Go to Music!

Unlike many of my peers growing up, I fell in love with folk and bluegrass. My introduction to Tony Rice was like entering the Graceland of Bluegrass & Folk. 

I grew up going to chicken stews and family reunions where very often there would be a five-string banjo and a guitar and amateur musicians strumming out old fashion tunes. Little did I know that my DNA was being infused with the love for American traditional stringed music. 

My favorite combination was Tony Rice’s interpretation of Canadian music and songwriter Gordon Lightfoot. Lightfoot became successful in folk, folk-rock, and country music. Popularized in the 60s, he is considered one of Canada’s greatest songwriters.  His biographer Nicholas Jennings said, “His name is synonymous with timeless songs about trains and shipwrecks, rivers and highways, lovers and loneliness.”

In 1996, Tony Rice created the album “Tony Rice Sings Gordon Lightfoot” which was a compilation of Gordon Lightfoot written tunes. For me, combining the distinctive baritone voice of Rice and raw guitar talent with the ingenious song skills of Lightfoot created music that ranks #1 in album picks. In an interview, Rice said about Lightfoot, “Every written word had value.”  

Tony Rice Sings Gordon Lightfoot

Even if you’re not a Rice fan or haven’t heard about Lightfoot, I expect you’ll recognize some of the more popular songs written by Lightfoot; like, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" or "Early Morning Rain" which was popularized by Elvis Presley.

If you have never been introduced to folk or bluegrass, I would recommend you give “Tony Rice Sings Gordon Lightfoot” a try. Without question, it’s my number one favorite album. My favorite song on the album is “Shadows. Later, after the 1996 album, Allison Krause provided her interpretation of this piece with Tony Rice playing lead guitar. I have tug-a-warred in my mind whose version is the best….It all depends on my mood. I encourage you to watch these two Youtube versions and come up with your own favorite. 

Lone Star Dreaming

I remember 1981. I was in the 8th grade at South Davie Junior High. I had my first “job” early that year working for a local beef and hay farmer. I remember picking up bales of hay that weighed just a little less than I did. A close friend of my father let me ride his horse back and forth to the farm to feed the cattle. I crossed over probably three different property owners to get to my destination. Back then, graciousness was common with neighbors as it relates to trespassing.

I remember getting a pair of cowboy boots for Christmas. The heels were probably two inches tall, but they made me feel a foot taller. I also purchased and wore a large western belt buckle that had a bull rider in the center of what could be called a silver billboard. The farmer trusted me at that age to run a John Deere 1020, I believe a 1970-year model. It gave me a lot of responsibility. With the cows that I fed, the horse that I rode, the1020, and my boots and buckle, I thought in my mind I was truly a cowboy, all 125 pounds of me. 

I had a spiritual life at that age. It was that year I remember that I began to pray for a future wife. But, I not only prayed for a pretty one, but I also prayed she would be a Texan. Honest! My visions of Texas were ranches, cattle, horses, and western sunsets. In those sunsets were what I believed were the prettiest of girls. That year, the owner of Babe (the horse that I rode) invited me on a trip to Texas over Christmas to deliver a product that he had sold at his shop. He asked my parents if I could come along for the ride. They agreed and I was the most excited person you could imagine. Texas Bound!

Chuck picked me up on a cold December morning. I was wearing my boots, belt buckle and had a bag of homemade biscuits with country ham that my grandmother made for our journey. Unbeknownst to my mother, I had snuck a can of Skoal from my grandmother's store to try to make that imprint in my back pocket as I thought all true cowboys had. Chuck and I had the biscuits eaten by the time we hit the Iredell County line which is the neighboring county. Chuck was determined that we would Drive the 22-hour journey straight through. By the time we got to Asheville North Carolina, this cowboy was falling asleep on his partner. By the time we reach Knoxville Tennessee, I was awake and decided it was time to put a dip between my cheek and gum. Chuck, who at the time was a Levi Garrett chewing tobacco aficionado, didn’t say much about my pulling out the can of Skoal, opening the container, and beginning to dip. I immediately felt a sense of manhood as I began to dip. But about 7-mile markers outside of Knoxville, I began to get dizzy. I had my spit cup, but something was not going right with this tobacco experience. I quickly took my pointer finger, cleaned out my lower cheek of the tobacco, and did not dip for the balance of the trip. In fact, I never tried snuff again even to this day

By the time we got to Music town, Chuck was revving up the idea of the Mississippi River. He told me that I would not believe it. So, as a kid who grew up near the Yadkin River, I was expecting to see something amazing. A little less than nine hours into our journey we were entering the outskirts of Memphis Tennessee. Chuck, with anticipation in his voice, told me to get ready here it comes. We were on I 40 and all of a sudden we cross this bridge and I looked at the river with the biggest disappointment I have ever felt. I looked at the bridge, I looked at the water and said

“Is this all it is?” 

Chuck, kept a very coy demeanor as he sat in the truck with a very disappointed young fella. Well, about 7 miles later I’ll look down in front of me and said Chuck “you’re not telling me the truth.” In front of me was the Hernando DeSoto Bridge crossing the truly Mighty Mississippi River. What we had crossed was the Wolf River, which is a little larger than the Yadkin River that I grew up around.

 

Our trip, now entering our third state, became somewhat eventful as, by the time we reached Little Rock, we were in a snowstorm, a pretty significant one. But we kept moving. About 18 hours into our journey, we entered Texarkana. I was wide awake and remember seeing this beautiful blonde driving in a pickup truck with a cowboy hat on. I thought I had entered the promised land. I don't really remember what she looked like, but she had a truck, a cowboy hat, and a Lone Star State license tag; she had to be gorgeous.

 

We stayed at his mom and dad’s house, which by the way had about 15 grandfather clocks. Sleep was a challenge at the top of every hour. One of our first ventures was to visit the flea market of Canton Texas. It is the oldest, largest continually operating outdoor market in the USA. It operates on hundreds of acres. Since I had entered the promised land, I felt it necessary to fit in with the natives. So, I bought myself a cowboy hat, not just any cowboy hat, a Texas cowboy hat. It wasn’t a 10-gallon hat, but he completed my western attire. 

We were only in Texas for three days which included a Sunday. Chuck’s father, a godly man, invited us to the Greenville Church of Christ. I must admit, matters of spirituality were probably not on the top of my bucket list that Sunday morning. I was anxious to see what the junior high and high school crop of students look like now that I was in Texas. 

I woke up in time to get my shower, opened my makeshift toiletry bag, and had the essentials except for hair product. It was very important for me that day to look my best. I didn’t want to wear my new hat and look like a wannabe.  Sounding the alarm to Chuck that I needed hair product, he gave me his mother’s aerosol hairspray. So I combed my hair and sprayed liberally the hairspray, looked in the mirror with approval and off to church we went. On the way, I scratched my head and in my peripheral vision noticed flakes coming from my hair. I asked Chuck if he saw the same thing, and he concurred with my greatest fear. The hairspray stuck to my hair like glue and was beginning to flake out. So concerned, I put my head out the window to mess up my combed hair to get rid of the dust. Self-conscious during the entire worship assembly, I don’t remember a word or scripture that the preacher spoke about. I taxed my eye muscles looking at my shoulder.

 

It was that Trip that placed in my heart my desire to someday fall in love with a girl from Texas. What I didn’t know at the time is four years later I would meet my Texas sweetheart who at the time lived only 70 miles from Greenville, Texas the place that we visited.

 

As I look back on that time, I was looking for her in Canton Texas, at the Texarkana line, and even at church that Sunday. I’m thankful she didn’t see my flaky scalp that Sunday morning in Greenville.

It was not our time to meet. But I do remember from the eighth grade on I always had this desire to marry a girl from Texas.

 

We’ve been together now for 37 years and I’m still proud that I married that girl from Texas. I can only credit God for the desire to chase that Lonestar dream. I still wear boots, show up in a silver buckle often, even own longhorn cattle. I shed the notion of Skoal, aerosol hairspray, and spotting pretty girls with cowboy hats riding down the road and pick-up trucks. But the Texas-size hole that was in my heart was completely filled by God. I didn’t realize it in 1981 but he already had it planned out.

If I'd known what being a Grandfather was like.

 

“If I’d known what it was like to be a grandfather, I’d a had them first.” I’ve heard that phrase for many years.

 

In time for the 2021 tax deduction, Braxton Gray Burton entered the life of his mother and father and made me a grandfather. Excited…happy…. elated…. I’d probably have to study The New Oxford Dictionary of English, first edition with 350,000 entries to find the adjective to express the emotions that came with that day. Holding Braxton for the first time created an immediate emotional bond that I will keep tucked in my heart for the balance of my journey.

Looking into his eyes, seeing his little hands spread wide to stretch his fingers, touching his perfect skin, I pondered the many places he would go, the ballgames he would enter, the fish he may catch, the life that he would carve. I watched his mom and dad fall right into being loving parents nurturing his physical and emotional needs.

The experience took my back to 1992 when Braxton’s mother was born. We had our life ahead of us and asked God to guide us as parents. Now, some 28 years later, I am watching this young couple begin to point their child to the saving love of Christ.

 

“If I’d only known….”

 

This grandparent is looking at his daughter and son-in-law and saying you guys are doing a great job. You have created a beautiful child. I am proud of you and love your child more than you can imagine! Thanks for making me Poppy.

Christmas Music

 

​I’ll admit, when Thanksgiving is over, I somewhat dread Christmas music. “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas”, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and so many others are played in every restaurant, gas station, and waiting room to the point of overkill. 

However, there are two pieces that speak to my heart. “O, Holy Night” and Handel’s “Messiah.” A time of Advent ushers into the heart of a believer, the incarnation of the Christ child. 

Recently, a close friend sent me a text and said, “What are you doing tomorrow night? We’d like to give you and Elizabeth a Christmas gift.” They picked us up at 6:30 and took us to Centenary Methodist Church to hear the entire performance of Handel’s Messiah as performed by the Winston Salem Symphony. 

Most people are familiar with Part 2, No. 39, The Hallelujah Chorus. As the violins welcome the chorus’ soprano, alto, tenor, and bass singing Hallelujah, they are echoing the scripture found in Revelation 19:6 “Lord God Omnipotent reigneth.” Later, “and He shall reign forever and ever”, Revelation 11:15. 

Seated in the nave of the church, after a 2 ½ hour performance, I discovered the genius of German-born George Frideric Handel. While known as a Christmas piece, only part one of the enduring classic relates to the birth of Christ. The thesis of the piece of music is the entire story of the gospel, found in both the Old & New Testaments.

                              

The experience was received with great appreciation of the gift, and of going with friends, fellow believers and being reminded of the Gift of God that is free to all people who seek Him. 

 

Field & Stream

 

I don’t really remember where the love for the field became the stream. As a child, I remember my brother subscribing to the magazine, Field & Stream. I fell in love with the notion of sitting in a cold duck blind either on upland waters or in a 6x8 box on stilts somewhere in the Core or Pamlico Sounds. When my son was too young to remember, I’d haul off to Hyde County which at the time was the eastern flyway mecca of waterfowl. We’d sleep in dives, get up at 4 am, wader up, and walk into impoundments of flooded corn aka cocaine for ducks. Unlike deer hunting, waterfowl hunting is a social sport. As my son, Lewis gained in years, his first love was deer hunting. He reached the local pinnacle of a nice 10-point buck at our family farm. However, as the taxing duties of climbing a deer stand, sitting on a cold seat, still and alone waned, Lewis was introduced to The Duck Commander where he learned the tricks of the duck call and later was led to &saving faith by Phil Robertson, the Duck Commander himself. We would later drive 5 hours one evening to the Greenville, NC Duck Expo to meet him in person. 

Lewis and I took many trips duck hunting, watching the sunrise and the feathered creatures land in our group of decoys. Those days were incredibly exciting. We experienced many reservoirs in the local area and sounds, salt marshes, and natural lakes along the North Carolina Coastline. 

The evolution of the human heart is interesting. Lewis was introduced to one of my great loves in his twenties. As a child, I was hooked on fishing. I remember bungee cording my tackle box to my Honda XR75 and putting my bait caster between my legs and over the handlebars so I could motorcycle to local farm ponds. My local friend Grover and I would “tear them up.” We kind of had a competition as to who would catch the most. My Dad and Mom during this time would take the ole john boat and use a flyfishing rod and popping bugs to catch the bream and bass at the local ponds as well. I was intrigued by the art of a wisping line being laid inches from the bank. The fish would pop the topwater lure, take it under and they would pull the fishing line into the boat to net the fish. That was probably my genesis of flyfishing. 

I purchased the entry-level Clearwater rod and reel in my twenties and returned to the ponds I roamed as a child. A few times I would go to the mountains to find a trout stream to try my luck. Honestly, it was more an experience of seeing the wonder of our mountains than landing the beautiful rainbow, strong brown or native brookie. The year 1992 created a vision in my mind of a beautiful story and the epic rivers of Montana. I visited Montana on a family trip in the early 2000s where we saw the rivers, but we never stopped to fish or wade. Finally, after many years, Elizabeth and I spent a week in Helena, Montana whereby a random yellow page ad, we chose a guide to put us on the Missouri River. Craig, Montana. Trout central. Our guide, who is now a close friend, Taylor Todd, was not only a guide but a teacher. After 8 hours on the river and 20-25 large rainbows, Elizabeth’s mammoth brown; I knew I had to introduce Lewis to the stream experience. The next summer, we came back to Montana, this time with Lewis. The experience was equal to the previous year. I remember seeing his eyes when he landed his first fish. The memory is almost like slow motion. We were surrounded by Wolf Creek and Dearborn Canyons that line the wide flowing river once traversed by Meriwether Lewis and William Clark.
Connecting with the water’s current and feeling a tight fly line with a trout on is almost electric.

On that trip, I watched the evolution of a committed duck hunter to an all-in trout fisherman. Since that trip, I have watched Lewis become a master at the art and science of all thing’s trout. It has increased his geographic knowledge of the North Carolina Mountains. Truly, a large part of my life has been in the field and stream. All things said the experience has been grandeur. The sunrises have made me speechless; the sound of the streams has given me peace. The inheritance my son has gained being connected to nature gives me great satisfaction. 

No Grizzly, but plenty of Brookies

 Brook Trout.

So often, when you go fishing, the subsequent two questions asked by friends are 1.) How many did you catch, 2.) how big were they.

To be honest, I'm that guy. I love to land rainbows and browns in the net. I love it when they are 18 to 24 inches. I'll even call it a success when you get a 12-incher, especially in North Carolina.

Last week, my son Lewis and I went to Helena, Montana to drift the Missouri from Craig, Montana to the Mid Canyon past the confluence of the Dearborn River. We landed a total of about 12 fish averaging 12-14 inches. Not an epic day, but was pure satisfaction. What I didn't know was the following days where going to be even a better experience with small fish.

Let me explain.

My close friend, Dan Pate, offered me his Polaris General side by side to go the a Diehl Ranch in Winston Montana. The ranch owner was gracious enough to give us access to a small creek coming out of the Elkhorn Mountain Range. This mountain range is southwestern Montana,  part of the Rocky Mountains and contains approximately 300,000 acres. It is an inactive volcanic mountain range with the highest point being Crow Peak at 9,414 ft, right next to Elkhorn Peak. The mountain range is surrounded by the capital city of Helena, one of my favorite towns, Townsend, Whitehall and Winston; Home of the Big Bull Restaurant. 

We parked the side by side next to the creek, a steep drive to the bank. During runoff, this creek can be very wide and fast, but being mid-september, the creek was 10-12 feet wide in the broadest areas. Logs brought down by the snow capped runoff lined the creek. Rocks to numerous you couldn't count. Most of the creek was shallow only inches deep. But about every turn, you would find pockets of deeper moving water. My son Lewis who I taught to fly fish many years ago showed me that he was no longer the student, but the teacher; showing me how to rig the right dry fly and dropper (nymph). We were in the back country, so wildlife abounded. I asked Dan to provide for me bear spray as this was Grizzly country, so he provided me a chest holstered Ruger 44 magnum. This gave me some security, but Lewis would yell "Hey Bear" around every turn to scare away any potential visitors. 

Lewis "high sticked" his rig because the cover along the creek wouldn't provide the vision that most people have about fly fishing. High sticking is where you sneak up to the area you want to fish, drop the set and let the dry fly be your set indicator (like a bobber). 

We were going after the coveted fish, the North American Brook Trout. The "brookie" was introduced to Montana from the east in 1889. They desire small, cold headwater streams.  It wasn't long before Lewis caught the first one. The colorful dots on its side is what distinguishes it from the popular rainbow and frisky brown trout.

No, they weren't big, but we were as excited about catching them as we were the larger rainbows the previous day.  Lewis landed a nice rainbow that day, but the overriding catch of the day was brookies. 

Fishing is one of my favorite sports. When you have a guide like Lewis, it makes it that much more fun. When you catch the elusive, colorful small stream brookie.....well....I guess it doesn't get any better than that. 

Trout Finding & Quality Time

What a great way to spend post-thanksgiving! My son, Lewis and I took off to the mountains of North Carolina for a couple of days. We both had a small backpack, a flyrod and waders. Our goal was to find trout. We headed to the NC Trout capital, Bryson City, NC. Chasing the NC Wildlife map, we happened on Alarka Creek. Alarka is a hatchery-supported creek that begins in the Big Laurel area of the US Forest Service land and meanders it’s way thru rocky knolls, farms and woods finally ending at Fontana Lake. This classic NC mountain community is beautiful. We found a pull-off, wader-ed up and got right to

“work” in the stream. Lewis quickly connected with a brown trout using an Elk haired caddis. The Elk Hair Caddis imitates an adult caddis fly or a small stonefly which is right down a trout’s alley! We fished a couple spots along the Alarka and then decided to go to the Deep Creek which flows through Bryson City. 

Celebrated not only for its fishing, Deep Creek has several hiking loops for hikers and bikers alike. It was obvious we were in a pandemic as the parking lot was stacked. Everyone was socially distancing and wearing masks, especially us guys waist deep in the water….sans masks. Once again, it didn’t take Lewis long. Using what anglers call a Dry Dropper, he pulled out yet another brown trout. A

Dry Dropper rig consists of a dry fly, in this case, the Elk Hair Caddis, with a nymph or wet fly attached to it via a piece of tippet. The dry fly acts not only as an attractant with a hook, but also as an indicator for the nymph. As the fly floats, if it quickly goes underwater, you just might have a fish on the line. In this case, ole brownie chose the fly, not the underwater nymph. Having lost his fishing net, I watched him use is hat as a net. It was funny yet also a classically industrious use of his lid. 

 After we hiked about three miles and fished Deep Creek, we headed into Bryson City for supper. The Smokey Mountain Train was in town and the Christmas lights lit up making downtown look like a Hallmark movie. We ate at The Everett Hotel & Bistro, which I will say was an excellent choice. We topped off the meal with a fudge brownie in celebration of the brown landings Lewis had that day. I enjoyed what is probably the best double shot expresso I’ve ever had. Getting dark, we headed to the Super 8 in Cherokee, NC. It had been years since I had visited the Cherokee Reservation. 

 The next morning, we headed to what is called the “Trophy Waters” of Raven Fork Creek. We Fished about four hours. I finally got on the board with a beautiful Rainbow Trout; nothing huge, but as always, some of the best fighting pound for pound. I told Lewis I wanted to take him on a quick trip down memory lane, so we exited the water. As a child, I remember my parents taking my brother and I to Cherokee, staying at one of those side of the river hotels. I remember seeing the outdoor drama “Unto these hills”. A road that was always etched in my memory was the Tsali Blvd. which turned into 441 North. This is probably the most incredible representation of the Smokey Mountains you can drive on. We peaked the mountains at Newfoundland Gap, near Clingman’s Dome. Lewis, like me as a child saw the wonder of God’s handy work. Pretty amazing views. We drove on toward Sugarland Visitors Center and turned left to another amazing memory of my childhood… Cades Cove. 

 My memory as a child was the family camping and riding bicycles around the 11 mile loop road looking at the hundreds of deer, occasional bear and wild turkey. Cades Cove, Tennessee is an isolated valley in the heart of the Great Smokey Mountains. The valley was home to numerous settlers before the formation of the national park. Some of their homes are still there today. Today Cades Cove, the single most popular destination for visitors to the park, attracts more than two million visitors. It felt like 500,000 were there on this day! It was much more crowded than I remembered. I’m sure COVID had something to do with that. As I expected, we saw bear and deer. We also saw people violating the signs that said do not approach the bear. I had my iPhone ready to capture the stupidity on video if necessary. 

 Thru traffic, we made our way out of the park to Gatlinburg. Evidence of the forest fires were still on the sloped hill sides. We ate at Big Daddy's Pizzeria, which I would recommend (great crust & perfect marinara sauce). As mentioned, our goal was trout finding, but what I found was a 26 year old who not only has perfected the art of fishing, but who has become a man I am very proud to call my son. 

Quality time is special and this two day trip is one I’ll deposit in my memory bank for a long time.