c. 2026 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(8-26)
T. C. Lincoln had lived long enough in the rural squalor of Evergreen Estates that his ability to perceive joy and sorrow on the level of a typical human being had been compromised. After so many years of wallowing in an environment of poverty, alienation, social decline, and chaotic relationships, he had been transformed into a lifeless lump of clay. Literally unable to experience common emotions that were once part of his personal makeup. He had not laughed loudly, or been moved to shed tears, in longer than he could remember. Each day was simply a slow crawl from his dirty, disintegrating mattress, into the kitchen, his back bedroom, and finally, the front porch. He was nearly always drunk by the afternoon. That fog of bourbon was his salvation. It formed a barrier between his conscious mind, and the junkyard atmosphere that surrounded his plain, singlewide abode.
Yet on a Tuesday, as news of Dolly Parton having passed circulated throughout the civilized world, he felt a drip of sadness ebb from his reddened eyes.
The old recluse had never been one to fixate on celebrities or cultural icons. He paid no attention to awards shows, star-studded events, or over-hyped promotional appearances. But the name of that Tennessee figure resonated with unique importance, in his thoughts. As someone also born of an Appalachian bloodline, he felt connected with the noted recording artist and entrepreneur. She had been authentic in a way now seemingly lost as part of the American experience. And her ability to transcend boundaries of all sorts, lines of color, creed, gender, social standing, and politics, was a quality he adored and respected.
With a wash of Jack Daniel’s dampening his gray beard, the contrarian hermit whispered a prayer for her transcendent spirit, and family members that survived.
“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”
On a wall near the entrance to his bedroom, a framed poster still hung in tribute to the legendary performer. One that had been autographed during a visit to Pigeon Forge. It was a relic of yonder days when the alcoholic loner had been married, busy as a parent, and active in pursuing career goals. All things that were mystical from a modern perspective. He could barely remember the embrace of his wife, or her gentle kisses in the morning and at night. The regular routine they had enjoyed vanished with the inevitable passage of time, along with a descent into petty disputes and consternation.
He could still recall how she had pleaded for a reset in their relationship, once the son they had raised was safe and on his own.
“Let’s get away from all of this! Dump our responsibilities, live for ourselves, and forget about working to make other people rich. Our love is worth more than money! More than silver and gold, and any currency we can spend. I believe in God, and I believe in us! What do you believe, Link? Open your heart and tell me the truth!”
He had gambled on promotions and advancement as his fuel to go forward. That choice would eventually seal his fate with company reorganizations, buyouts, and new ownership. In the aftermath, he found himself bankrupt, alone, and abandoned. Marked for what he had done with good intentions and bad judgment.
Still, the music of his mountain queen retained its healing power, and vitality.
While sipping whiskey amid a buzzing of seasonal insects, and the roar of rusty vehicles on parade down his street, he revisited familiar lyrics that were loose in his head. Words written with the tenderness of someone who came of age in the midst of natural beauty, and the humble traditions of a simpler age.
“Today as I was walking
In the fields just down the way
I sat down on a fallen log
To pass the time away
And as I looked around me
The more that I did look
the more I realize that I am viewing
God’s coloring book
I saw a golden ray of sunlight
A silver drop of dew
A soft, white floating cloud
Sailing across the sky ‘a blue
A yellow dandelion
Pretty evergreen
And some red and orange flowers
Growing wild along the stream
And the more I look around me
And the more that I do look
The more I realize that I am viewing
God’s coloring book...”
Contact with anyone from his previous adventures was rare. In a sense, he willfully avoided confronting those memories, in favor of being negated and erased as a person. It was a safer strategy than meeting those truths, face-to-face. Less challenging than gazing into a mirror of introspection and self-analysis.
He received little comfort from neighbors, friends, or relatives, after crashing at the trailer enclave in northeastern Ohio. But the hillbilly songstress who had inspired so many with her own journey still touched his spirit with grace. That example of pure spirituality, a oneness with Mother Earth and all of her children, continued to endure. It gave him a feeling of hope when there was no other cause to celebrate still being alive. Even upon hearing that her own walk of faith had finally been completed, while in the flesh.
That gift of music and wisdom had been enough to carry him forward.
Lincoln fell silent, as the sunset drew near. Around the isolated park, signs of decay were evident, nearly everywhere. Gravel strewn over the cracked pavement. Weeds popping out of crevices in between slabs of concrete. Bins of trash that were neglected and full. Broken windows mended with duct tape, porches built from pallet wood, yards teeming with dog waste and rubbish.
Abandoned pickup trucks and cars, in driveways along the avenue.
But as he slid deeper into a state of inebriation, the shaggy bum listened to a livestream of classic tunes on his cell phone. Selected tracks being played in tribute, for the one who had finally gone home to her creator, in the cosmos.
The aging rebel felt hollow inside, with his butterfly heroine having departed. And yet, bolstered by a sense that she would never actually be gone. Because of what she bestowed with the magic of her birth, and rise to prominence. A voyage that took her around the globe, and back home again. All of us were able to bear witness to that miracle as it happened.
He repeated the prayer offered before. But this time, in a more serious tone of reverence.
“She is with you now, Lord. Take care of her in eternity. And let her sing to all the angels in heaven...”
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