Glenn G. Coats
Lonesome Valley
The room where I practice is upstairs. At night, I tiptoe past the babies. Open the door and step down two wooden steps onto a plank floor. No heat. The one window faces a pasture. Above me, bats claw across boards in the attic. I click on a light and take the guitar from its case.
“Tom Dooley” is two chords, eight verses and a chorus. He was hung in 1868 for the murder of Laura Foster, who lived in Wilkes County, North Carolina. People claimed at the time that Dooley had an accomplice but he would not point a finger at her.
I count four beats in my head, pluck a bass note with my thumb (bump) then brush the tip of my index finger up and down the treble strings (di–di). Keep that rhythm going as I play a G chord, then D7 (bump-di-di, bump-di-di). Sing softly so as not to wake the children. Hand me down my banjo, I’ll pick it on my knee, this time tomorrow night, it’ll be no use to me.
I pause when a car pulls into the drive. I look out the window for the lights, but nothing is there. I sing the last verses. My guitar sounds like the bats scratching above me. Hang your head, Tom Dooley, hang your head and cry.
My wife thinks “Tom Dooley” is not a song to sing alone. “Some songs need company,” she says.
worn headstones
the place where cold
slips from the river
rattle of bones
long after the barn
winter snow
Author’s Note: “Tom Dula” was recorded in 1929 by G. B. Grayson and Henry Whitter. The Kingston Trio released a version called “Tom Dooley” in 1958 that sold more than a million copies.
About the Author
Glenn G. Coats lives with his wife, Joani, in Carolina Shores, North Carolina. His recent collections are Degrees of Acquaintance (Snapshot Press, 2019) and Furrows of Snow (Turtle Light Press, 2019).
Brings back memories! One of the first songs I learned to strum on the guitar back when I was about seventeen. Unfortunately, I no longer play. Perhaps I will take it up again. 🙂
When I first moved to the Ozarks 47 years ago, I lived in a sort of a commune. Some of us played guitars, and gradually swapped tunes with locals. One day one of our guys said, A year ago I couldn’t even play Wildwood Flower, and now I are one.
by themselves
fingers itch for strings
locked down spring
Fine haibun, especially the pitiable finality of this haiku:
worn headstones
the place where cold
slips from the river