Among the first songs I remember hearing are the hymns my great-grandmother sang: “I’ll Fly Away,” “Do Lord,” “I Am Bound for the Promised Land.” Doubtless I had heard other hymns before these, and still others with greater frequency, but to this day when I think of hymns, it is my great-grandmother who comes to mind.
Her name was Elmay (pronounced “Elmy”). She lived in a holler in West Virginia, on land owned by the company for which my great-grandfather dug coal. We would see them twice, maybe three times, a year, once at their house on Thanksgiving, and at least once at my grandparents’ place in Nashville, where they visited for a couple of weeks each summer.
I was the first of the fourth generation of the family, and, being the oldest by several years, spent considerable time with my great-grandmother, much of it alone. I liked her. She was very short, and I suspect her height had much to do with my affection for her. Grownups were tall, which meant removed, but from an early age, she and I were within range.
Her blue eyes were big and blurry behind thick bifocals. Her hair, once blonde, had thinned
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