The Ballad of Curtis Loew

I didn’t think I would ever talk about Curtis Loew again. He was like an old nudie magazine. One that you tucked away in the furthest corner of your closet. You were ashamed of it, but it was something that you didn't dare let go. Folks around town would talk about him in hushed tones. He was an urban legend to many, a ghost story or even more. Only a few people knew the true story of Curtis Loew, and I was one of them. I suppose that’s why I was filled with so much dread when my two grandsons asked about my old dobro guitar. I also suppose it’s only fitting that my grandkids were probably the only people on earth who would be able to get such a tale out of me.

“What’s this, Pappy?” the youngest asked. He was always the chattier of the two, curious just like his mother. “Sometimes when we’re up in bed, we here you playing it out on the porch late at night.”

“Well, Jeb, that right there is one of the finest pickin’ guitars a man can create. I suppose only God could create a finer instrument.”

“Who gave it to you?” his brother Lou asked, wrestling it from the grip of his sibling.

“Well . . .” I hesitated, unsure of how to explain my relationship with Curtis Loew. “He was someone I met when I was a little older than you, Lou, and he made that guitar sound like the sweetest thing your ears ever heard.”

“Really?” asked Lou, trying to pluck at the strings with his tiny fingers. “It doesn’t sound very good, Pappy,” he muttered.

I had to laugh. While Jeb might have been the mouthpiece for the two of them, Lou had the quick wit that I was proud to have passed down.

“Well boys, it takes a special man to play an instrument like that, and Mr. Loew was certainly a special man.”

"What made him so special? Was he a magician?" asked Jeb.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but he sure had something special about him. I think that’s why I kept on to that hunk of metal.”

“How come he gave it you?” Lou asked quietly, studying the pictures on the fretboard. The guitar itself was of remarkable craftsmanship. The metal was inlayed into the wood and it still shined like it was brand new. The part that Lou was studying featured pictures of serpents and musical notes, all intertwining with each other up and down the fretboard. It didn’t take any appraiser or expert to know that this instrument was one of a kind.

"I don't think your mother would appreciate me telling you boys such a story. It's not a happy one, and the only thing it'll do is get me yelled at by your mother when you boys can't fall asleep tonight."

“Oh please, Pappy! We promise we won’t tell Ma anything, and we ain’t scared of nuthin’! Me and Lou even stay up sometimes and watch the Friday Fright Flick sometimes when she falls asleep.”

Lou punched his brother in the arm, clearly not pleased that he let out their little late-night movie secret.

I chuckled. “Well, I suppose it’s a tale worth telling somebody. But you need to promise me that you won’t tell a soul, ya hear?”

“Yes, Pappy,” they said in unison.

It took me a few moments to get started. Getting the words to come out of my mouth was kinda like startin’ up an old boat motor. It might take a few tries to get things goin’ but once it started up there was no stopping.

* * *

I suppose it started way back when I was about 10 years old. Growing up in southern Alabama in the 1950s, you quickly learned that things weren’t as easy as they were now, especially if you were darker than the folks around you. These days youngsters will complain about not having a phone to take with them to grade school. Back then, even the thought of asking for an allowance would have left me with a sore behind and a deep laugh outta my momma’s belly. No sir, a black man had to work twice as hard and for half the pay, which is why I learned at an early age the importance of hard work.

I suppose I can thank that worth ethic for introducing me to Curtis Loew. It was in the dead of summer and I was usually left to entertain myself during those days. My mother was working as a seamstress, so she’d shush me and my older sister out of the house every morning as the sun came up. Shortly after, my sister would head to a friend’s house, leaving me to fend for myself.

I quickly learned that for a colored child living in southern Alabama, there’s not much to do that’s both free and legal, so I needed to come up with some way to get money. It wasn’t until I overheard two white boys talking about collecting bottles for money.

“Yeah! I made 60 cents just yesterday. Mr. Jenkins at the old convenience store outside of town will give you a nickel for every bottle that you trade.”

“Hot damn! Just for bottles? That’s just free money lying around,” the other boy said.

“Exactly! I made a ton of money just from saving our bottles at home, and can you imagine how many people just throw them away?”

The two boys didn’t know it, but they’d just made my summer one to remember. Making sure to keep out of their way, I started walking around town with a burlap bag. I had an advantage, mostly because I wasn't afraid to get dirty. That summer I think I spent more time in dumpsters and garbage pails then I did at home. As the sun would set, I'd head on over to Mr. Jenkins and trade in the bottles I'd found throughout the day. Mr. Jenkins was a negro himself and was always happy to see me walk through his doors.

“Now that’s what I like to see young man,” he said, showing what few teeth he had left. “A young fella looking to put in a hard days work.”

Some days he’d even “miscount,” slipping me an extra nickel every now and then. For the first few weeks, I spent my money as soon as I got it, buying everything from ice cream to comic books, making sure to hide my earnings from my mama. For the first part of that summer, things were as sweet as peas and carrots. However, in the middle of July, my summer would certainly become one to remember.

It all started as I was making my way to Mr. Jenkins’ shop. It was hotter than a pan frying in hell that afternoon and the bottle clinking in the bag behind me was gonna get me something nice and cool to drink. I was imagining the cool, sweet taste of a Coca-Cola when I heard music coming from the front of Mr. Jenkins’ store. On the porch sat a colored man who had dark skin and white hair.

“Dark like us, Pappy?” Jeb asked.

I smiled. “Oh, he was much darker, little one; he was as black as coal.”

Curtis sat in an old wooden chair that was usually kept behind the counter inside. On his lap sat an old steel guitar, and his hand flittered over it like crows on a Sunday morning. The sound coming out of that instrument was like nothing I had ever heard before. Old Curtis knew how to treat that instrument like a lady, running his hands up and down it as it let out some of the most beautiful sounds my ears ever did hear. For a few minutes, I sat on the bottom step with my sack of bottles resting in my lap as Curtis played on and on. In the heat, you could see the sweat drip off the tip of his nose and land in the middle of the guitar, but Curtis kept playing and playing. After a while, a few of the other colored kids joined me on the steps to hear Curtis Loew play. Before you know it, he had a crowd of about a dozen children listening to his music, while the white folk walking across the street shot ugly glares in our direction.

Listening to Curtis’ music changed something in me that day. It felt like something inside me had finally been poked and prodded enough to wake up. There was something about that toothless smile and callused fingers that made me want to become a musician like Curtis Loew.

“Is that when he gave you the guitar?” asked Lou.

“Now, boy, just let me get to that part,” I scolded.

For the next few weeks, I’d always made it a point to take a few minutes to listen to Curtis playing his tunes. Rain or shine, you could always count on him sitting in that old wooden chair with that dobro rested across his lap. He’d be playing as I walked by him with my empty sack and the sun coming up, and he’d be there as I turned in my findings for the day. It took me a few weeks to realize what was so peculiar about this man.

He had a way of staring right through you. Not in an intimidating way; in a way that showed he was taking everything in. When people would compliment his playing, or toss a nickel into the old straw hat that sat in front of him, he’d offer a small nod and a “God bless” or “thank you, kind soul.” It wasn’t until he rose from the chair one day and proceeded to feel his way to the restroom at the back of the store that he realized something. Curtis Loew was a blind man.

“Who is that man?” I asked Mr. Jenkins one day.

“That fella goes by the name of Curtis Loew,” he said as he counted out my payment. “He’s the finest guitar player I’ve ever heard.”

“Where did he come from?”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, son. One day he just showed up on the porch and started playing, and the sound that came from that guitar was so beautiful that there’s no way I could tell him to leave. I like to think that God sent him here to give us a little taste of what those angels sound like when we pass on.

“How can he play guitar if he can’t see?”

“Well, I suppose that’s like asking how a squirrel can find his stash of nuts after a long winter, or asking how a rooster knows exactly when to wake up. Sometimes things just happen cause that’s how God intended them to be.”

Many of the children who would sit and watch Curtis Loew would never dare approach him. In fact, many looked at him warily, feeling uncomfortable if his foggy eyes fell upon them. Not me, though. There was nothing I wanted more than to learn how to play that dobro like him. Eventually, I waited until Mr. Jenkins was ready to close shop when I approached Curtis Loew for the first time.

“Can I help you there. boy, or are you just gonna stand there shuffling your feet?” he asked, turning his attention to me.

“Sorry, I . . .um . . .I just wanted to say that I really like your guitar playing.” 

For a few moments, I just stood silently to one side of him, trying to figure out what to say and worried that I might startle him.

"Well thank you, son," his milky eyes looking right at me. "This here instrument is often misunderstood, much like us colored folk.”

“How’d you know I was colored?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Welp, I’ve been here about four weeks now and no white folk have bothered to tell me what time it is, so I think I can make a pretty good guess. Anyways, this guitar is something special. In the olden times, the plantation workers would play this after a hard night’s work while sipping homemade moonshine. Go on, give it a look,” he said, handing me the dobro.

I took it in my hands and suddenly I felt like I knew this man my entire life. All at once it was like he represented the generations of my family, and this guitar was simply the ripe apple that fell from our family tree. The way the body of that instrument glinted in the sun and the way the tense, coiled strength of those strings felt, I knew that I was holding not just a guitar, but a weapon and way to express someone like Curtis and me.

"Thank you, sir. I think that your playing is beautiful,” I said.

“Well, son, I appreciate that. It takes a kind soul to shine a light through all of the darkness in the world.”

“Have you always been . . .you know . . .”

“Good lookin’?” he asked with a laugh. “Naw I’m just teasin’. Yes, sir, I've been blind since the day my mama had me. Luckily, it doesn't take no eyesight to play this here dobro," he said, punctuating his words with a little diddy on his guitar.

“What kind of music is that?” I asked.

“Well, some people like to call it the devil’s music. But me, I just call it the blues.”

“The blues?”

“Yes sir, sometimes the blues is the only thing that can cure whatever ailment you got. When my father was done pickin’ cotton for the day, he’d play on this here guitar and it got him through to the next day. There ain’t no man, woman, or god that can keep you down if you got the blues to see you through.”

At that moment his hand reached out and grabbed my wrist. His hand was hard and callused from playing, and for a moment I wanted nothing more than to pry his hand off of mine.

“You must remember that, son,” he whispered. “You’ll always have the blues.”

I never did tell my mama about that day. I knew the only thing I’d get was a smack on the behind and a strong scoldin'. That night I lay in bed, rubbing my wrist and thinking about those milky eyes that Curtis Loew had. He had seen nothing his entire life but yet had the ability to see what every colored person went through during that time. He didn’t need no eyes to see that people like us weren’t welcomed by everyone in that town.

I wish I could say that everyone appreciated Curtis Loew's gift, but he began to draw more and more glares and grumbling from some of the white folks in town. While many of us called him the pied piper of the porch, or the music man, some of the other folks in town called him things much worse. The words they used would sting like a whip across the back of us all.

Looking down at the two boys, I said, “Now you two will face some hardship in your lives just for the color of your skin. In many ways, you both are just like Curtis Loew. As you grow older you begin to see that there are some people in the world that just don't want you to succeed, you hear me?"

They nodded.

“Now, when Curtis Loew first showed up in our little town, people wanted him to pack up that guitar and go back right where he came from.”

“Was he a bad man?” asked Jeb.

“Well, many would have you believe that. In fact, the only time my momma ever slapped me was when I told her that I talked to Curtis Loew.”

“You don’t ever say that man’s name in this house,” she said after whooping me one good upside the head. “That man is nothing but trouble and he certainly isn’t someone that I want my boy hanging around with.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said, “But you boys know yourself that at your age, even your mama can’t tell you what to do and what not to do, so for the rest of the summer I spent a good amount of my money on listening to Curtis Loew play the blues.” 

“Now like I said earlier, boys, not everyone was a fan of Curtis Loew and that dobro. In fact, towards the end of the summer, some of the folks around town began showing their displeasure a little more openly. I remember walking by the white church with my mama and hearing the hushed whispers about Curtis Loew and his audience.”

“That negro is playing devil music and he’s got a bunch of little heathens following him around like he’s some kind of leader,” said one lady.

“I heard he’s been flirting with some of the young white girls. The sheriff really needs to do something about it,” said another.

I prayed that they wouldn’t recognize me as we walked by. Luckily after years of hearing hushed whispers and dirty looks, mama didn’t seem to hear anything they had to say.

During the last week of August, Curtis Loew disappeared from the front porch of Mr. Jenkins’ store.

I first noticed a bunch of younger kids milling out on the porch steps.

“Where’s Curtis Loew?” I asked a young boy with curly hair and a cleft lip.

“We don’t know. He wasn’t here this morning and nobody’s seen him since yesterday.”

“I heard the sheriff came and locked him up for stealing little girls,” one piped up.

“Oh shut your mouth, Andy, you’re just spreading rumors,” snapped another.

“I heard he just disappeared into thin air like some kind of ghost or something,” said someone else.

I shook my head and made my way into the store as more outlandish and elaborate rumors began flying amongst the crowd.

“Hey there, Mr. Jenkins,” I said as I clanked the bottles on the counter. “Where’s Curtis Loew at?”

“Son, that's a question I've been asking myself all day," he said.

“Do you know where he might go?”

“Welp, I know he rented out an old hunting shack that sits right off the trail out back. You might wanna start there.”

I took my handful of nickels and headed out the back of the store. To be honest, I never knew there was a trail here. Kids would come out to the woods to play cops and robbers and fool around with their girlfriends.

The trail had over grown, but it only took a few steps in before I could see the roof of a small shack up ahead. Outside the door sat a pair of boots and a walking stick I'd seen Curtis use before. My heart dropped as I got closer. I assumed that anyone in there would have heard the crunching of leaves or the creaking of the steps. The door was cracked open so I decided to at least let myself in and look around.

You could almost touch both walls by spreading your arms out, and the shack itself was only about the length of one and a half cars. Although it was bright outside, the trees combined with no lighting in the cabin made it awfully hard to see. I tripped over something as soon as I walked in the doorway and it made a loud "clang.” I realized it was Curtis’ dobro. I was startled a second time when I looked at the corner of the room and saw a figure sitting on a small bench. The shape seemed to be holding something and whispering fiercely.

“Hello?” I said, feeling my knees knocking together.

I slowly picked up the dobro, figuring whatever it was, I was gonna get a one upside the head if it came near me. I felt fear, but it wasn't just my own fear. I could feel fear coming from the shape in the corner. To this day I still don't know how to explain it. While I was afraid of this thing, I also knew exactly how it was feeling. We were connected by this fear. I didn't know what to do, so I banged the bottom of the dobro on the ground. The sound echoed through the tiny shack and the figured tensed up but remained sitting on the bench, whispering a little louder now.

I crept closer and finally got a better look at the figure. I saw the shock of white hair and knew that it was Curtis sitting hunched over on the bench. His hair was matted to his forehead and his undershirt was soaked with sweat. I recognized the dark leather and the gold writing on the book in his hand and immediately knew he was holding a copy of the Bible. He had his eyes closed and his hands were rifling through the pages as his whispers grew louder.

“Mr. . . .Curtis . . .Mr. Loew, are you okay?”

“And we shall rise above the fire. The angels will come and the shadows will be devoured in the light. A new day is upon us and the true followers will rise above the ashes of the damned. I must wait. I must wait. I must wait to be called to my God. I must wait. I must wait!” His voice grew and his hands gripped the Bible as he looked to the sky.

A scream caught in my throat as his milky eyes finally fell over me.

"Mr. Loew, what's wrong? Why aren't you at Mr. Jenkin's playing guitar?"

“Boy, you best leave this place as soon as you can. There’s evil in this world and it’s gonna suck you down before you know it. For awhile the music’s the only thing that kept em’ away. There’s a reckoning coming, my boy. You best stay inside for the next few days. You take that dobro and leave here. Not this cabin, not these woods; leave this town. The devil’s in these parts and I can smell him coming. You leave here and don’t turn back.”

“But what will you do?”

“Boy, I said leave!” he screamed, his eyes no longer cloudy. Instead, they became suddenly clear. The whites of his eyes shone in the room and his dark brown eyes seemed to smolder like burning coals.

I took that dobro and ran back down the trail just as the sun was setting. I didn’t tell a soul about that night until now, so you boys best consider yourself lucky. That night your Pappy saw a change occur in a man that nobody should ever witness. I saw Curtis Loew finally begin to see clearly, and he saw evil on the horizon.

Jeb and Lou had been quiet that whole time, mouths agape and the guitar pushed a few feet away from the both of them.

"Ah, I knew I shouldn't have told you boys this story. Now y’all are gonna be up all night hollerin’ for your ma and I’m gonna catch hell the next day for scarin’ you two.”

“N-n-no, Pappy, we want to hear the rest of it,” said Lou.

"Yeah, Pappy, tell us," Jeb said while staring at the dobro. "What happened to Curtis Loew after that?"

"Well, that night I ran home and hid that guitar under my bed. In fact, I'd hide that dobro for the next 10 years. I knew that I didn't have the money to afford an instrument like that, so I'd only get a butt-whoopin’ if she saw it. Instead, I’d pull it out when nobody was home and pluck a few strings, just to hear those sounds that Curtis Loew made.”

“No, Pappy! We want to know what happened to Curtis Loew after you left his place,” said Lou.

“Ahh, I'm getting to that. The tale isn't over yet, and it only gets darker from here, so I don't wanna hear no fuss later tonight. Your pappy don’t like recallin' this memory anyway."

The next day I spent the day inside the house. There was something about that night that pulled a fog over the rest of the town. That day my mama stayed home from work and when asked she only replied, “Today is a good day to stay home, boy, and that means you, too. You go on upstairs and clean your room."

The day passed with an eerie silence in the air. My mama and I passed each other like two ghosts, quietly moving about the house. We ate dinner in silence and then I headed to bed.

I dreamt of Curtis Loew that night. In the dream, I was surrounded by fire, but I wasn't scared. Curtis Loew had a callused hand gripping my arm and held the dobro in his other hand. He was smiling. His white teeth glowed and the fire flickered in his eyes as he began singing an old church hymn.

Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod,

Felt in the days when hope unborn had died;

Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet,

Come to the place for which our fathers sighed?

It was so hot, though. As the temperature rose, so did Curtis’ voice until he was screaming over the roar of the fire. The dobro seemed to emit music although it hung loosely in one hand. The dobro cried, Curtis sang, and the fire roared.

I woke up with my mama shaking me awake.

“Son! Wake up now! Wake up! There’s a commotion going on. Get dressed.”

I peeled myself off sweat-soaked sheets, still unsure whether I was dreaming. I could hear yelling off in the distance, and the sound of Curtis Loew singing was still stuck in my head.

“C’mon, my boy. Get a shirt on,” Mama urged.

We made our way out of the house and joined a few neighbors who were also walking towards the commotion. The smell of smoke hit me and I immediately found myself shivering. That familiar smell had invaded my dream shortly before.

“Mama, what’s going on?” I asked.

“Shh, just be quiet. It looks like there’s a crowd of white folk over at Mr. Jenkin’s shop.”

As we got closer, I saw smoke billowing from the shop. We made sure to avoid drawing attention, so we stood in a cluster with some of the other neighbors back in the shadows. We could see the outlines of two dozen men who had all gathered in front of the shop, with the sheriff standing a few feet in front with a rifle in his hand.

“Come on out, Jenkins. We know you’re hiding that coon in there. We don’t wanna hurt you, but we’ll burn this whole place down if you’re not willing to cooperate,” the sheriff yelled.

“For the last dang time,” said Mr. Jenkins from somewhere in the shop, “He isn’t here! I haven’t seen him for the last few days.”

“What do they want with Curtis Loew?” I whispered to my mother.

“I don’t know, son. My grandaddy always said, ignorant men fear what they don’t understand,” she replied, with her eyes trained on the sheriff.

A shadow emerged from behind the shop.

“Fellas, I believe you’re looking for me. I don’t think you need to punish Mr. Jenkins or his lovely shop here. If it’s me you’re looking for, well, here I am,” he said bowing like a ringmaster. Gone was the sweating, feverish looking man I saw the day before. Instead, Curtis Loew wore a beautiful black and white suit. Even in the dim light of the fire, I could see that his hair had been combed down and neatly parted in the middle, and in his hands, he delicately held the same Bible.

“Now, fellas,” he continued. “I know your kind of people. There always seems to be a group in every town that doesn’t like the blues. Whether it’s in Gainesville, Memphis, or Selma, you men seem to really have a problem with old Curtis playing the blues.”

The sheriff cocked his rifle before placing it on his shoulder and taking a shaky step forward. "We want you gone, Mr. Loew. We'll give you thirty seconds for you to get on your way, or we'll take this matter into the hands of the law. We've got enough of your kind living in this town, and the last thing we need is you inciting riots and all kinds of bedlam in the streets."

Curtis took a step forward, idly flipping through the pages of the Bible. "Now is that any way to treat a fellow God-fearing man? The Lord does say that we should love thy neighbor, and that's certainly no way to treat your neighbor now is it, Mr. Sherriff? I’ve been to many o’ town playing the blues, and it seems like you folks fear the power of music. I’ve seen how you cast dirty glances when you can hear my brothers and sisters singing in the church, and I certainly know that you’re not a fan of ol’ Curtis Loew singing the blues. I’m here to tell you that the blues is the only thing keeping you alive. There’s evil in those woods, and the blues and the power of God is the only thinking keeping the darkness from creeping through your doorways.” 

“The only thing that’s evil in this town is you, boy, and if I don’t see you heading back the way you came, we’re gonna string you up in them guitar strings so you won’t be making music anymore,” said the sheriff.”

Curtis Loew shrugged. “Well, I suppose you can’t help everyone.”

Curtis began muttering to himself while his fingers ran over the Bible. The wind picked up and his hair grew more and more ruffled, along with his clothes.

“I’m gonna give you to the count of three before you get a bullet right between the eyes,” the sheriff said, taking a step forward.

“One.”

“I’ve done what I can, Lord,” Curtis said, arms open, screaming into the sky.

“Two.”

I’ll never forget the sensation of my mother gripping my arm as we witnessed what happened that night.

“Have mercy on the ignorant, Lord, spare the pure-hearted souls in this town,” Curtis Loew screamed as tears rolled down his face.

“One.”

Curtis let out a guttural scream. I strained to see what was going on past the crowd. The outline of Curtis seemed to be convulsing, shaking back and forth like some sort of violent dance. The sound of his suit jacket ripping pushed gasps out of many in the audience. Suddenly, two black wings sprouted from Curtis Loew’s back, and he hovered above the crowd.

“I tried to keep the evil at bay, but you folks won’t have none of it. May God have mercy on the souls of the good, and may the sinners spend their eternity repenting for the evil they have allowed to invade this town.”

He flapped his wings hard, two times, before shooting up into the sky and disappearing. The crowd stood around whispering to each other.

“Good riddance,” one said. “That evil creature won’t come back if he knows what’s good for him.”

Others held hands and prayed, taking Curtis Loew’s last words to heart.

My mother and I walked home that night and made a silent vow never to speak of what we saw that night. The town quickly fell into an uneasy peace for the next few weeks. Curtis Loew slowly faded from a piece of a reality, into a legend that was twisted and passed on for years. However, as soon as the fall weather hit, the weather grew much colder than it should have been that time of year. The crops died out before they could even provide a harvest, and three children disappeared between Halloween and Thanksgiving. Although nobody would say it, Curtis Loew had left, and evil was slowly moving into town.

"What happened, Pappy? Did Curtis Loew come back?" asked Lou, bringing me back to the present.

“Well, son, you were asking me about that guitar there, so why don’t you hand it over and let me tell you why it’s so important.”

Lou slid over on his butt and handed me the guitar.

Like I was saying, things around town were getting darker by the day. With no crops and missing children, many families were already packing their bags and looking to leave town, especially the white folk. Even my mama started asking around if there were any places a woman could find a job in nearby towns.

I stayed in bed that night with my stomach growling, thinking about where on earth we was gonna go. I also thought about Curtis Loew. To many, they saw the devil himself leave town, but to me, I saw an angel trying one last time to save this town. I rolled over and grabbed the guitar from under my bed. It seemed to glow in the moonlight and as I traced my fingers over the intricate pattern of the fretboard, an idea struck me like a hard smack on the behind.

I crept outside with that dobro tucked under my arm and sat down on the porch. The beautiful instrument rested on top of my knees and I heard the quiet scrapes as my hands glided over the strings. Up until then, I'd have to say I don't think I had a single musical bone in my body, but that night something changed. My fingers flew over that dobro and I made that thing sing for the heavens. I closed my eyes and it was like God was moving my hands for me. Out of that instrument came my sadness, my anger, and my joy. My body was warm and I smelled my mama’s homemade potpie. I tasted fresh-squeezed lemonade and I could hear the birds singin’. Playin’ that dobro felt like I was running my hands over the most beautiful woman in the world.

When I opened my eyes, my mother and a few of my neighbors were standing around me with tears in their eyes. My mama raised her hand and I braced myself for a good smack, but she took my face in her hands and kissed my forehead.

“You’re shinin’ now, boy,” she said. “You’re showin’ God’s gift. You let that shine drive that evil right out of here.”

And shine I did. I went out there every single night and eventually, the missing children started turning up, and the crops seemed to spring to life. That there dobro was an instrument of God, and it’s kept this town safe since the day Curtis Loew came to town.

"But whatever happened to Curtis Loew?" asked Lou, still staring in awe at the instrument.

“Well, boys, I wish I knew for sure. I’d like to think that God had other plans for him, and he knew there was someone in this town that would take his torch and keep the evil out. What I do know is one thing: Curtis Loew was the finest picker to ever play the blues.”