Page 31 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“Exactly,” she says. “Not everyone thinks that way. Most people cut corners these days. But you? You take pride in your work. That’s rare.”

It’s not something I’ve ever really thought about before. Back on the farm, it was always about getting the job done as fast as possible—plow the fields, mend the fences, milk the cows. No one cared if it was pretty; they just needed it functional.

But this? This is different. Every cut, every screw, every measurement feels intentional. Like I’m building something that matters—not just a deck, but proof that I can create something out of nothing. Something that lasts.

“I’m not sure if you were born to be a musician or a carpenter,” she says.

I smirk. “Me either.”

“The crowds keep getting bigger,” Aggie says. “Had three people ask last night if you’ve got any recordings.”

The compliment is an ego boost. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm.” She sips her lemonade. “Might be time to think bigger than The Hollow Log.”

“I think I still have a lot to learn,” I tell her. “Jinnie helped me arrange the song list. And I’m learning how to put the guitar down and just sing.”

“I don’t think you need to be too polished,” she says. “You do you. That’s what people like.”

Before I can respond, her phone rings. She glances at the screen and groans. “Damn it, Ricky.”

“What did you break this time?” She answers the phone with her frustration evident.

As she disappears inside, still berating whoever’s on the other end, I finish my sandwich and get back to work. I really do want to finish this project. But I can’t stop thinking about what she said. About me looking for something bigger than The Hollow Log. The idea sticks in my brain as I work.

Can I do that? Record something? Play actual venues?

I shake it off and keep working. I feel my phone vibrating in my back pocket. I finish drilling in the last screw and pull it out. I shield the screen from the sun to see the screen.

My stomach drops.

Dad.

I consider sending him to voicemail, but then I worry about my brothers. What if they got hurt?

I stare at it for three full rings before answering. “Hello?”

“When are you coming back?”

No hello. No how are you. Nothing. Just his usual gruffness.

“I’m not,” I answer.

A beat of silence. “This nonsense has gone on long enough. The farm needs—”

“The farm has Michael and Caleb,” I interrupt.

“Not enough,” he grumbles. “You need to get your ass back here. You’ve played this little game long enough.”

“I’m doing fine on my own. It’s not a game. I’m doing what I want to do.”

“Which is what?” The disdain in his voice is palpable. “Playing that damn guitar in some backwater bar?”

“Making more money than I did at the hardware store,” I shoot back. “And people actually like what I do.”

Dad snorts. “That’s not a career, boy. That’s a hobby. You’re ruining your life.”

The words hit like a physical blow. I force a laugh, though it comes out more like a growl. “Says the man who’s never left his shitty little farm.”