Some in my family say Uncle Sam was my salvation when I was a young man hell, maybe so, I don’t know but he kept me out of jail and paid for my education which is how I found myself in West Memphis, Arkansas surveying Indian mounds that some fool professors thought were put there by the Choctaw but I knew they’d got it wrong all along, it was the Mississippians which makes perfect sense if you think on it considering where they put ‘em but I digress, I must confess it was my fondness for backroad bars and blues guitars carved from wood of crosses burnt by drunks in hoods and strings plucked by calloused fingers of old men with shoulders slumped like sagging barns and Ford pickups you find out in them parts, singing songs about long gone women, all kinds of aching age old pains lingering enough to make a man’s heart rain until the US Army Corps of Engineers blew the levy’s to send those tears out across cotton fields and mounds I know the Choctaw didn’t build.