tom dooley

Met her on the mountain
There I took her life
Met her on the mountain
Stabbed her my knife

Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Hang down your head and cry
Hang down your head, Tom Dooley
Poor boy you’re bound to die

I've been reading a book by John Foster West, professor of English with Appalachian State University. He wrote an account of the life, incarceration and death of Tom Dooley, the subject of the well-known song by the Kingston Trio.

Though it is spelled Dooley in the folktales, the accurate spelling is Dula. In Appalachian English, you see “A” pronounced as “Y.” A notable example of this is the Grand Old Opry, where the word opera was pronounced with the same “Y” sound.

Tom Dula became a folk music figure as a criminal, accused of and hanged for murdering Laura Foster in the spring of 1866, in the foothills of western North Carolina. Laura Foster left home on her father’s only mare, dressed in the best clothes she owned, planning to marry Tom and begin a new life with him. She was killed less than 24 hours later and buried in a shallow grave, so small her legs had to be drawn up near her chest.

It sounds like a typical Appalachian folktale – a little grisly. But what makes it different is that it has a rather unconventional back story.

Tom and Laura happened to be involved in a complex love triangle, which started over ten years before her death. Laura Foster had two cousins, Ann and Pauline. Tom was quite a womanizer, so when I say that he knew her cousins, it’s because he “knew” them. In fact, his relationship with Ann began when he was around 14 years old, and continued conspicuously even after she was married to James Melton. Melton was a busy cobbler in the area, and it’s reported that Tom slept in her bed as often as James did.

But just for giggles, Tom slept with Laura about once a week too. Laura had a specific reputation for being “frail,” which in those days did not refer to physical stamina, but a moral frailty. Less polite folks simply described her as having “round heels,” meaning she spent more time on her back than she did standing.

Enter the third Foster cousin, Pauline. She was from out of town, in neighboring Watauga county. She came for a visit because she needed to see the only doctor in the mountain region. But she didn’t arrive pregnant. She arrived with what mountain people called The Pock -- Syphilis. The summer after she arrived, everyone -- Ann Foster, her husband, James Melton, Laura Foster and Tom Dula -- shared the same affliction.

How’s that for getting around?

So Tom Dula? He killed Laura Foster because he thought she had given him the Pock. Sadly, it was Pauline who took that honor. Why did he think it was Laura? Well, it's safe to assume this was Ann's doing. Pauline might have "known" Tom, but she didn't aspire to much more. Laura on the other hand wanted something a little more permanent. And Ann wasn't too keen on that. Given that Pauline lived with Ann and her husband, and wasn't exactly quiet about her condition, I think it's fair to believe that when Tom told Ann of his condition and that he was going to "run through" the person who gave it to him, Ann saw her chance to eliminate some competition. But as it turns out, Pauline may have brought a disease down on people's heads, but she also turned in both Tom, for the murder itself, and Ann, for her part in it. Tom was tried twice, convicted both times, and before his death wrote a note exonerating Ann, who was later acquitted.

The book contains this passage:

Anyone wishing to visit Elkville today can do so by driving 11.2 miles north of U.S. 321, starting five miles west of Lenoir; by traveling Highway 268, 19 miles south from U.S. 421 at Wilkesboro to Elk Creek; or by turning left from U.S. 421 onto Mt. Pleasant Road, 11 miles west of Wilkesboro and driving south-southeast to Highway 268 at Ferguson.

As a visitor travels north on Highway 268, he will not find that the old Stony Fork Road branches off to the left as soon as he crosses Elk Creek, as indicated in a crudely drawn map used as evidence in Tom Dula's trials. Today, it is necessary to turn left and follow the Elk Creek Road (S.R. 1159) 1.6 miles west, before turning right onto the Stony Fork Road, recently renamed the Gladys Fork Road by the DOT. The old Stony Fork Road (Gladys Fork Road) crosses Reedy Branch, one mile from the Elk Creek Road, Laura Foster Ridge, and a good many hills and hollows, before ending 3.6 miles north of Elk Creek at S.R. 1135, which connects with the Mt. Pleasant Road some distance to the northeast and leads to Highway 268 at Ferguson.

It could inspire you to take a road trip, couldn't it? History is a treasure. It’s interesting enough in a book, but sometime this year, if not this month, I recommend finding some part of history you want to hold between your fingers. Reach out and touch it, so it never disappears.

--Laura
--------------------------------------
From: Lift Up Your Head, Tom Dooley: The True Story of the Appalachian Murder That Inspired One of America's Most Popular Ballads, by John Foster West.
Down Home Press, P.O. Box 4126, Asheboro NC 27204 ISBN:1-878086-20-0

don't bury me with my boots on

Man, I hate shoes.

This is a picture of my feet in their natural state, on a trip I took to Naples, Florida, possibly the retirement village of the eastern seaboard. They are completely naked, which is wonderful in and of itself, but they are also cooled by the soothing waters of the Lazy River at the timeshare we were staying in. We go there when the timeshare is nearly empty, we have the pool almost entirely to ourselves, and we pretend we do not work for a living. Are you jealous yet? I completely endorse the experience.

Anyway, with all the commercials you see of women sitting around cafe tables, giggling and oogling over some pair of shoes a friend got at a fantastic price, you can probably understand how the footwear admission might make me feel less than girly. In fairness, though I do have a few friends with closets full of more shoes than I could ever keep track of, I don't think we've ever gathered after a full day of shopping just to compare notes on what kind of deal we got on footwear. Here's usually how the conversation goes:

"Those are nice shoes! Where did you get them?"

"I found them at (insert store name here because no one is paying me for an endorsement)."

"I have good luck there too. I need to borrow those."

"I got them last week, only paid $18 for them."

"Wow, I need to stop by there."

And that's about it. Then we're onto other topics. I hope that doesn't shatter someone's image of what women actually talk about when they're alone, but for me, it's kind of a relief. Because when someone tells me they like my shoes, it's rare. Why? Because I find one pair and wear them until the sole is falling off and the sides are sagging. That's because the thought of going back out to WILLINGLY BUY something I hate is not a topic I enjoy. In fact, I sound much like a Republican talking about paying taxes while a Democrat is in office.

I have four pairs of shoes I wear on a regular basis. That's up from the usual two. I don't know exactly how many pairs I own, but it's less than 10. And there's a spot in my office where I can usually find them all. Do you know why I put them there and not in my room? Because I can't wait to get all the way to my room to get them off my feet. In fact, I usually take them off in the car once I have closed the door.

This isn't going to come to a surprise to my parents. I don't think I have ever liked shoes, even as a small kid. I guess being born on a pacific island could explain some of that. I had no need for shoes. And when I did (for example, when we moved to Missouri), I had to wear a wedge in my shoe for a while. A note to pediatricians: this is not a great way to introduce footwear.

Anyway, I suppose those things contributed to my distaste, but I'll be honest, I don't remember those things at all. I'm speaking in the present. I hate shoes. They are hot. They make my feet sweat. They mean it's time to go somewhere. They are uncomfortable. I don't care how many times you say you've found a comfortable pair of shoes; it's not really true. It means they are less painful and less binding than the last pair. It doesn't mean you want to be buried in them.

And by the way, my dad has said for years that he doesn't want to be buried with dirt on his face, so please cremate him. Here's my weird request. Don't bury me with shoes on. I can't imagine a worse way to enter the afterlife, stuck in a box unable to sit up and kick off my shoes.

Please, don't forget this. I want to meet my maker in the naked feet I entered this world with. Don't let me down.

--Laura

more on my trip

The last post I made about my trip mentioned signs, and the lack thereof. I want to elaborate on that observation, however.

In other, non-governmental, non-metallic ways, there were signs everywhere.

As I pulled into Colorado, I was hot and sticky. My less than stellar evening in Hays Kansas had made me a little grumpy, and after 2 coffees in two different McDonalds (where, by the way, they make you choose how much creamer and how much sugar you want in advance -- I hate that. Don't let a teenager open creamer and sugar into my coffee. Can't a person be in control of their own creamer and sugar? Is it a flipping crime to decide as you're making it? I'm just saying), I was ready for a break and time to stretch my legs. So I pulled into the Colorado welcome center. There on the lawn was a mini exhibit about Colorado birding trails.

I laughed out loud. How perfect was that? When your future plans call for birding trails and people to explore them, how nice is it that the state advertises for you, and for free? So I walked around. I practically took a shower in the restroom, and I signed the guest book. I dare you to drop by one time and see if my name's still there. I bet they haven't changed out that guest book in months, you'll have plenty of time.

I mentioned last time that signs are comforting, and they are. Maybe there are more logical ways to find assurance, like research and tests and trials and experiments. But aren't I doing most of that anyway? I want to give myself the best shot for success when I hit the road. So I'm reducing overhead, educating myself and getting the house spiffed up. Slowly but steadily, I am filling the financial hole I dug for myself and with each scoop I add, I'm standing on higher ground. Pretty soon I will be able to stand on level ground and spot all the things I've been missing. And while things might feel like they're going a little slow right now because most of my resources are targeting one area, when that task has been accomplished, I will be able to take off at rocket speeds.

So I'm not a person who shakes a talisman at a problem and hopes it resolves itself. When I figure out what I want, I can do more than yearn for it. I can plan. There are times when working for it may not feel worth the effort. At the moment, I think I may be the only person who wants me to do this. The most encouraging thing I get from my parents right now is, "Nothing that you're doing right now is bad." So for me, signs are comforting. They bridge the gap. If I had been driving through Colorado three years ago, before I had an idea of what I wanted to do, that bird exhibit would have meant little to me.

Now that I have direction, I find signs all along the way.

-Laura

I guess I didn't say much about my vacation. It feels like it was months ago right now, but since it's fun to go back and remember, I will.

There's something I noticed around the Longmont area that's different from here. I've traveled from Georgia to Alabama a lot in the past 10 years. My parents retired there and I go there quite a bit. Rural Alabama and Georgia are impoverished. There are pockets of well heeled areas - rolling hills and green pastures. Then there are broken down cars and buses in yards, and overgrown yards and other evidence of neglect.

By contrast, as I rode around Longmont, I didn't see much of that. I'm not naive. I know everywhere has such issues. But as I drove, as I walked, I had a refreshing experience. The roads were straight. Lines were clean. Farms were tended. And green.

But I will mention something to local residents. Perhaps you can take this up with the city council or something. There's a real lack of informational signs in your fair city.

Don't take it personally. I don't think there are enough informational signs in the state, period.

But seriously, Georgia? They're everywhere. Comforting brown signs with white lettering. They tell you what's coming up. They tell you where the points of interest are located. They tell you when to turn so you don't miss them. They have arrows on them even.

It's a good thing. Just think about it, okay? Just saying.

More later...

-Laura