So, There I was… making a lightning fast raid on the state of Texas. Sixty hours in and out. I was on roads new to me, in an unfamiliar car, late at night. My compadre and navigator was an 89 year old blind man. But that was alright, because his grandparents were buried nearby, and he was directing me with a memory sharp as a Bowie knife, and by an alignment with the spirits of his ancestors. Our stated purpose was a two-day singing. Sacred Harp -Shapenotes, that is. The heavy metal of the antebellum era. Songs of death and resurrection, sung acapella in four parts, at deafening decibels. The parts face each other around a hollow square. Every singer takes a turn calling their tune and leading from the middle. If the Basses outnumber the Trebles, you can get blown sideways. The Sing, with mid-day suppers on the grounds, was being hosted by worthy locals from a Primitive Baptist Church, out past the Plum Creek bottomland of my buddy’s uncle’s farm - where he caught his firs
