring to it. Yes, we could have him tested, but it doesn’t matter to us.
Odin is the smartest, most beautiful dog I’ve ever had-and I’ve had a lot of them. While German Shepherds remain my favorite breed (that’s what ‘Duke’ was in All Dogs Go To Heaven), Odin is an exception that overrides that propensity.
He is bonded to me in a way no dog ever has been. If I leave, he won’t get off the couch, go outside to the bathroom, or respond in hardly any way to anyone until I come back through the door. He tries with every fiber of his being to do whatever I ask him to do-including tricks. He was easily trained to walk with me off leash. On our trips to the woods for exploration he runs ahead of me on the trail until I’m out of sight, at which point he turns around and runs back toward me until he sees me again. Only then does he turn around and continue forward. He rides with me in my old 1957 pickup and loves chasing squirrels at the park or in the woods. He is my constant and closest companion (after my wife) and we are never fully at peace unless we are with each other. While dogs are the best friends for humans, Odin is the best of all dogs.
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Dennis Smith places a nice light touch on the percussion for this song. Elijah Brinson does a nice job with the bass, as well as the mandolin. I play some mandolin parts too-going back and forth with the vibe Elijah lays down on his mandolin. Rick Endel plays a smooth Hammond B3 throughout the song which adds a soulful background for other parts. As in all songs on this album Dennis and Brenda Smith do an awesome job with background vocals.
I’m fingerpicking my Martin D28. Even though my roots are strictly bluegrass, the folk music style songs I write like this one belie the influence James Taylor has had on me. This song in particular has one chord progression I found pervading my mind from the song Paper Airplanes performed by Alison Krauss and Union Station.
Devil's Holler Backstory
I started school in Sherman, Texas and went there in my 1st and 2nd grades of school. Dad was in the Air Force for 10 years and we moved around quite a bit during that time. There was an air base outside of Sherman where he served. Sometime before that my folks bought land in Arkansas where they planned to build our house. During that time we made numerous trips back and forth, clearing land and putting up rudimentary fencing around the 120 acres we were buying.
Not long after we moved from Sherman to Arkansas, we built the house up on the hill about 6 miles north of Interstate 40 from Exit 24. We had to bulldoze out a driveway as the approach to the top was pretty steep. It wound around to the right, and then again to the left to get up on top where we built the rock house. The dozer left a couch-sized rock about 40 feet from the highway which became our ‘lookout’ spot when we were waiting for the school bus. From there, you could see the bus coming down the hill from Uncle Runt’s house about a mile away to the north as it came around a sharp curve right before it dipped back down into Polecat Holler and then started up our hill.
Farther up Hwy 215, about 10 miles north of Mulberry, there is a sharp curve to the right. Off to the left is a dirt road that leads to Devil’s Canyon, although Grandpa Joe always called it Devil’s Holler. Today in the era of ‘dropping pins’ it is a semi-popular hiking trail. It is also the source of Big Mill Creek which flows down through the valleys, twisting and winding its way into Mulberry Creek.
When I was a kid, I spent many days walking or riding my Welsh pony, Star-then later my quarter horse Lady-up the winding canyon where Big Mill Creek ran. I would go down the logging road right above the Mormon Church. Down in the hollers were many old logging roads. Many of them were little more than worn paths. Armed with my rifle, a lunch, and little else I would spend the day walking or riding up that creek.
But a few years before we moved from Texas to Arkansas, Grandpa Joe built a small, rough board building right across from our driveway. In that building he opened up a ‘store.’ It was nothing more than a few shelves with some snacks and groceries. Today, it would be called a quick-stop or convenience store. No gasoline and I don’t remember any electricity for refrigerated drinks, but I could be wrong. I mainly remember getting some Hostess snowballs and grandma shaming my mom into letting me have them. It was only open a short time, as I remember before he tore it down.
During the time it was open though, Andrew Doss stopped by on his way home up the road several miles. He was described by some as eccentric, but everyone remembered he was a fiddle-player and told interesting stories, although people didn’t know what to make of his tales. I was too young to have ever met or at least remember him, but even if I had, he would have been pretty old by that time. No one really remembers what he did, but he was full of stories from his youth that were evocative of the Wild West days filled with bank robbers and outlaws. His father would have been about the age of Jesse James, but Andy’s stories got jumbled up-apparently in direct correlation to how much he’d had to drink.
Years later I was told the story of Andrew Doss. One day he had some young men with him after they had been riding around together. They bought some snacks there at Grandpa’s store and drove on up to the turn-off to Devil’s Holler where Andy’s house was. There Andy regaled the young men with stories of Jesse James’ gang coming through the hills around Devil’s Holler while running from the law after robbing a bank in southern Missouri. He would play the fiddle some while they shared his whiskey and listen to his tales of hidden gold. Andy was convincing enough that the boys began to interrogate him for the location of the gold dust. He swore there was (in today’s dollars) $10 million in gold dust. Even as the situation turned ominous Andy wouldn’t recant his tale. A struggle ensued during which Andy was shot in the head. The boys, now in terror of what they had done, took off in a desperate run for their lives.
While investigating the scene, the officers noticed Andy had dragged himself toward the road leaving blood stains on the grass as he did so. The young men were later arrested and at least one of them was sentenced for his murder. The exact location of the gold dust-if there ever was any-died with Andy.
My Great Grandpa Alfred Crabtree was born in 1890. Among his many stories was the one about stolen gold. White Rock Mountain is 2,309 feet above sea level, just 400 feet less than Mount Magazine-which is the tallest in the state. Within easy sight from White Rock, Potato Knob is a distinctive, 3-top hill to the east. According to Grandpa Alfred there was a band of Spanish soldiers who had taken by force some undisclosed amount of gold from local Indians. After making off with the gold, the conquistadores were met with reinforced Indian forces-which were now very angry at their loss. They retreated to the top of Potato Knob (which of the 3 tops is uncertain) where they were slaughtered by the native Indian forces. However, at some point before their demise, they had managed to find a huge, rectangular rock under which they stashed the gold in hopes of reclaiming it should they make it out of their predicament. But that never happened. The Indians also never recovered their gold, and the story was only passed down generation to generation, slowly turning from history to legend. Whether the fate of the gold was told by a surviving Spaniard or an Indian who tortured the story from their victim is left to the imagination of the reader.
While this is totally a folk-tale legend, it is in keeping with what was known about the Spanish conquerors according to the Encyclopedia of Arkansas, and would have happened in the fall of 1541. It could have been Hernando Desoto himself, or a band of his who had this encounter.
After crossing the Mississippi River, the Spanish remained hopeful that gold could yet be discovered in the mountainous area of northern Arkansas, so de Soto marched the expedition to the northwest, then due west. They advanced far into western Arkansas, but elected to turn back to the southeast after encountering bitter resistance from the fierce Tula people, somewhere in the vicinity of present-day Fort Smith (Sebastian County), in early October. (Miller, 2022)
Not long after we moved from Sherman to Arkansas, we built the house up on the hill about 6 miles north of Interstate 40 from Exit 24. We had to bulldoze out a driveway as the approach to the top was pretty steep. It wound around to the right, and then again to the left to get up on top where we built the rock house. The dozer left a couch-sized rock about 40 feet from the highway which became our ‘lookout’ spot when we were waiting for the school bus. From there, you could see the bus coming down the hill from Uncle Runt’s house about a mile away to the north as it came around a sharp curve right before it dipped back down into Polecat Holler and then started up our hill.
Farther up Hwy 215, about 10 miles north of Mulberry, there is a sharp curve to the right. Off to the left is a dirt road that leads to Devil’s Canyon, although Grandpa Joe always called it Devil’s Holler. Today in the era of ‘dropping pins’ it is a semi-popular hiking trail. It is also the source of Big Mill Creek which flows down through the valleys, twisting and winding its way into Mulberry Creek.
When I was a kid, I spent many days walking or riding my Welsh pony, Star-then later my quarter horse Lady-up the winding canyon where Big Mill Creek ran. I would go down the logging road right above the Mormon Church. Down in the hollers were many old logging roads. Many of them were little more than worn paths. Armed with my rifle, a lunch, and little else I would spend the day walking or riding up that creek.
But a few years before we moved from Texas to Arkansas, Grandpa Joe built a small, rough board building right across from our driveway. In that building he opened up a ‘store.’ It was nothing more than a few shelves with some snacks and groceries. Today, it would be called a quick-stop or convenience store. No gasoline and I don’t remember any electricity for refrigerated drinks, but I could be wrong. I mainly remember getting some Hostess snowballs and grandma shaming my mom into letting me have them. It was only open a short time, as I remember before he tore it down.
During the time it was open though, Andrew Doss stopped by on his way home up the road several miles. He was described by some as eccentric, but everyone remembered he was a fiddle-player and told interesting stories, although people didn’t know what to make of his tales. I was too young to have ever met or at least remember him, but even if I had, he would have been pretty old by that time. No one really remembers what he did, but he was full of stories from his youth that were evocative of the Wild West days filled with bank robbers and outlaws. His father would have been about the age of Jesse James, but Andy’s stories got jumbled up-apparently in direct correlation to how much he’d had to drink.
Years later I was told the story of Andrew Doss. One day he had some young men with him after they had been riding around together. They bought some snacks there at Grandpa’s store and drove on up to the turn-off to Devil’s Holler where Andy’s house was. There Andy regaled the young men with stories of Jesse James’ gang coming through the hills around Devil’s Holler while running from the law after robbing a bank in southern Missouri. He would play the fiddle some while they shared his whiskey and listen to his tales of hidden gold. Andy was convincing enough that the boys began to interrogate him for the location of the gold dust. He swore there was (in today’s dollars) $10 million in gold dust. Even as the situation turned ominous Andy wouldn’t recant his tale. A struggle ensued during which Andy was shot in the head. The boys, now in terror of what they had done, took off in a desperate run for their lives.
While investigating the scene, the officers noticed Andy had dragged himself toward the road leaving blood stains on the grass as he did so. The young men were later arrested and at least one of them was sentenced for his murder. The exact location of the gold dust-if there ever was any-died with Andy.
My Great Grandpa Alfred Crabtree was born in 1890. Among his many stories was the one about stolen gold. White Rock Mountain is 2,309 feet above sea level, just 400 feet less than Mount Magazine-which is the tallest in the state. Within easy sight from White Rock, Potato Knob is a distinctive, 3-top hill to the east. According to Grandpa Alfred there was a band of Spanish soldiers who had taken by force some undisclosed amount of gold from local Indians. After making off with the gold, the conquistadores were met with reinforced Indian forces-which were now very angry at their loss. They retreated to the top of Potato Knob (which of the 3 tops is uncertain) where they were slaughtered by the native Indian forces. However, at some point before their demise, they had managed to find a huge, rectangular rock under which they stashed the gold in hopes of reclaiming it should they make it out of their predicament. But that never happened. The Indians also never recovered their gold, and the story was only passed down generation to generation, slowly turning from history to legend. Whether the fate of the gold was told by a surviving Spaniard or an Indian who tortured the story from their victim is left to the imagination of the reader.
While this is totally a folk-tale legend, it is in keeping with what was known about the Spanish conquerors according to the Encyclopedia of Arkansas, and would have happened in the fall of 1541. It could have been Hernando Desoto himself, or a band of his who had this encounter.
After crossing the Mississippi River, the Spanish remained hopeful that gold could yet be discovered in the mountainous area of northern Arkansas, so de Soto marched the expedition to the northwest, then due west. They advanced far into western Arkansas, but elected to turn back to the southeast after encountering bitter resistance from the fierce Tula people, somewhere in the vicinity of present-day Fort Smith (Sebastian County), in early October. (Miller, 2022)
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The music on this song is pretty simple, as the lyrics are (hopefully) rich with story. Tim Crouch does a masterful job with both the banjo and the fiddle, adding parts in between the lines that accent and amplify the stories. I’m playing mandolin and Michael Brinson is walking the dobro throughout. Dennis Smith is on percussion and Elijah Brinson on the bass. Dennis and Brenda Smith provide the background vocals and do a good job weaving in and out of the ballad. I hope you enjoy this one as it is one of my favorites-being authentic stories from my childhood. Even if the stories aren’t 100 percent true, they are truly told as I remember them.
Bibliography:
Miller, A. (2022, 12 29). Spanish Explorers and Settlers. Retrieved from Encyclopedia of Arkansas: https://encyclopediaofarkansas.net/entries/spanish-explorers-and-settlers-4975/
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