Posts

Brothers Divided: A Frontier Family’s Revolution Sacrifice

/in /by

A Depiction of Joshua Moses engagement at capture.

Imagine fleeing on horseback through the thick South Carolina underbrush, only to feel the sting of a British dragoon’s sword slashing your arm as you deflect a blow meant for your head. This was the harrowing fate of Joshua Moses in 1781, a North Carolina militiaman captured while visiting kin near the Wateree River. Wounded four times—a deep head cut, an arm laceration, a shoulder pierce, and a minor gash—he was bound and marched toward the chaos of battle. But Joshua’s story, like his family’s, reflects the deeper tensions of a war that pitted neighbor against neighbor and brother against the call to arms.

Life on the colonial frontier demanded every hand to tend farms and protect families. When whispers of rebellion against England rippled through the land in the 1770s, they ignited fierce divisions. In Anson County, North Carolina—home to the Moses clan—Loyalists (Tories) were a formidable force. Continental General Nathanael Greene estimated in 1781 that up to half of North Carolinians were Tories, dominating about half the state’s counties, including backcountry areas like Anson. Petitions from the era show roughly 227 Anson residents pledging loyalty to the Crown, compared to about 355 who had earlier protested colonial grievances as Regulators—a movement that often fed into Patriot support. This near-even split made open rebellion risky; many families chose neutrality to survive raids and reprisals.

John Moses Sr. and his wife, Jane, had settled in Anson County by the 1760s, raising likely four sons—John Jr., Joshua, Samuel, and Robert—and two daughters to adulthood before the war escalated. John Sr. likely died sometime after 1763, leaving Jane a widow in a turbulent time. As conflict engulfed the South, the pull to fight tugged at the brothers’ hearts, but someone had to keep the home fires burning amid Loyalist threats. Samuel stayed behind, farming and safeguarding the family stead, while Robert also remained neutral, later settling near the Wateree. Joshua and John Jr., however, answered the call.

John Jr., the eldest, had migrated south to South Carolina by the early 1780s, near the Wateree River. This was the heart of the brutal Southern Campaign, where British forces occupied much of the state, and local militias waged guerrilla warfare alongside Continentals under Greene. As a private in the South Carolina militia, John served 110 days in 1781 and 1782—short bursts of duty that might have included sieges like Ninety-Six or Augusta, or clashes with Loyalist partisans. His service, documented in state audited accounts, earned him a modest indent for pay, though no federal pension followed.

Meanwhile, back in Anson, Joshua (1748–1836) volunteered under Captain Williams in Colonel Thomas Wade’s regiment (DAR Ancestor #A082368). His unit patrolled Drowning Creek near the NC-SC border, scouting for Loyalists. In one skirmish on Brown’s Creek, they routed a Tory band without fatalities—a gritty echo of the Carolinas’ internal strife. After seven months, Joshua’s company received parole, sending him home on call.

Fate wasn’t done with him. Venturing to the Wateree—likely to check on John Jr. and Robert—Joshua was ambushed alone by dragoons. Captured and wounded, he was hauled toward Eutaw Springs (September 8, 1781), guarded amid the battle’s roar before transfer to Charleston’s crowded provost prison and then James Island. Nine months of harsh captivity followed. In a daring escape, Joshua and comrades paddled an old pirogue for three starving days, reaching Greene’s forces on the Ashley River. Greene granted rations and leave, with the war winding down after Yorktown’s surrender in October 1781. Credited with 16 months total (including imprisonment), Joshua later drew a $53.33 annual pension from 1831. Post-war, the brothers scattered into the wilderness they helped secure: Joshua to Whitley County, Kentucky, around 1813; Samuel to Monroe County, Tennessee; John Jr. and Robert to Jasper County, Georgia. Separated by miles, they carried shared memories of a divided era, passing tales of sacrifice down generations.

Let us never forget that farmers and frontiersmen bled to forge this nation. Patriots Joshua and John Moses Jr. are the uncles of this columnist, who descends from their brother Samuel of Monroe County, Tennessee who helped keep the home fires burning amidst the Loyalist threats.

The descendants of Samuel are included in Randall’s book A Mountain Pearl : Appalachian Reminscing and Recipes

Doing Things Right : It’s Never Too Soon For Skills

/in /by
As I entered adulthood, my late father had already passed away, leaving me as the man of the house. This meant that the various tasks he once handled now fell to me. Household repairs were suddenly my responsibility—either to tackle myself or to hire someone reliable at a reasonable cost. Yard work had been part of my routine for several years, with occasional help on special projects.
I had worked side by side with my father as he built an outbuilding, where he taught me the essentials: framing, flooring, roofing, leveling, sawing, and everything in between. I gained similar hands-on experience with my Uncle Clarence when we completely gutted and renovated a bathroom. The demolition phase initially excited me, especially removing the cast iron tub to repair the subfloor. We used a small sledgehammer to break out the tile and mesh around the tub and floor. What started as fun quickly turned into hard work—lots of it. Over several weeks, we transformed a 1950s bathroom into a 1970s one, and I learned about plumbing, tile work, building a sturdy subfloor, and all the details that went with it.

Learning from all

Not all experiences were as instructive. I once hired a friend’s father to paint the house exterior, including the eaves and shutters, and to build a new back gate. Unfortunately, he wasn’t as meticulous as my parents about doing things right. Upon closer inspection, I discovered shortcuts that bordered on sloppy—and one that was downright foolish. When the gate didn’t fit properly or open and close as it should, instead of taking the time to fix it correctly, he chipped off the end of a brick wall. It was only three bricks, but you don’t damage masonry just to make wood fit. Needless to say, that didn’t go over well, but the damage was done, and there was no undoing it.

Well Experienced Make Good Teachers

Another repair arose when the hot water heater failed, requiring a full replacement. I couldn’t afford a professional plumber, but it was soldered in place, so I turned to my old boss at Dairy Queen, Joe Wyche, for whom I still did occasional odd jobs. He not only taught me the process but stayed to help complete it. The lessons he imparted, along with many others over the years, have paid dividends—I’ve replaced several water heaters in my lifetime.
Since those early days of stepping into the role of man of the house, a lifetime has passed filled with such responsibilities. There are only a couple of tasks I haven’t done or wasn’t taught, even if I never had to apply them. For instance, while I’ve repaired sheetrock, I’ve never installed it from scratch. I was close once, on a project my late mother wanted, but she changed her mind before we reached that step.
All these experiences predated the internet era, when we could simply watch instructional videos. It’s a real blessing to have that resource now, and I’ve used it for some auto repairs. The message I hope to convey is that life can be a series of doing things right or a pattern of sloppiness. My late mother used to say, “When you make a repair or build something, do it as if you were going to live in it yourself.” If you truly care about what you have, you’ll do it right the first time.
I feel fortunate to have had men and women in my life who taught me this principle. You may not have had that advantage, but you can certainly choose that outcome.
Make the decision: Do things right.
As the Bible reminds us in Colossians 3:23: “Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”
Read more life incites in Randall’s Seeing Faith : A Devotional 

New Year’s Fixin’s – A Lesson in Being Neighborly

/in /by

It was a blustery cold morning as Kitty and Pearl began their walk over to Maudie Pearson’s house. They carried tins full of green collards, black-eyed peas and ham hocks and some cornbread.
“This seems like an odd meal to take Miss Maudie,” Pearl said.
“It’s News Year’s Day fixin’s,” Kitty said.
“If she eats these she will have all the luck and money she needs in the next year,” Kitty said.
As they walked across the field to the tenant shack where eighty year-old Maudie lived, their steps barely marked the frozen ground which months before would have allowed them to sink a foot deep with each step.
Kitty’s walk was long and gated since she carried the extra weight of another family member inside her.
“Momma, when will the new baby come,” Pearl asked.
“When its ready,” she said. “I feel it should come any day now.”
Maudie welcomed them at the door and asked them to sit a spell.
“You folks sure surprised me coming on such a cold day,” Maudie said.
“I knew you wouldn’t feel up to cookin’ much, so we wanted to bring you blessings for the New Year,” Kitty said.
“And it looks like you will have a new blessing soon,” Maudie said as she placed her hand on Kitty’s belly.
The threesome sat near the warm fire and shared some hot cider as Maudie showed off a quilt top she was working diligently to finish.
Kitty said they best be getting back.
“The men folk will be home from hunting soon, and they might think we run off,” she said.
Kitty and Pearl took small steps on the way back. Kitty’s pace became slower and slower as she fell on her knees to the ground.
The pain doubled her over.
“Momma,” Pearl called to her, “What’s wrong?”
“It’s time,” Kitty exclaimed.
“What do I do?” Pearl asked.
“Help me and let’s get back to Maudie’s,” she said.
Pearl helped her up, and the duo made their way back to the tenant house.
Maudie said, “Land sakes I knew it would not be long.”
She helped her into the bed and told Pearl to fetch some water from the well and put it in the fire to boil.
Pearl did, and then she placed a damp cloth on Kitty’s head to ease the sweat rolling from her brow. Every few moments intense pain brought Kitty’s shrill scream of agony.
“What can we do?” Pearl said.
“We are doing all we can; the rest is up to God and the little one,” Maudie said.
After a while the screaming stopped, the pain subsided, and in Maudie’s arms was a brand new baby boy.
“Well it looks like the blessings of the New Year have arrived,” Maudie said.
Maudie reached over, picked up the new quilt she was making and wrapped the boy inside, laying him beside Kitty.
“He’ll get it a little early,” she said. “I was hoping to finish it before he came. I’ll do the rest a little later. He needs it more now.”
As the little baby looked up at Maudie and smiled, a shared grin was passed to Kitty and Pearl.
Kitty looked at Pearl and said, “Sharing blessings goes a long ways, little one. Just look what a few greens, peas and cornbread gave to us today.

From the book “A Mountain Pearl: Appalachian Reminiscing and Recipes” and available at www.RandallFranks.com/Store

WISHING ALL A BLESSED AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Giving What Really Matters

/in /by

As a five-year-old, I pressed my nose against the Western Auto window and fell in love. There it sat—the shiniest red Radio Flyer wagon I’d ever seen. Its chrome hubcaps practically winked at me, whispering, “Take me home.” At least that’s what my little-kid brain heard.

Christmas was simpler then. My friends and I came from similar working-class homes. If things were going well, we each got one “big” gift and a couple of practical ones—tube socks, a flannel shirt, maybe a dress shirt for church.

As years passed, the dream in the window changed: a Red Ryder BB gun, a Matchbox racetrack, model airplanes and ships, then a bicycle. Eventually the dreams outgrew my parents’ budget. I saved lawn-mowing money for a candy-red English racer while they supplied smaller gifts that matched whatever I’d bought myself.

Once I was old enough to earn real money and stopped making the lopsided clay ashtrays, I settled into my own gift-giving routine. For Dad: handkerchiefs and Old Spice aftershave. For Mom: L’origan perfume, (she never changed brands), a box of chocolate-covered cherries, and one unique item I’d hunted for all year.

Yet our tree was never buried in presents—two or three gifts each, that was it. What we lacked in quantity, we made up for in generosity toward others. Mom baked for neighbors. We filled food boxes for families in need. Dad spent evenings in the garage restoring donated toys for children who might otherwise wake up to nothing.

That’s what my parents taught me Christmas is really about: using whatever God has given you to lift someone else up.

For me, those gifts turned out to be music and acting. Every December I sang at church or performed at nursing homes, watching eyes light up brighter than any string of tree lights.

Christmas doesn’t require big price tags. Sometimes the best giving is simply sharing whatever talent, time, or kindness you have to offer.

This season, I hope you discover the deeper joy that comes from giving quality instead of quantity—and from meeting needs rather than feeding wants.

May the bliss of Christmas find you in the giving.

Appalachian Fiddler Randall Franks joins The Moonlit Road.com for a new podcast celebrating it’s 28th Anniversary

/in /by
Randall Franks (second from left) reviews his musical enhancements in the studio with director Craig Dominey (left) and audio engineer Henry Howard. (Randall Franks Media)

Appalachian entertainer/actor Randall Franks, JMA Musician of the Year – Fiddle, adds his original musical accompaniment to a new episode of the heralded folklore podcast The Moonlit Road.

“Storytelling and fiddling has long gone hand in hand,” Franks said. “My great grandfather A.J. “Harve” Franks combined the two, entertaining all who came his way. In this adventure, I support another great storyteller.”

The Moonlit Road.com, the definitive online home for strange tales and ghost stories from the American South, today announced the exciting relaunch of The Moonlit Road Podcast. Celebrating its 28th anniversary, the influential digital folklore project is returning with an all-new series featuring performing storytellers and musicians, some of whom have not recorded with the team in over 25 years.

The relaunch signals a renewed commitment by the original production team to share the rich, eerie tapestry of the Southern storytelling tradition. The site and podcast, which has been hailed as the “masters of campfire lore” by Garden and Gun Magazine, will feature ghost stories, strange folktales, and regional myths, blending professional audio production with authentic Southern talent.

Inaugural Episode Features World-Renowned Musician

The first episode of the new series, “The Cow That Ate The Preacher,” sets a high bar for the season. This chilling and darkly funny Arkansas ghost story tells the tale of a traveling preacher, who has lost more than his way, and seeks revenge on an inhospitable farm couple.

  • The story is masterfully told by local storytelling legend David Hirt.

  • It features original musical accompaniment by world-renowned bluegrass musician and actor Randall Franks (Find him at https://randallfranks.com/).

“Many of my people come from the land of kilts, fiddles and bagpipes,” Franks said. “This retelling of a folktale from the old country just in time when many are focusing upon things that go bump in the night, allowed me to reconnect a bit with my Celtic heritage.”

The storytellers featured in the new series are well-known to the Atlanta, Ga. community, regularly performing at beloved live events such as the Tour of Southern Ghosts in Stone Mountain and Capturing the Spirit of Oakland in Oakland Cemetery. Check out the podcast at https://www.themoonlitroad.com/the-cow-that-ate-the-preacher/ .

A Return to the Dark Backroads

“We are thrilled to celebrate nearly three decades of sharing the South’s most spine-tingling stories by bringing the original team back together,” said Craig Dominey, Founder and Producer of The Moonlit Road.com. “This relaunch is a homecoming, allowing us to post new, high-quality audio stories that capture the unique atmosphere of the Southern storytelling tradition. For long-time fans and new listeners alike, it’s a chance to light a lantern and join us back down The Moonlit Road.”

New episodes of The Moonlit Road Podcast will be posted monthly and are available on all major podcast platforms, including Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and via the website at TheMoonlitRoad.com.

About The Moonlit Road.com

Founded in 1997, The Moonlit Road.com is the web’s leading source for Southern ghost stories, folktales, and strange-but-true tales, narrated by the region’s best storytellers. For over 25 years, the organization has been dedicated to preserving and promoting the oral tradition and distinct folklore of the American South.

CONTACT: Craig Dominey, Founder/Producer – The Moonlit Road.com feedback@themoonlitroad.com

Is There Value in Knowing Where You Came From?

/in /by

We cleared the supper plates, leaving a few pieces of fried chicken, boiled ‘taters, and garden-fresh green beans to cover for tomorrow. The smell of fresh-baked cornbread hung in the kitchen as Aunt Short sliced her homemade chocolate pie, passing wedges around the table. With dessert and fresh-brewed coffee in hand, I knew the adults would settle in for hours of storytelling. Uncle Jay slipped out to toss wood on the fire, then returned, packing his pipe with tobacco. As he lit it, smoke curled above his head, and tales began tumbling from their tongues.
Since I was a child, I’ve been spellbound by the old folks’ stories—shared around that table or by the hearth’s flicker. One favorite took me to Fort Watauga, 1776, amid the struggles to settle western North Carolina. Cherokee warriors under Old Abraham laid a two-week siege, arrows and musket balls flying as settlers returned fire from the fort. “Jump, my Bonnie Kate!” Uncle John Sevier hollered, yanking her over the wall—she’d been caught milking cows outside. That daring rescue sparked a love that’d one day make them Tennessee’s first Governor and First Lady.
My kin—the Scottish Kilgores and English Sherrills—joined the Overmountain Men, marching to Kings Mountain to rout the British. Along the way, they picked up the German Weirs. Sitting quietly, I soaked up decades of wisdom from ancestors living and dead—Scottish bagpipes rallying our men, fiddles driving frontier trade days. Patriots fought at Trenton and Kings Mountain, settlers clashed with Native Americans, and later generations endured Shiloh’s bloodied fields and Normandy’s beaches.
Closer to home, family feuds simmered for decades. Grandpa’s scars bore witness—seven healed-over knife wounds from a brawl he barely survived, a bullet lodged too deep to remove. Mama’d recount those close calls, her voice hushed, fueling my young imagination with heroes among our kin. Another memory lingers: an old family saint who’d ask strangers, “Who are your people?” Give her a name, and she’d spin chapters of their history—tidbits even they didn’t know—tying us to the past with a knowing grin.
Little survived of the world before American shores, just scraps from Scotland, Ireland, England, and Germany. Names, songs, and tunes lingered, played on instruments handed down since the 1600s. Generations settled land, founded towns, and drifted south and west from New York, Pennsylvania, Massachusetts, and Virginia, rooting deep in Tennessee, Kentucky, and Georgia.
At 12, I began digging—courthouse to courthouse, graveyard to graveyard. Now, the internet unearths wonders with a click. Those bagpipes hailed from clans who won Scotland’s freedom under Robert the Bruce. German kin shaped Lutheran theology, Irish forebears defied Cromwell, and an English ancestor—Geoffrey Chaucer—penned The Canterbury Tales.
Every century’s tales show what our folks endured, letting us walk tall, proud of who we are. Learn your people’s stories—it’s no accident you’re here. You carry the dreams of generations, meant to shape the future.

Fool’s Gold: Lessons from a Childhood Quest

/in /by

From childhood, I learned that not everything that glitters is gold.

I remember my boyhood experiences as a child playing by myself around a nearby creek. The gurgling of the water as it rushed over the rocks always filled my soul with a sense of peace. The sounds of the birds simply became an orchestra of a soundtrack beneath the creek sounds.

I was pulling rocks from the bottom of the creek to begin a fort, and I stirred up a flurry of gold glittering in the water. I thought, I’ve struck gold. This would solve those financial problems I heard my parents talking about.

I decided to collect as much as I could that day and bring it home to share with my folks.

I had seen in westerns the miners panning for gold, so I pedaled home quietly entered in the back door avoiding my mom, borrowing a pan and a shovel from the garage.

After coming back I panned for the little flakes compiling them in a repurposed tobacco sack now used for marbles.

After endless hours of the endeavor, darkness was coming on, so I collected my gains, my tools and got on my bike and pedaled home to beat the street lights from coming on.

When everything was put away, I proudly presented my day’s endeavors to my dad.

He opened the sack, looked inside and said, “Son, come over here.” He lifted me up upon his knee and said to me look inside this bag. I did thinking how proud I was of my efforts.

Beside the bag he held out his ring finger which held his wedding band and said, “Now, look at my ring. Does what you have in the bag look like what’s on my finger?”

I looked back and forth between the sack and his ring and I looked up at him and said,

“They are different. Why are they different?”

He smiled and said, “Because, son, all that glitters is not gold. What you have here is a bag of iron pyrite, often called ‘fool’s gold’.”

“So, it’s not worth anything?”, I asked.

“Well let’s think on that,” he said. “How long did you spend on gathering this bag?”

I told him all day. He asked me if I worked hard at it and I told him that I was plum tuckered out.

“Did you enjoy the time you did it?” he asked.

“I did,” I told him.

“Have you learned anything from the experience?” he inquired.

“Yes, I learned that sometimes you can spend all day trying to get the gold and come home empty-handed,” I said.

He said that is a good lesson, but another one was not to jump at every shiny thing in life.

“If you do, you may find out too late that shiny things are not what is best for you in your life,” he said.

Before he set me back down, he pulled the drawstring on the bag, handed it back to me.

“Son, thank you for what you tried to do for our family,” he said. “Your heart was in the right place. Just keep trying.

“Next time, you may just find a true treasure. Just learn a bit and maybe talk to me about it before jumping feet first into it,” he counseled. “Also, I would get your mom’s skillet washed and put back before she realizes you were using it.”

I smiled and climbed off his knee.

“Son, why don’t you put that bag on your bedpost? I think when you see it, it will remind you that bright and shiny isn’t always what’s best for us,” he said.

“Sure Pa,” I said.

Not too long ago, I was going through some boxes in my attic, and ran across that white bag of fool’s gold, I was reminded the adventure of that day was such a great memory. I could almost hear the creek again emanating from the iron pyrite in my hand.

That childhood lesson has tempered my choices throughout my life. I found those shiny things my father was talking about are more than just gold. They could be a beautiful girl, a flashy car, a better job, a big house or every imaginable toy an adult might want.

While, sometimes I have weakened being drawn for a time to shiny things, I have managed to step back from the precipice before jumping feet first without a full review of what I was about to swallow hook, line and sinker.

Are you jumping for every shiny thing that comes your way? Maybe, it’s time to look more deeply into your personal bag of fool’s gold before you buy that next thing that glitters in front of you.

It’s Fall Y’all

/in /by

As the leaves begin to turn into a cornucopia of color, I make my last round in the yard with my lawnmower. I have prepped and planted my winter garden hoping for the best crop of turnip greens ever seen.

The branch pile at the street becomes almost as tall as me. It’s cold enough at night to start a fire for the heat but warm enough in the day for air conditioning. The scenes around me begin to be filled pumpkins and scarecrows decorating our light posts and porches.

I have always loved this time of year. However, like many, I dread what I really loved in my youth – the cooler weather. For so many of us, as the years pass, the aches and pains from the abuses our body has received through our times on earth, hurt with these changes.

In my part of the world, this time of year also turns our thoughts to the mountains. We head there to see the beauty of the leaves, to enjoy the fall festivals, and to experience small town America. This year however, many of our favorite spots in Appalachia are suffering due to Hurricane Helene and its aftermath. I encourage everyone who can reach out to Eastern Tennessee and Western North Carolina and other affected areas with your financial assistance and include them in your prayers. There will be ongoing needs for months and months. Now, in the immediacy, they need things to help them keep warm. But I want to remind you all that many of our favorite mountain destinations in both states are open for business. Their leaves will be filled with colors, their towns will be decorated, their fall festivals will occur. Many of these towns are banding together to advertise they are OK and ready to welcome tourists. Don’t forget them. If you are going to travel. These regions have already been devastated by the Hurricane, they need their brother and sister towns to succeed and keep the tax base that will help rebuild from bottoming out. I am sure also you will find efforts to help their neighbors in all these communities.

Another aspect of fall coming on are the blooming of signs on corners and in yards reminding us that its time to go to the polls and place your vote for local, state and national political candidates. In many areas, early voting has already begun. Our neighbors are sitting there anxiously awaiting your arrival to cast a ballot. A right that each of us adult American citizens have due to the forethought of our founders and the blood, sweat and tears shed by thousands of people who have served in the military to defend all our rights across generations.

So, get in the car, drive to polling place, if close enough, enjoy a pleasant walk in the fall sun, cast your ballot either early or on the day of the election and let your voices be heard about your wishes for the future of your town, your county, your state and our country. While you are at it, thank every veteran you come across for their service! I plan to vote on election day. I look forward to spending some time with my neighbors hearing about their lives as we wait on line.

It’s a privilege to vote for the future. Don’t miss your chance to be part of the solution rather than the problem. Most of us want to run our own lives. However, we are all like the children riding in the back seat of the station wagon. We are not holding the steering wheel, our foot is not hovering over the gas or brake pedals. However, unlike childhood, when we could not choose our parents and their driving habits, we can decide who is driving the car in our respective towns, counties, states and our country.

So, as you get ready to get in the back seat to ride along for the next four years: which candidates will make you feel safe, content in your life and opportunities, happy with the direction they are taking us,

ever ready to hit the brakes and steer a different direction, or prepared to hit the gas to get us towards an amazing destination when they see an opening for successful forward momentum.

At every level, these people we elect impact our lives, take it seriously. Vote for the future of your lives, your families, your pocketbooks and wallets, your opportunities in business and employment and the generations ahead of all of us.

Vote for the success of us all, your hometown, your state and our country.

Just vote. Make a difference. Put on the sticker, wear it proudly, thank a veteran and enjoy fall, y’all!

David Davis, a bluegrass mandolin stilled

/in /by

The rained poured down on the fairgrounds at the Cedartown Georgia fairgrounds. It was the site of a new bluegrass festival including many talented acts. I was there with my youth group, the Peachtree Pickers. We were dodging mud puddles from the rain that had already come in to get to the stage.

When another storm front came through, my father and I sought refuge in a cattle barn on the grounds. Inside, we found David Davis of the Warrior River Boys (www.DavidDavisandWRB.com) and his father also dodging the bad weather. They were also on the bill that day.
This deluge created an opportunity for us to meet and talk. That day began a four-decade long friendship that led David and I into an unusual musical creative partnership.

As we both plotted the course for our future careers in Bluegrass and beyond, we saw the opportunity to be cheerleaders, counselors, and sounding boards for ideas and opportunities as they came to us. Our talents and our styles were different, so we didn’t see each other as competing for the same ground and jobs, however we believed in each of our strengths we could compliment what was ahead.

Doors opened for both of us as David landed on Rounder Records and created critically acclaimed albums and a widening festival audiences with his Monroe-infused Appalachian roots sounds.
I shifted to guest starring for the Grand Ole Opry and crossed over to acting in network TV reaching large country music audiences.

Whenever David needed a musician, all he had to do was call and went to help. When I began mounting my country variety shows – The Hollywood Hillbilly Jamboree, I asked David to join me and provide the bluegrass portion and do some songs with me as I moved from country, to bluegrass, to gospel on my shows.

He moved along to Wango and Rebel Records and even had some Time-Life recordings as the years ticked off before returning again to Rounder.

As I was focusing more closely on my Appalachian roots, I asked David to record a brother-duet album with me called “God’s Children.” He didn’t hesitate and we created some eclectic sounds with pioneers “Doc” Tommy Scott, Cotton and Jane Carrier, and my television friend Sonny Shroyer “Enos” from “The Dukes of Hazzard” as special guests.

Through much of what we considered the ups and downs of the music industry, we held on, grew, learned, and tried to remain relevant, reinventing and creating opportunities to leave a mark. There was not much that either of us did in the music business, that the other didn’t chime in his thoughts.

I know these memories are probably not of much interest, but I received the sad news before writing today that my friend David died due to injuries sustained in an auto accident Sept. 15 in his home state of Alabama. His wife Cindy was injured but is recovering.

The news has rocked the worldwide Americana and bluegrass music community as he was widely respected and admired. He had also become a mentor to many talented young artists now finding their place in the larger music scene such as Wyatt Ellis, The Price Sisters, Jeremy and Corrina Rose Logston Stephens of High Fidelity, Kody Norris of the Kody Norris Show and RFD-TV star Alan Sibley and so many more.

I helped his family prepare a press release about the Alabama Bluegrass Music and National Old Time Country Music Hall of Famer’s amazing life and his extensive musical catalog that has touched millions through performances, television and radio.

We will soon gather in Cullman, Ala. to remember and celebrate the life of a true Southern gentleman whose mandolin playing and vocal stylings have touched two generations of music fans.

I hope you will celebrate his talents by finding his music, download or buy an album, or listen on YouTube and share it with friends. You may also donate to support Appalachian music scholarships in memory of David Davis at www.ShareAmericaFoundation.org or by sending to Share America Foundation, P.O. Box 42, Tunnel Hill, Ga. 30755. Rest in peace David. You are missed.

Grass, water and people – reconnect with the world

/in /by

I walked across the back yard in my bare feet. I do this from time to time as it reminds me the sensation I recall from childhood, the grass wrapping its way around the curves in my feet.

Touching the ground provides a connection to God’s blessed creation. I don’t think we ever get to old to remember the sensation.

It was much the same the first time I waded out into the lake as a child. Feeling the water all around me. I knew no timidness as a youth. You don’t worry about what is lurking beneath the water. Just that the cold water makes you feel better. However, for me as time went along, that desire evaporated from within my thoughts. I really don’t care for swimming or wading in lakes these days.

Since my earliest days I was fascinated by hiking through the mountains. The trees, the wildlife, and sometimes simply finding a rock sitting down and staring out across a unique vista I had not seen.

It’s in such moments of peace that I have found the inspiration to write. The words can create songs, lessons, ideas for films or books.

God’s gifts seem to flow when He blesses. Yet, sometimes there seems to be a block. At those times, more of His gifts must simply come into view.

Those gifts can also take the form of other people.

One of my favorite times of year was Christmas as a youth. A place I loved to be, now unfortunately pretty much a thing of the past was the shopping mall. It was a joy to find a quiet corner and simply watch folks as they enjoyed their time together shopping. The kids filled with the joy of the season. The mothers and fathers a bit hurried and out of sorts as they tick off things from their to do list.

From these moments, I could also see God’s gifts.

When we touch the earth with our hands as we plant within the garden, when we take the time to run our hand across someone’s pet, we are connecting to the creation.

Nothing we can do in life can move the spirit within us like God’s ability to uplift us with His amazing creations which sometimes we don’t take the time to recognize.

Spend some of your time reconnecting with the earth and the people around you and you might find a new muse that could inspire your life.