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Next Msg   - Jun 18 17:03 (beale) My origens, part II

Date:    Jun 18 17:01
From:    beale
Subject: My origens, part I
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Hell, that is where I grew up.  No, not the place where the Wileys
roam, but in the black mud of the Mississippi Delta.  When Daddy
 was not stoned and taking our food money to buy crack, Moms was
whoring around with the local sherriff, the bartender, or anyone
else who would either bring her a trinket or give me a whipping
for her.  The only solace I had was my Pappy.  My grandfather may
not have been a good father to Daddy, but to me he was great.  I
could escape our shack and head on over to his.  He would sing me
old Skip James tunes and play the harp and the guitar for me. 
Robert Johnson had nothing on him.  

At the age of 14, I made my move.  Pappy gave me his guitar and a
bus ticket.  I made my way out of there and got all the way to
Chicago, as far away from hell as I could imagine.  Well, I was
off by a few miles.  Times were tough for a kid on the city
streets.  I made enough money for food and a room by picking and
singing on the streets, and by alleviating tourist of their
wallets. After several years of getting in and out of trouble with
the law, my whole life changed.

Then I met her.  

I still can’t speak her name without crying, but I can tell you
she was the sweetest thing I have ever known.  I met her while
playing for tourists near the lake one summer. She was supposedly
there to visit relatives, but I know she was really brought there
to meet me.  This girl was the incarnation of kindness, compassion
and beauty.  I had finally found the one and only for me.  At the
end of the summer, she was to go back to New Hampshire for school.  

She made new plans.

We were only 19, but we were going to get married.  Not one of
these, ‘one day we will get married” things, not “wait until you
are older” but we were getting married right away.  She headed
back east to work with her mom on planning the wedding, I stayed
in Chicago to find us a better apartment.

I did not see her again.

I had not heard from her since she got on the Greyhound and blew
me that sweet kiss through the window.  It had been almost two
weeks, and I know something was wrong.  Had she changed her mind? 
I knew that couldn’t be it, but my stomach and throat did not.

Then I saw him.

Her grandfather, whom she had come to visit, was waiting at the
end of the pier.  I did not like the look on his face.  “She is
gone,” he said.  While back home, some punk carrying a switchblade
had dexided that he liked the way she looked.  I don’t want to
recount how she died, but I can tell you that the mental images of
her death are forever burned into my memory.

Thinks went black after that.  I travelled alot, hoping to
distract myself.  I wound up on the streets of New Orleans in a

daze.  I felt the weight of my battered guitar case on my back.  I
felt the wieght of the world on my shoulders.  I felt the
throbbing in my head and the lump in my throat.  I did the only
thing I knew to do ... I played..  I played and moaned without
singing.  No words could come to my lips. 

In the window of a nearby shop there was a painting.  It was of a
chaotic looking woman with topsy turvy hair of silver and purple
dye, mostly blonde-brown.  It was here eyes that captured me.  As
I played my box and moaned my wordless grief, her eyes seemed to
be boring into my soul.  Those eyes seemed to move.  Word s
finnally came.

I got a letter this morning, how do you rekin it read
It said hurry, the gal you love is dead
I said  I got a letter this morning, how do you rekin it read
You know it said hurry, hurry hurry, because the gal you love is
dead


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