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A couple years ago I wrote a song based on a family history story about my fourth great grandma, Martha Elvira Sanford Craw, out in Pioche, Nevada back when it was one of the wildest towns in the west. The song was called “Burnout,” and it told the story of Martha, her 2 daughters, and an “uncool” guy named Frank. Frank had been dating both of Martha’s daughters without the other knowing.
Eventually both girls separately confessed to their mother that they had become pregnant. When pressed for more information, the girls each revealed Frank to be the father of her unborn child.
When confronted, Frank refused to take any responsibility, and immediately “ghosted” the two young women (as the kids today would call it).
Martha wasn’t keen on letting Frank get away with his crimes against her daughters, so she waited until he was gambling on a cold winter night, rode her horse out to his ranch, and set it aglow with kerosene and a few matches. Frank got home to find his whole ranch all but destroyed. With almost nothing to salvage, and a damaged reputation, he sold what little he had left and moved to Montana.
Writing “Burnout” was easy for me. So much of it had already been recorded in story form by another one of my ancestors. I didn’t have to dig for scraps and pieces and put them together. I remember feeling awkward the first time I played it for my mom on the living room floor, but a few days later, I simply read the lyrics out loud to one of my classes of students. We could all hear the rhythm in the chorus, just from reading the words aloud, and the class was captivated by the story. I knew that once I settled into singing it, it was going to be a decent song.
Every time I have performed it since, it has been well received by the crowds. Occasionally with people, especially grandma’s, yelling through the crowd, “Go Martha!” or “Get him, Martha!” Or my favorite, “You go, grandma!”
So, once I got a taste of the power of a good family history story, I decided I could do it again.
I dug through my family history and remembered a story I’d once done a report on in grade school. My 2nd great grand-uncle allegedly shot the sheriff before going on the run as an outlaw.
His name was Jim Mickel, and you may run across his name in books like The Outlaw Trail. Or in lists of fugitives that hid out at Robbers Roost.
This story was long, complex, and though there are half a dozen versions of it in my family history, there are also bits and pieces strewn throughout newspapers, recorded in the Sheriff’s family history, and passed down as almost a sort of family legend at the family reunions. It was harder to condense Jim’s story into something succinct, and even after of revision, and “murdering my darlings” as they say, it’s a roughly 8 minute song.
Still, when I sat down, and hashed it out, the words and music came together nicely, and I was satisfied with what I had produced. It’s never been as popular with the crowds as “Burnout,” but I’ve always felt that it takes a special kind of person to get it. Someone who is patient, and who appreciates the complexity of certain stories.
But I told you this story was about a song I almost gave up on, and it is. Two summers ago, I started work on a song called “One Black Sheep.” It’s the story of Andrew Aagard, the husband of one of my distant ancestors. He was an interesting man who helped start the sheep business in Fountain Green, Utah, which eventually contributed to saving the town from economic crisis.
In the early days, Andrew had traded a pocket watch for a black sheep that birthed twins almost every spring, allowing him to grow his herd quickly.
Andrew was good with money, a hardworker, and though he didn’t care much for giving handouts, he wouldn’t hesitate to lend a hand to anyone. If you wanted to borrow money from him, you had to prove you knew how to manage money, and it was unlikely he was going to give you a loan. But, he would lend his sheep out to new sheepherders for breeding and teach them how to build their business.
He would give his grandchildren a quarter on their birthdays, but when one granddaughter didn’t say thank you, he took the quarter back.
He was known for giving money to each of his children and grandchildren to attend school, but when one grandchild revealed they hadn’t set aside any money of their own savings, he refused to pay for any schooling.
Once, a man came to him for a loan, and instead he encouraged him to find a job and work his own land. Nevertheless, when Andrew died, his family went through his finances at the mercantile he owned. In a box full of tabs, receipts and other documents, they found dozens of tabs that were simply labeled “do not collect.” Although he wasn’t known for handing out money, he did know when to forgive debts for those in need.
There were countless stories about Andrew and his hardworking attitude, his prudence with money, and his willingness to share knowledge and skills with others. I wanted to capture him in a song, so I started writing. The chorus came to me almost immediately. Here is an early draft:
At one point, I was so frustrated that I nearly slammed my guitar in my case, and I swore up and down that I was never going to write a song again. I told my mom I’d given up on the song, and I left it alone for months.
Nearly a year from when I’d written the chorus, I started a music recording class, and I was required to write and record a song. I picked up “One Black Sheep” again, but eventually abandoned it in hopeless frustration and wrote a song called, “Dear Editor” instead.
Then, one day, my grandpa called and told me he’d spoken to some common relatives about how I was writing a song about Andrew Aagard. He wanted me to come play it for the Senior Citizens lunch in Moroni, Utah, as some of Andrew’s other relatives would be in attendance. I told him I hadn’t finished the song, and I didn’t know if I could. Several family members encouraged me to give it another try.
Below, you can watch and hear the final recording. I’m so glad I didn’t give up on the song. Some songs come easy, others take work and a whole lot of time. Sometimes we write bad songs and throw them away, but my advice is this: just keep trying.
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