Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills, my home town, Florence.
Setting my mind on a musical instrument was like falling in love. All the world seemed bright and changed.
With a guitar I would be able to express the things I felt in sounds.
I hate to see the evening sun go down.
Nature was my kindergarten.
Saving was slow and painful.
I knew the whistle of each of the river boats on the Tennessee.
Whenever I heard the song of a bird and the answering call of its mate, I could visualize the notes in scale, all built up within my consciousness as a natural symphony.
In the South of long ago whenever a new man appeared for work in any of the laborers gangs, he would be asked if he could sing. If he could he got the job. The singing of these working men set the rhythm for the work.
If my serenade of song and story should serve as a pillow for some composer’s head, as yet perhaps unborn, to dream and build on our fond melodies in his tomorrow, I have not labored in vain.
You’ll never miss the water ’til the well runs dry.
The blues – the sound of a sinner on revival day.
My big ears indicated a talent for music. This thrilled me.
The name of my ailment was longing, and it was not cured till I finally went to the department store and counted out the money in small coins before the dismayed clerk. When I came to the house, I held up the instrument before the eyes of the astonished household.
Life is like a trumpet – if you don’t put anything into it, you don’t get anything out of it.