Carrie
Dook
Willson’s Cove, North Carolina, June 2009
Dook, a hound of some various mixed origins, was the Seventh Dook of Willson’s Cove. Anytime someone came, he greeted the guests as royally as he knew how. He sniffed the feet of those he rarely saw and wagged his tail and barked as friendly as he could to those more familiar. He even let his fractional beagle ancestry shine in his lovely roar.
Today he was more excited than usual; more guests than usual. All this had begun eleven months before when Susan, one of his very favorite subjects, had brought a nice fellow to pay homage. The man had shared his ham sandwich.
Now there was promise of far more than a ham sandwich from the delightful scents coming from the casseroles being carried into the house of his dookdom. It was a wedding feast.
Chapter 1
Susan
Boone, North Carolina, July 2008
John “Mac” McBride, seventy-year-old retired surgeon, sat on the ground in front of Jones House,1 in Boone, North Carolina. Every sense in his being was focused on the haunting melody the petite lady with a mop of white curls was singing, unaccompanied by any instruments. She sang “Barbry Ellen.” He had never heard this version of the popular ballad before.
The pathos of her melody and rich voice brought goose bumps to his tanned arms. He couldn’t take his eyes from her. She sang another one that was equally beautiful: an old mountain hymn, “My Lord, What a Morning.” He ran his fingers through his gray-tinged sandy curls as if to ward off that morning of retribution.
Jones House hosted free concerts every Friday evening during the warm summer months. This evening, several groups were performing bluegrass, old-time music, folk songs, and ballads. The woman had played banjo and did vocals with one of the bluegrass bands. She was good on the banjo, but she was struggling, wiggling her fingers at every opportunity. Mac murmured, “Arthritis?” But now she was singing without the instruments.
“I want to meet this lady.”
The music went on for several hours. Audiences came and went as they wished, but if Mac hoped the woman would sing again, he would be disappointed. She didn’t. Later, when he looked behind where he was seated on the ground, she was seated on a blanket directly back of him.
Mac more than glanced at the woman. He watched how she twirled a snowy curl with a finger, absorbed in the music. She was apparently alone, although he noticed her blanket had room for two. He got up from his spot on the ground and went to where she was seated.
“May I join you?”
She shrugged and patted the blanket. “Sure. Plenty of room.”
“I never heard such a beautifully haunting sound as you gave us with your a cappella songs. Thank you. You made the program worth hearing. Oh, I’m Mac McBride from Macon, Georgia.”
“Howdy, Mac McBride. Thank you. Songs my grandpa taught me. I normally play the banjo when I sing, but my hands were cramping. Those songs do well without instruments. I am Susan Reese from Willson’s Cove, a little community west of here. What brings you to Boone?”
The music had changed from bluegrass to rockabilly. It was a bit difficult to hear each other over the booms and twangs, so Mac suggested going across the street to Our Daily Bread for a cup of coffee.
“Good idea. My ears are getting tired of the noise. They aren’t that good to begin with. My ears, not the music!” Susan laughed at her “punny.”
Mac offered to carry her banjo. Despite his stocky Scottish build, when he picked up the case, he understood why her hands must have been cramping while she played.
Susan saw him looking at her hands. “Yeah, a little bit of osteoarthritis in my right pickin’ hand.” She was otherwise very fit and looked younger than her sixty-nine years.
“This banjo’s heavy!” he said.
“Yes. I’m going to sell it. Too heavy for me with the resonator. I need a good old mountain “banjer” like my grandpa used to make.”
They drank decaf coffee, ate sandwiches, and talked without concern for the time.
“You here in Boone to get away from Georgia heat?”
“Partly. I just turned my surgical practice over to my son, Jack, a few months ago. I have always enjoyed vacationing here. In fact, back when the children were in their teens, we came up here for the Scottish Games on Grandfather Mountain. I’ve dabbled in the bagpipes and enjoy playing but not in public. Bob, my youngest son, tried bagpipes, but that was not his best talent either. He is a lawyer in Savannah now and good at that. The oldest son, Jack, the doctor, is a runner and runs the races at the Scottish Games.2 He was great in track and still comes here every July and runs. He was with me here last week with his entire family. Then Jessica, my daughter, well, she used to come along for the vacation, but she and her mother were more into the shopping. Ha. I doubt if you would ever see her at the Highland Games of her own accord.”
Susan shook her head, causing her white curls to bounce. “You know, I’ve lived here all my life and never went to the games. I love hiking at Grandfather Mountain, and I used to take my school students to the mountain every April when they have free admission for locals. We would hike, but I never went to the big festivities.”
“So you are a schoolteacher?”
“Retired. I taught at the little country school in the ’60s after I got out of college, but they closed the school. I got a job teaching here at Watauga High School then and taught till I retired in 2000. Wonderful career. I taught English and literature. I’ve been enjoying playing with our little string band ever since.”
Mac nodded. “I liked it. I’m not a great fan of bluegrass because it all seems to be the same, yet your band is a mix of bluegrass and old time.”
“You were a surgeon? What variety?”
“General surgery, appendectomies, gallbladders, stuff like that. Guess I did okay since I never got sued.”
Susan’s giggle reflected her perpetual youthfulness. “I guess that’s a good criteria.”
“And yes, this is partly a vacation and partly looking for a place to buy. I’d like to live here except for the real cold winter months. I still have my home in Macon, but Jack and his family are talking about moving in my place. They are outgrowing their home. It’ll be a good place for me to go when the weather gets cold, and even if they move in there, they’ll still have room for me.”
“Winter here isn’t that bad. It snows, the wind blows, it warms up in the daytime, and the snow melts. So where are you looking?”
