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Her voice was deep as Copper Creek— rough as the white oak on Clinch Mountain; she was singing something lonesome, leaves sifting the sound, floated down like I had to find it and my mission: to doctor songs; and follow a black man through all the places I couldn’t go, closed up to me wary, guarded—I walked the tracks toward a life of music and Sara, prettier than the songs. Again, I left my mother, |
Heard me singing “Lonesome Valley” name like the place where we lived; heard me singing while he was selling fruit trees swaying me to think it was me he wanted, but it wasn’t. No, he wanted me and Maybelle to traipse all over creation dragging our babies around like guitar cases. Finally, I said the plain truth: I love Coy Bayes better than anything I ever laid eyes on. I left the songs, left my children. |
Goodbye Poor Valley |
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I couldn’t stop searching for that sound. |
I never could make anybody understand. |