Foggy Mountain Troubadour – Curly Seckler inspires

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“First you cross the tie over this way and pull it back around and then…,” is how I remember Curly Seckler describing to me how to tie a string tie as he wore on stage. A lesson shared in my youth from a musical hero whose tenor voice soared in my mind as I listened to Flatt and Scruggs, and the Nashville Grass. I had convinced my mother to take me to see Curly in Nashville at an earlier point because I wanted to meet him and we searched out his home in a trailer park and went up one day and knocked on the door. He was so gracious to welcome us and share some time with an aspiring youth. He recounted this visit many years later at my mother’s home going service.
CurlySeckler

Sometime later as a bashful young fiddle player, I stepped to the concert area of the Lavonia Bluegrass Festival and find a place on a wood bench and peered up at the stage as the emcee prepared to bring on The Nashville Grass.
By the time my musical ability began to advance, the legendary Lester Flatt was ailing so I never got to see him perform except on TV or listening by radio before his passing on 1979, but on this day, I was going to see his band, the Nashville Grass perform. They were the closest link to the music which fueled my passion for bluegrass. As best I recall, Tater Tate was on fiddle, Blake Williams was playing banjo, Charlie Nixon on Dobro, Pete Corum on bass and the amazing Curly Seckler leading the troupe.
The music electrified my soul. After the show, I made my way backstage and once again was welcomed by a man who truly became one of my dearest friends in life.
A few weeks ago I received in the mail from University of Illinois Press Penny Parson’s book “Foggy Mountain Troubadour: The Life and Music of Curly Seckler” and I found myself once again feeling like that youth anxiously standing outside the door waiting to see one of my heroes.
As I looked inside and devoured the 239-page excursion walking along the path of the development of American hillbilly music that eventually became what we know as country, bluegrass, and Appalachian folk music, I was deeply impressed with Parson’s great depth of narrative, her enthusiastic approach to the inclusion of research which set the story in history; and the variety of interviews with notable performers and everyday folks who played a part that propels the story forward.
Curly, an International Bluegrass Music Hall of Famer, who is now retired at the age of 96 living with his wife Eloise outside Nashville saw the industry’s growth looking out of a car, bus and truck window mile after mile along the two lane roads crisscrossing America. He saw the American people from the stages of tent shows, movie theaters, the roofs of drive-in theater concession stands, courthouses, school houses, auditoriums, music festivals, and radio barn dances going by many names including the Grand Ole Opry. He helped sell two of America’s consumer staples Martha White flour and corn meal.
I learned more about his professional approach that opened doors for other legends like the Stanley Brothers, Jim and Jesse McReynolds and so many others. How his musical and vocal ability kept him always within sight of another opportunity around the corner with yet another group or musician which contributed so much in their own right to our musical experience. The book details his musical intersections with artists such as Charlie Monroe, Bill Monroe, Ramblin’ “Doc” Tommy Scott, the Sauceman Brothers, Shenandoah Valley Cutups, Steep Canyon Rangers, and countless others.
The depth of his experience and relationship with Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs and the other key Foggy Mountain Boys sets in stone his place of honor as the final surviving 1940s and 50s member of the Foggy Mountain Boys. In case, that doesn’t ring a bell, he was one of the musicians who inspired Paul Henning to feature Flatt and Scruggs music on “The Beverly Hillbillies,” making the group’s stars a household name.
“Foggy Mountain Troubadour” is a must read for anyone who would like a window into the world of the American South, the rise or country music and its early stars, and especially to gain an appreciation for an American musical treasure – Curly Seckler.

 Take down the fishin’ pole

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Ripples float endlessly across the lake as a large frog croaks in the distance.
The line running from the end of my pole drifts slightly with the light current pulling away to my left as the red and white float moves with the ripples.
I had spent much of my time working thus far in my first fishing adventure to bring the hook with the worm slid upon it into the drink.
My childhood adventures of fishing with my dad, especially early in the learning process reflected the scenarios of the episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” where “Howard Sprague” went fishing with Andy and the rest of the guys only to spend more time with his hook in a tree or his own pants than in the water.
In retrospect, my dad’s patience as he taught me the process and answered the questions the younger version of myself asked was amazing. Why do fish eat worms? Why do we have to put the hook through the worms, can’t we just throw them out and let the fish eat them? Why do we have a float on the line?
Why do I do better throwing the line behind me rather than in front of me?
These are just a few that I recollect in the process.
My father was someone much like myself – outdoor sports were not really his thing – but he felt it was important that I learned them, that we shared the experiences that he had shared with his father and uncles. There are lessons that are shared in the midst of the teaching that settle deeper beyond the immediate task at hand.
The bonds created between a father and son through positive joint experiences; respect for the world around us and the other people and creatures who share it with us; and an understanding about what is expected of you when you are a man.
I am so glad that he did take this time with me, oftentimes, it seemed strategically placed around tough points in my life when I needed the input, the lesson, the hope, the insights that he wanted to share.
Establishing the groundwork at a younger age, when the years passed allowed us a smoother path.
When as an older teen, I wished to push the bounds of our relationship by asserting my own authority on my life, we were able to work through those tense moments when I was spreading my wings, and make them teachable moments in the life experience. They added to our relationship rather than pushing us farther from each other.
Perhaps my father’s early passing set my prospective of our relationship forever in the nostalgia of my youth. We never really got to the good stuff of the best friend relationship that should have happened as time went on because he was still having to spend time being my dad. Not that such a role would have ever ended, but as I was able to take on more of the responsibilities for my life after college, I would have hoped that the lessons could have taken on a different form.
It is in this time of the year, that my father’s memory seems closest to me, because we shared so much in the summer months. I am thankful that God sent me to be in family where I had two parents who were present and participating. So many youths do not, and as the news of the world seeps into my life, I can’t help but wonder if a few more participating, present mothers and fathers would have prevented many of the headlines which plaque our country.
Are you present in your children’s lives? Are you teaching them the lessons needed? Do they respect other people, creatures, and cultures? If they don’t, may I suggest a fishing trip. There is something iconic and idyllic about those opening TV shots of Andy and Opie Taylor walking with fishing poles in hand along a country road. Funny how so many long for the simplicity portrayed. We may never have it, but it never hurts to take the walk.
“So, take down your fishin’ pole.”

Spittin’ for distance

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I ran my hands slowly over the green skin stopping occasionally to bring together my index finger and thumb to flick the rind. I listened for that just right thump to tell me inside that the red fruit was perfect for eating.
I often heard boyhood stories of my father and his brothers about raiding a relative’s watermelon patch to “borrow” one on a hot summer day. Then they would carry it down and corral it in the creek where it would get it cool and later in the day, they would then go back and break it open and split it between them.
As they sat there filling themselves inevitably they would break into a seed spitting contest to see who could send them flying the farthest. Of course this had a mixed purpose, the next season, they may just find a vine with fruit on it growing right there by the creek.
Watermelons were one of bright spots buried within the summer heat and endless hours of work in the fields as the family scraped by on whatever was the crop that would bring the most return in the year. Whether, cotton, corn or tomatoes, the acres of rows seem to reach as far as the eyes could see and in with the summer sun beaming down, there seemed to never be an end to the tasks in front of them.
Perhaps that is why the kin folks forgave a little “borrowing” of watermelons to ease the load. Generally, they would get a good showing of whatever crop was being brought in on their table as well once the boys and their pa harvested.
As I pulled the watermelon off the table at the produce stand and put it in my car, I drove by the creek that my dad and uncles once put their pick. I could not hardly wait to get it home and get it cooled off so I could cut it open.
I had the salt shaker ready and waiting as later that evening I pulled it from the fridge and cut my first slice. I took it out on the back porch sat under the fan and took a big bite causing the red juice to run down my cheeks. With each bite, it seemed the sweetness got even better. I could not keep myself from spitting a few of the seeds for distance. Maybe next year, they will come up. Sure wish dad was here to spit along a few himself. He sure could make the distance!
May your summer be filled with the sweetness of great memories and wonderful times.

A Harley and an ice cream cone

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One never knows from where your positive influences in life might come.
When I was an overweight teen on my first real job at the Dairy Queen, a man rode into my life on a black Harley Davidson to take a job as store manager who would widen my prospective on the world.
Ed Cross fit all the stereotypes a young teen might associate with a biker in the 1970s, long hair, wearing black leather and hanging out with other biker friends.
All I had seen of bikers in my life to that point were film depictions which left some initial fears and concerns on what to expect. Ed changed all those early misconceptions for me. He was a hardworking, caring individual whose laughter and jokes filled the hours of our work environment with a positive spirit.
His strength which carried an air of fear associated with it, kept a bunch of male and female teenagers as well as adults in line keeping food going out the windows from 6 a.m. to 11 p.m. daily.
Ed taught me business tools which I have used throughout my life – doing product inventories, placing warehouse orders, counting cash register tills, and making deposits. I watched and assisted him in fixing equipment of all kinds to help us keep operating.
I saw him work double shifts when others were not available. I watched him reach out to help young people among our staff who were going through a tough time in their lives and who felt they could not turn to anyone else.
A few days ago, I learned that Ed passed away and it brought back memories of all the laughs, all the lessons learned and the hours spent together making an honest living. Without Ed, my early music career would have never flourished. Because of him and our store owner Joe Wyche, I seldom worked a Friday or Saturday, allowing me the opportunity to tour and appear around the country while keeping a steady income.
I think, at least I hope, Ed knew all the difference he made in the lives of us Dairy Queen kids. If there is someone who has made a difference in your life, I hope you will take the time to share with them the impact they had.

Remembering the legendary Ralph Stanley

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Grand Ole Opry guest stars Randall Franks and Ralph Stanley in the 1980s.

When I started as a disc jockey in radio at WRFG in Atlanta, Ga., the influence of musical preferences of the hosts T.P.  and Sandra Hollomon of the Bluegrass Festival impacted me with every drop of needle.
I had known the music of the Stanley Brothers since I began listening to mountain music and as I learned to play, songs they popularized such as “Rank Stranger” and “White Dove” became regular additions to jam sessions.
The music of Ralph Stanley became part of my life largely from T.P.’s admiration.
Stanley was born and raised in southwest Virginia, a land of coal mines and deep forests where he and his brother formed the Stanley Brothers and their Clinch Mountain Boys in 1946. Their father would sing them old traditional songs like “Man of Constant Sorrow,” while their mother, a banjo player, taught them the old-time clawhammer style, in which the player’s fingers strike downward at the strings in a rhythmic style.
I was saddened to learn of his passing recently at the age of 89. I was glad I was able to share with him what he meant to me in the final year of his life through my book “Encouragers II : Walking with the Masters.”
As my star as a singer and musician began to rise, I found myself performing for the Grand Ole Opry and standing side-by-side with legendary performers including Ralph. I also began appearing in festivals with him and his Clinch Mountain Boys including a 1988 appearance at the IBMA Legends of Bluegrass show.
Among the former band members were include Curly Ray Cline, vocalist Larry Sparks and Melvin Goins. He would change the lineup of the band over the years, later including Jack Cooke, and mentored younger artists like Keith Whitley and Ricky Skaggs, who also performed with him.
As time went on, my association with Ralph and various members of his band grew. I remember the birth of Ralph II and was so proud to see him come to the stage to perform and grow in music. Eventually our association brought me to produce Dr. Ralph in the studio and record with him. I stood by him on stage so many times performing, I could not count them. One of my greatest honors are the occasions he shared with me that over the years that he had become a fan of mine and looked forward to seeing my performances.
Ralph’s career exploded after his musical involvement in the film “O’ Brother Where Art Thou” as the rest of the world learned what a true treasure he was.  At the of age 73, he was introduced to a new generation of fans in 2000 due to his chilling a cappella dirge “O Death.” The album was a runaway hit, topping the Billboard 200 chart, as well as the country albums and soundtrack charts, and sold millions of copies.
His Renaissance saw his induction into the Grand Ole Opry and his winning three Grammys.
He won a Grammy for best male country vocal performance in 2002 — beating out Tim McGraw, Ryan Adams, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash and Lyle Lovett — and was the focus of a successful tour and documentary inspired by the soundtrack. The soundtrack, produced by T Bone Burnett, also won a Grammy for album of the year. The following year he and Jim Lauderdale would win a Grammy for best bluegrass album for “Lost in the Lonesome Pines.”
He said in an interview with The Associated Press in 2002 that younger people were coming to see his shows and hear his “old time music,” and was enjoying the belated recognition.
“I wish it had come 25 years sooner,” he said. “I am still enjoying it, but I would have had longer to enjoy it.”
Despite health problems, he continued to record and tour into his 80s, often performing with his son Ralph Stanley II on guitar and his grandson Nathan on mandolin.
His funeral service was held at his bluegrass music park near McClure, Va. His music will sustain the mountain sounds for generations to come and his legacy is in the hands of his musical grandchildren who continue to thrill audiences as they build a legacy of their own.

If dust collects, find a broom

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I covered the cloth in furniture polish and pushed it across the top of the wardrobe removing each object perched there and giving it a good going over.
When I was a boy, I always wondered what was on top of the wardrobe because I couldn’t see it. Now I wish I didn’t.
Dust seems to find its way into every place in our homes. I found it this past weekend settled in places that I was amazed it could find its way into.
Those dust bunnies that seem to playfully dance across the floors ran from my vacuum as if they were in fear for their lives. But after much effort, I managed to once again make my room a haven from the sneezing brought on by these allergens.
I have often wondered where all this dust comes from. I could understand when we kept windows and doors open to let in the cooler air, that it would sneak in from outside on those molecules which keeps us ticking.
Today though with almost every house closed up tight to keep in the air conditioning and heat, I am amazed at what sneaks through. I have filters on every vent yet it still gets in piling up underneath and on top of everything that does not move.
Dust is similar to the things that we let into our lives when we pay little attention to the details as we rush through each and every day.
The words uttered by a love one, important to them, but seemingly a nuisance to us, that we appear not to hear or acknowledge – some dust piles up.
The unknown person we cut off in traffic who the goes home and yells at their child or worse yet in anger causes an accident – some dust piles up.
The task we are assigned at work that we half-heartedly complete thinking no one will notice its insufficiencies – some dust piles up.
We don’t volunteer for that much needed charity project, though we have the time, and we have the right skills to make it happen – some dust piles up.
We don’t spend time with our loved ones because we are simply too tired and need to relax watching the game or going out with our friends – some dust piles up.
We do things, we would prefer others not know about – some dust piles up.
Easily, just like a neglected room in the house, we can allow corners or our lives to become covered in small particles that pile up. Over time much like the whimsical dust bunnies playfully dancing across the floor, these particles build up higher and higher.
Sometimes in life the piles eventually get so high they impact our relationships with others, create problems we cannot overcome, and leave us lying in the dirt gasping for breath.
It never hurts every now and again to take up a wide angled broom, turn on every light in your house, and sweep away all the dust, making things clean again. Put the problems and struggles in the dust bin and close the lid. It is amazing how clearing the air will allow you to breathe easier!

I walk behind the mower, therefore I am

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When I began my working experience, I always looked forward to the arrival of warm weather.
I could hear my wallet growing exponentially with each inch rise of the green, green grass of home.
Well, maybe more like the neighbors’ grass since I didn’t get paid for mowing our yard.
When I was about 10, I saved enough money from my allowance to buy a second hand push mower and then set out to find willing partners in my desire to become a millionaire before age 11. Well, that is a slight exaggeration, I was mainly hoping for a few neighbors who would give me $10 every couple of weeks to mow their yards.
I amassed a pretty good list of clients which kept me busy as long as my allergies didn’t get the best of me.  Al Weidenmuller was the first I think agreeing to my business proposal, but I had to learn how to deal with raking magnolia leaves prior to each mowing; next was Ed Mikell – with more Magnolia leaves.
Then as I progressed down the street, I picked up the Neils, occasionally the Reeds, who had Zoysia and I learned to hate that type of grass because it was so hard to push. Also sometimes the Grosses.
The list grew overtime and eventually I had to enlist my father to help get me to and from in his truck as I press on beyond walking distance.
I found the time behind the push mower a time to think, dream, write songs along to the rhythm of the engine in harmony with hits hum.
As I look back, sometimes I wonder where that youthful exuberance went for the activity. I kept up the business until I finished college, even adding other landscaping tasks and working sometimes miles from my home. Eventually though, I slowly weened my customers off my services as I wanted to focus on finding my fit in the professional world after earning my degree.  Leaving me with just the task of mowing my own yard.
Through the years, I have liked the task less and less, giving me the understanding of why so many were willing to accept my eagerness to mow. My late mother use to draw great joy from hopping upon the riding mower and going full speed around the task as I weeded and pushed. She looked forward to it, possibly because it was something she could accomplish with her failing health and see a positive outcome.
Sometimes now I am even blessed by the kindness of a neighbor who will knock mine out with his. I am so happy when I see his kindness and as happy when I return the favor to him.
Sometimes I miss that young boy and young man who looked forward to the inch by inch progress of the green growth, as I sit on my back porch, I look more forward to the end of the growing season and often quip, I should do like Hollywood – just kill it and paint it green so it stays the same.
No matter where you are in your synergy with the mower and the grass, I hope you find your bliss with the endeavor and make joy in the fact that I walk behind (or ride upon) the mower, therefore I am.

The freedom of nothing left to prove

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It seems so much of our life is spent working to prove something to someone else.
In our early years we aspire to gain the approval of our parents or key mentors that wish to see us succeed in education, sports, music or whatever dream they hold for us or share with us.
Sometimes, it’s the approval of our peers in these same pursuits, or other less beneficial objectives of youthful exuberance. There are those who succeed here and those who fail.
Often these successes or failures catapult our emotional make up forward setting some of the undertones for our life. I know in my case, the failures left an underlying “I’m going to show you” settled deep in my craw. I drew upon that hurt for many years pushing me to over achieve in many ways.
No matter the outcome of youth we step forward hoping to once again prove to the world that we can be somebody – a success in work, a success in picking the right person to marry, a success in raising children, a success in whatever is next on the long list that we seek others’ approval to prop up our esteem, our importance, and our life.
Often we find ourselves in a cycle of seeking others approval for the rest of our life.
In a conversation, I was having with a friend the other day, I said something that I had not even thought about. As I look back upon the path I have travelled, I am blessed to have had so many distinctive mentors to which I have tried to prove my value in some aspect of my professional or personal endeavors.
As I began thinking except in the form of being a creator of art in word, note and other form seeking the approval of those of you who buy my work and help me sustain the existence I enjoy, I thought I had no one left to prove anything to. Many of my key mentors who held those roles in my life have taken their final curtain calls.
As I relayed the story of a recent acting experience, I heard the words come out of my mouth, that I really wanted someone to acknowledge I could do what I was aspiring to do.  I realized that I had not yet left behind that desire of proving something to someone. It was still buried inside me with one more youthful goal that had not been achieved in full but could still be accomplished if I tried hard enough.
There it is driving me forward. After years of feeling I had nothing left to prove, which sometimes is not a bad place to be, once again, my blood is pumping with a desire, a hope, a goal that energizes my step.
So what is better, being to the point of nothing left to prove to anyone or having someone who inspires you to do more? I guess it depends on your own get up and go. I know one lady around 90 working on her doctorate. She has nothing to prove except to please her own soul.
If you are generally a self-starter, you probably move along OK, but every now and again, somebody may need to pour a little gasoline in your carburetor to get a spark and provide that forward momentum. If you need that in your life, I pray you have someone who provides that opportunity in love. Because in reality there are only two of us in this race to the finish line, us and the good Lord, who gives us a new chance every day to prove we are somebody serving, sharing and loving others for Him.

The needle is stuck again

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I have seen numerous members of my family and friends go through the ups and downs of chronic illnesses, and watched as they struggled with tasks which once they had performed with ease.
When I was just a child, volunteering in a local nursing home, I met a woman who was around eighty at the time. Her name was Georgia
McMahan. Georgia endured many of the ailments of her fellow residents but you would never know it.
From the moment you saw her, the smile that beamed from her face uplifted you and gave you a spirit of glee that could carry you
through any task. Added to the smile were words of encouragement, concern, and hope that poured from her very being.
While many of the folks that my efforts brought me in contact with were mired in what seem to be a ditch of despair, Georgia shined as
if standing on a mountain top in a field of wild flowers.
Sometimes as I hear different people share similar issues again and again, I see in my mind the spinning turntable of my youth with a 33
1/3 rpm record going round and round. I remember when a particular tune had been played too much or accidently scratched, sometimes the needle would find itself stuck repeating the same musical phrase over
and over again.
It took me getting up, going to the record player, and bumping the needle’s arm ever so gently to help it get out of the record’s deep
dark vinyl groove and move it musically on down the road.
Like that needle, it is so easy to get stuck in the scratches and wore out spaces of our lives and find it hard to move on. We spin
around endlessly in the same spot, repeating the same actions, saying the same things only to find ourselves doing it over again.
Sometimes it takes someone to give us a gentle shove to realize that just a millimeter down our path we may find something better, and
even if we don’t, we are better for the trying.
As I think back on Georgia now, I sort of see her as that person in that place who God sent to gently nudge all those around her and give
them a chance to stop being stuck in a groove that was wearing on them and everyone that could hear their song.
Are you serving as a catalyst to help yourself and others over the hump and find a smoother path?  If not, why not?
I can surely say the path that Georgia showed me as a child sure gives life a better spin than any others I have seen. I hope I can
always take the spin that lets me seem as if I am on the mountain in a field of wildflowers.

Loving beyond worldly measure

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Some of the most difficult times to watch are when someone we know is trying to be there for a loved one when he or she is coming to the end of his or her journey. As I think back through the years, I remember watching my mother and father as they reached out to support friends or relatives in such times.
If the loved one was elsewhere, they would close up the business, and off they’d go for an undetermined amount of time to just be present.
There to be called upon if needed for and extra pair of hands and legs to: run errands, do day-to-day tasks, cook, just simply sit,
talk, laugh, console, remember, and pray.
I saw my mother and father do this time and time again. I know they drew no financial benefit from what they were doing. Their only
requite was in knowing they were serving Christ with their actions.
Sometimes their presence reached beyond the caregivers to the patient and I know that brought a peace over each of them when they knew they comforted someone as they prepared to cross over.
As a small boy, I watched this routine many times as they said goodbye to former co-workers and neighbors, friends from throughout
their lives, and of course, relatives of every description who impacted their lives.
I vaguely remember one period in my childhood when I felt I was spending more time in hospitals and funeral homes than at school but
death comes at God’s appointment not on our timetables.
I am now at a similar point in time of my life as they were when they were saying goodbye to so many. So, I have become readily cognizant that like my folks, many of those I know are being called, some old, some young, but its seems more with every passing year.
As I reflect on what can I do to support their loved ones, I think back on the model that my parents gave me. I try to simply be present
whenever possible to offer support and help them walk down the path I have already walked. I know that hope, comfort and strength should be offered along the path and I only pray that I can be an instrument to provide some aspect of these to all concerned along the final journey.
Most of us know someone who is facing this point in life, what are you doing to support he or she, and his or her circle of caregivers?
I encourage you to find some way to make a difference; you may be able to leave a message of love that changes a life forever and
passes a legacy of love to your children as they see how you help others in a time in life we all must face.