Short Story Analysis: “The Displaced Person,” by Flannery O’Connor, Post #1

This is the first of three posts on Flannery O’Connor’s short story, “The Displaced Person.”  In my commemorative post of the 100^th anniversary of O’Connor’s birth, I mentioned I would be posting on this story.  In that post I also delved into O’Connor’s essay, “The Nature and Aim of Fiction” where O’Connor provides her aesthetic philosophy to writing fiction.  I will touch on that aesthetic philosophy in this post as it applies to “The Displaced Person.”

What compelled me to read “The Displaced Person” was the issue of immigration that has arisen in the past few months with the Trump administration.  Someone posted that this story captures the Catholic view on immigration.  So I pulled out my Flannery O’Connor: The Complete Stories and opened up to “The Displaced Person.”  If you don’t have a hardcopy version and wish to read it, there is an online facsimile in PDF of the entire book.  You can find it here,  and “The Displaced Person is on page 205 in the PDF format.  (Be aware, the hard copy page numbers don’t exactly match the PDF version.)

Published in 1955, the setting of “The Displaced Person” is roughly contemporaneous to the writing.  Immigration was certainly in O’Connor’s news since Eisenhower’s mass deportation program of Operation Wetback began in June of 1954 and ran through the summer into September.  This was a mass deportation of Mexican illegal immigrants but the reality was that legal immigrants and even American citizens of Mexican descent were confused.  In all, over a million people were deported.  Let me apologize up front for the slurs that will run through this essay.  I am just articulating the language of the story and the times and it has nothing to do with my personal language or characterization.

O’Connor’s story takes place at the southern farm of a Mrs. McIntyre where she has a poor white family, the Shortley’s, and several African-Americans as the long time paid help.  Mrs. McIntyre, a widow, takes in an immigrant man with two children from Poland from a government policy to integrate immigrants.  The setting is shortly after World War II, and so Poland has experienced a large number of displaced and poor people.  The farm has struggled to break even, and the long time help is either lazy or incompetent.  The Polish immigrant, a Mr. Guizac, the displaced person, is just the opposite. He is a workaholic, very competent, and capable of fixing all the farm equipment.  His family has been displaced by the Nazis in Europe and are now refugees.  An American Catholic priest has sponsored the immigrants and had them placed with Mrs. McIntyre.

Why does O’Connor make the immigrant from a European background rather than what would have been more likely a Mexican background?  It’s hard to say.  The Wikipedia entry on the story says that O’Connor’s family had hired such an immigrant from Poland.  But she changes so many other aspects of the situation that making the character Polish goes beyond personal experience. Perhaps she was trying to not link it with the political issues that would have been circulating around her.  Perhaps she was making the immigrant more exotic to American readers.  Perhaps she was trying to eliminate contemporary prejudices that had been built up over time with American-Mexican relations.  Perhaps she selected an ethnicity that white Americans could more easily identify with.  What is important is that she picked a Catholic ethnicity, though Mexican and Polish would have sufficed there.

The story is divided into three sections.  The first section is told from Mrs. Shortley’s point of view.  The story opens with the car that brings the Guizacs to the farm.  There is an immediate sizing of the immigrants and placing them into categories. 

 

Mrs. Shortley recalled a newsreel she had seen once of a small room piled high with bodies of dead naked people all in a heap, their arms and legs tangled together, a head thrust in here, a head there, a foot, a knee, a part that should have been covered up sticking out, a hand raised clutching nothing. Before you could realize that it was real and take it into your head, the picture changed and a hollow-sounding voice was saying, “Time marches on!” This was the kind of thing that was happening every day in Europe where they had not advanced as in this country, and watching from her vantage point, Mrs. Shortley had the sudden intuition that the Gobblehooks, like rats with typhoid fleas, could have carried all those murderous ways over the water with them directly to this place. If they had come from where that kind of thing was done to them, who was to say they were not the kind that would also do it to others? The width and breadth of this question nearly shook her. Her stomach trembled as if there had been a slight quake in the heart of the mountain and automatically she moved down from her elevation and went forward to be introduced to them, as if she meant to find out at once what they were capable of.  (p. 196)

 

Pagination throughout are taken from the hardcopy Flannery O’Connor: The Complete Stories, Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, New York, 1971.

“Gobblehooks” is Mrs. Shortley’s way of slurring “Guizac.”  What we see is a predisposition to assume characteristics on the stranger.  Mrs. Shortley doesn’t think the Guizacs will last but to her shock, he outworks her husband and the long time hired help.  Mrs. McIntyre, at first skeptical of the newcomer, is now thrilled.

 

Mrs. McIntyre sighed with pleasure. “At last,” she said, “I’ve got somebody I can depend on. For years I’ve been fooling with sorry people. Sorry people. Poor white trash and niggers,” she muttered. “They’ve drained me dry. Before you all came I had Ringfields and Collins and Jarrells and Perkins and Pinkins and Herrins and God knows what all else and not a one of them left without taking something off this place that didn’t belong to them. Not a one!”

(p. 202)

 

In time, Mrs. Shortley began to feel insecure about her future at Mrs. McIntyre’s.

 

Mrs. McIntyre had changed since the Displaced Person had been working for her and Mrs. Shortley had observed the change very closely: she had begun to act like somebody who was getting rich secretly and she didn’t confide in Mrs. Shortley the way she used to. Mrs. Shortley suspected that the priest was at the bottom of the change. They were very slick. First he would get her into his Church and then he would get his hand in her pocketbook. Well, Mrs. Shortley thought, the more fool she! Mrs. Shortley had a secret herself. She knew something the Displaced Person was doing that would floor Mrs. McIntyre. “I still say he ain’t going to work forever for seventy dollars a month,” she murmured. She intended to keep her secret to herself and Mr. Shortley.

 

“Well,” Mrs. McIntyre said, “I may have to get rid of some of this other help so I can pay him more.”

 

Mrs. Shortley nodded to indicate she had known this for some time. “I’m not saying those niggers ain’t had it coming,” she said. “But they do the best they know how. You can always tell a nigger what to do and stand by until he does it.” (pp. 207-8)

 

But Mrs. Shortley realizes that getting “rid of some of the help” will eventually include her and her husband.  Part 1 concludes with the Shortleys leaving the farm before Mrs. McIntyre lets them go.  If we step back here, we realize that the Shortleys have become displaced people as well.

Part II is mostly told from Mrs. McIntyre’s point of view.  She surveyed the farm and saw how well it’s being run by Mr. Guizac.  She conversed with one of the African-American help about Mr. Guizac.

 

“We seen them come and we seen them go,” he said as if this were a refrain.  “But we ain’t never had one before,” he said, bending himself up until he faced her, “like what we got now.” He was cinnamon-colored with eyes that were so blurred with age that they seemed to be hung behind cobwebs.

 

She gave him an intense stare and held it until, lowering his hands on the hoe, he bent down again and dragged a pile of shavings alongside the wheelbarrow.  She said stiffly “He can wash out that barn in the time it took Mr. Shortley to make up his mind he had to do it.”

 

“He from Pole,” the old man muttered.

 

“From Poland.”

 

“In Pole it ain’t like it is here,” he said. “They got different ways of doing,” and he began to mumble unintelligibly.

 

“What are you saying?” she said. “If you have anything to say about him, say it and say it aloud.”

 

He was silent, bending his knees precariously and edging the rake along the underside of the trough.

 

“If you know anything he’s done that he shouldn’t, I expect you to report it to me,” she said.

 

“It warn’t like it was what he should ought or oughtn’t,” he muttered. “It was like what nobody else don’t do.”

 

“You don’t have anything against him,” she said shortly, “and he’s here to stay.”

 

“We ain’t never had one like him before is all,” he murmured and gave his polite laugh.

 

“Times are changing,” she said. “Do you know what’s happening to this world? It’s swelling up. It’s getting so full of people that only the smart thrifty energetic ones are going to survive,” and she tapped the words, smart, thrifty, and energetic out on the palm of her hand. Through the far end of the stall she could see down the road to where the Displaced Person was standing in the open barn door with the green hose in his hand. There was a certain stiffness about his figure that seemed to make it necessary for her to approach him slowly, even in her thoughts. She had decided this was because she couldn’t hold an easy conversation with him. Whenever she said anything to him, she found herself shouting and nodding extravagantly and she would be conscious that one of the Negroes was leaning behind the nearest shed, watching.  (pp. 215-6)

 

We see here is the distant world of the stranger intruding into the familiar world of the farm.  Mrs. McIntyre can say “times are a changing;” they seem to be changing for the better for her.  She likes what the displaced person has brought over.  But the African-American, like Mrs. Shortley, feels insecure in the face of a worker who works for less and does so much more.  Mrs. McIntyre is looking for an opportunity to acquire more displaced people from Poland and then be able to let go the African-American farm help.  If this should happen, then the African-Americans become displaced as well as the Shortleys.   The “times are changing” is happening outside the farm as well.  The story is within the time span of the northern migration of African-Americans (1910-1970) known as the Great Migration.) They too will become displaced and searching for work in what is almost a different country up north.  Interestingly, Bob Dylan in 1964 came out with a song, “The Times They Are a-Changin'” which captured the social volatility of mid twentieth century. 

Sunday Meditation: The Bread of Life, Do You Want to Leave?

So last week Jesus completed Hid Bread of Life Discourse, and now will respond to their reaction.  Let’s summarize first.  On the Seventeenth Sunday of Ordinary Time, we had the “sign” of Jesus’ divinity, the supernatural power to feed the multitudes, a precursor of sorts.  On the Eighteenth Sunday, we had the first part of the Discourse on the Bread of life, connecting Jesus with the Manna from heaven.  On the Nineteenth Sunday we have Jesus saying that He is the living Bread.  On the Twentieth Sunday, Jesus concludes His discourse telling us His flesh is the Bread of heaven, and that you must eat His flesh and drink His blood to have life.  Today there is a conclusion, or an epilogue if you will.  On the Twenty-First Sunday, Jesus makes clear it is not a metaphor and does not stop the listeners from leaving Him.

 

Many of Jesus' disciples who were listening said,

"This saying is hard; who can accept it?"

Since Jesus knew that his disciples were murmuring about this,

he said to them, "Does this shock you?

What if you were to see the Son of Man ascending

to where he was before?

It is the spirit that gives life,

while the flesh is of no avail.

The words I have spoken to you are Spirit and life.

But there are some of you who do not believe."

Jesus knew from the beginning the ones who would not believe

and the one who would betray him.

And he said,

"For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me

unless it is granted him by my Father."

 

As a result of this,

many of his disciples returned to their former way of life

and no longer accompanied him.

Jesus then said to the Twelve, "Do you also want to leave?"

Simon Peter answered him, "Master, to whom shall we go?

You have the words of eternal life.

We have come to believe

and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God."

~Jn 6:60-69

 

Oh, again, Bishop Barron gives the best exegesis of this passage.    

Bishop Barron I think is the only one I have come across that touches on the Ascension in Verse 62.  If Jesus were to rise to heaven right in front of you, would you not believe?  But He doesn’t.  He will save that for later.

One verse that Bishop Barron does not touch on is on verse 63: “It is the spirit that gives life, while the flesh is of no avail.  The words I have spoken to you are Spirit and life.”  Some critics take this as proving Jesus is indeed speaking as His body and blood being a metaphor or symbol.  When Jesus says the “flesh is of no avail” and it is “the spirit that gives life” He is not referring to His flesh and spirit.  He is referring to your (or the apostles’ there) flesh and spirit.  What He is saying is that His body and blood will give your flesh life by infusing your spirit.

 

Sunday Meditation: "Do you also want to leave?"

 

But it always has struck me as Jesus putting them to the test in a way that doesn't fully reveal the full understanding of the Eucharist.  What if Jesus explained that they will be eating His body and blood under the accidents of bread and wine?  What if He explained it's only the substance of His body and blood they will be eating, not the accidents?  The accidents will remain something non-revolting?  Would everyone have left?  Maybe, maybe not.  It's only at the Last Supper that the full understanding of this passage will make sense.

Since Bishop Barron mentioned the Bob Dylan song, “Gotta Serve Somebody,"” this will be our hymn for the day.

Literature in the News: The 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature Goes to …Who??

I thought this was a joke at first, but it’s true.  The Swedish Academy that selects Nobel Prizes has had some quirks over its life, but this takes the cake.  If you haven’t heard, this year’s winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature—yes, Literature—is none other than Bob Dylan.  From NBC News:  

Bob Dylan was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature on Thursday.

The 75-year-old music legend was cited by the Swedish Academy for "having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition." He will receive a prize of $927,740.

Born Robert Allen Zimmerman on May 24, 1941, Dylan became a prolific songwriter and penned some of the most influential anti-war and civil rights anthems of the 1960s' counterculture. They include "Blowin' in the Wind," "The Times They Are a-Changin" and "Subterranean Homesick Blues."

He has also had an enormous impact on other artists of his generation and beyond, writing songs that would later be covered by music legends ranging from Jimi Hendrix to Adele.

I’m not denying that Bob Dylan has had a large cultural impact, but is song writing literature?  When music and lyrics come together to form a vocal piece, it’s the music that defines the work, not the lyrics.  The lyrics are a secondary matter.  Take opera for example.  The author of an opera is the composer, not the librettist.  We know Le nozze di Figaro as a Mozart opera.  Opera buffs would know that the librettist was Lorenzo Da Ponte, but even here that’s a special case.  Da Ponte served as Mozart’s librettist for a few of Mozart’s great operas, so he became famous in the opera world.  But Mozart had other great operas without Da Ponte and no one knows who the librettist were for those.  How much did Da Ponte contribute in making those operas with Mozart great?  Well, no one knows any of the operas Da Ponte wrote for other composers.  No one knows the librettists for Giuseppe Verdi’s great operas.  Or Rossini’s.  Or Pucini’s.  Or just about any other opera. 

The article goes on to say that Dylan’s songs are poetry:

Sara Danius, permanent secretary of the Nobel Academy, told a news conference Thursday there was "great unity" in the panel's decision.

"Bob Dylan writes poetry for the ear," she added. "But it's perfectly fine to read his works as poetry."

Now I’m not saying that lyrics are not important to a song.  It’s the lyrics that usually construct the melody.  Take for instance Dylan’s song, “Rainy Day Women.”  Here’s the first verse and chorus from MetroLyrics:

 :

Well, they'll stone you when you're trying to be so good:

They'll stone you just like they said they would

They'll stone you when you're tryna go home

Then they'll stone you when you're there all alone

But I would not feel so all alone

Everybody must get stoned

The verse part of the melody “They’ll sto-o-ne you when you’re try-y-ing to be so goo-ood” is created by (1) the rough meter of the line, (2) the vowel length of the words, and (3) a stretching of three words in the line, “stone,” a word just before the final foot of the line (trying, said, tryna, there), and final word of the line.  Then the chorus part of the melody still keeps that three stretched words, but the line is shorter and now he shifts the first stretched word from the second word slot to the first: “But” and “Ev.”  Here’s the song if you want to hear it.

The point is the lyrics are important to the song but not in the way they are in poetry.  The words are selected not according to verbal innovation but by commonplace.  To be stoned for not following the rules is actually cliché.  The whole song is a cliché, so that the interest in the song is in the articulation, not the language.  Notice also that Dylan occasionally starts a verse with “Well” or the chorus with “Tell you what” and “yes.”  Those are what I call verbal ticks that communicate attitude.  They would be meaningless in poetry.  Notice too the chuckles and tones in his voice as he articulates the song.  Those are elements of songwriting and oral communication, not literary poetry.  The formulaic repetition of each line simulates a chant.  Poetry would be boring with repetition like that, but because of the articulation and melody, it holds musical interest.  And I would put to you that the majority of Bob Dylan’s songs contain more interest as a ditty and not as poetry.

Now that doesn’t mean that there aren’t Dylan compositions where the lyrics could stand alone as poetry.  There are some.  Here’s one, “All Along the WatchTower.” 

There must be some way out of here

Said the joker to the thief

There's too much confusion, I can't get no relief

Businessmen, they drink my wine

Plowmen dig my earth

None of them along the line know what any of it is worth

No reason to get excited, the thief, he kindly spoke

There are many here among us who feel that life is but a joke

But you and I, we’ve been through that, and this is not our fate

So let us not talk falsely now, the hour is getting late

All along the watchtower, princes kept the view

While all the women came and went, barefoot servants, too

Outside in the distance a wildcat did growl

Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl

It still highly “songish,” mostly because the line forms a standard verse form, but there’s a lot of interesting lines and imagery here to make it poetry.  Here is a fascinating exegesis of the song:

Yes, it still comes down to the song elements that enrich the song, but here I feel confident to say that the poetic elements are of a high caliber here.

Those two songs represent the extremes, a highly songish composition and a highly poetic composition.  How many songs are closer to the poetic side?  I find very few.  He has a body of work of great songs, but they are songs, not poems.  Yes, he’s got some lines in songs that are poetic, but a line or two does not make a poem.  For him to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature is a poor understanding of the distinction between song and poetry.  The Swedish Academy really botched it. 

So what exactly separates music lyrics from poetry?  I see at least three things.  First, music lyrics rely heavily on formulaic, repetitive structures.  Poetry has structure too, but nowhere near the level of structure of music.  I don’t believe it’s a coincidence that as music has become recordable and mass produced that poetry in opposition has become looser and less form dependent.  Second, music lyrics rely on common phrasing, if not clichéd phrases.  Music requires the listener to identify with the lyrics in order for the artistic experience to resonate.  Commonplace language does that.  Clichés are antithetical to poetry.  Third, music relies on oral articulation and, most important of all, the musical experience to carry meaning, There are jazz, rock, and classical songs with just a handful of enigmatic words but where the music makes the piece whole, gives it unity, completes the meaning.  Those words alone are fragmented nothings, but the music gives it coherence.  Music lyrics rely on the music to give it coherence, where poetry can’t rely on anything but the words on the page.  The more a song relies on these three elements, the more “songish” I call it, and the less poetic it is.  For the most part, I find Dylan’s work to be more songish than poetic.

That is not to say that I dislike Dylan’s songs.  I love his songs.  He’s got a below average singing voice, he’s a mediocre guitar player, and a poor harmonica player, but his songs are great!  How come?  Because he’s a great composer.  Though not particularly virtuosic, he’s a great song writer.

Might as well give you another, one I really loved as a teen.

Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship

My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip

My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels

To be wanderin'

I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade

Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way

I promise to go under it.

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to

Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me

In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Source: <a href="http://www.elyrics.net/read/b/bob-dylan-lyrics/mr.-tambourine-man-lyrics.html">click here</a>

What do others think?  Literature or song?  Should he have received the Nobel Prize?  What are your favorite Bob Dylan songs?

Music Tuesday: Bob Dylan Appreciation

Several weeks ago Bob Dylan was honored as person of the year by a charitable music organization called MusiCares.  But it was his acceptance speech that had everyone riveted and mesmerized.  From the Billboard article, “Bob Dylan Dazzles MusiCares Gala With Bold Speech”: 

Dylan, who often shies away from speaking during his concerts, took the stage at the Los Angeles Convention Center late Friday night after President Carter introduced him with praise that his words "are more precise... and permanent than anything said by a president of the United States."

Onstage, Dylan was in the mood to pay homage. "Right from the start, my songs were divisive," he said, going on to name those who supported him early on: the songwriter Doc Pomus, label owner Sam Philips, Buck Owens and Kris Kristofferson. He also mentioned those who'd been in the opposite corner: Ahmet Ertegun, Leiber and Stoller, Merle Haggard and "the critics" who fault his singing style but, according to Dylan, give a pass to Tom Waits, Leonard Cohen, Lou Reed and Dr. John.

It was a speech that Dylan traced his musical heritage and honored his predecessors that influenced him. 

Dylan traced the roots of some of his better-known songs to numerous traditional folk songs, noting that his work blossomed from his spending so much time playing the traditional works. "John Henry" begat "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall." Big Bill Broonzy's "Key to the Highway" led to "Highway 61 Revisited." "Roll the Cotton Down" birthed "Maggie's Farm." "The Times They Are A Changin'" is an extension of what Dylan referred as the "come all ye" songs such as "Floyd Collins." From "Deep Elm Blues," a traditional song recorded by blues artists in the 1930s, sprang "Tangled Up in Blue."

"There's nothing secret about it," Dylan said.

Mostly, Dylan wanted to make a singular point about music and great songwriting, whether he was referencing the work of gospel legends the Blackwood Brothers, folk legend Roscoe Holcomb or bluesman Charley Patton. "Voices are not to measured by how pretty they are,"  Dylan said, quoting Sam Cooke. "They're to be measured by whether they're telling the truth."

Dylan’s speech was supposed to have lasted 35 minutes and while I can find a few clips of it on youtube, apparently the whole speech wasn’t posted.  At least not yet.  However, the transcript f the speech is posted and it really was a breath taking speech.  I urge anyone interested to read here.  Here’s a section I found fascinating.

I'm glad for my songs to be honored like this. But you know, they didn't get here by themselves. It's been a long road and it's taken a lot of doing. These songs of mine, I think of as mystery plays, the kind that Shakespeare saw when he was growing up. I think you could trace what I do back that far. They were on the fringes then, and I think they're on the fringes now. And they sound like they've been traveling on hard ground.

And further down he elaborates:

I learned lyrics and how to write them from listening to folk songs. And I played them, and I met other people that played them, back when nobody was doing it. Sang nothing but these folk songs, and they gave me the code for everything that's fair game, that everything belongs to everyone. For three or four years all I listened to were folk standards. I went to sleep singing folk songs. I sang them everywhere, clubs, parties, bars, coffeehouses, fields, festivals. And I met other singers along the way who did the same thing and we just learned songs from each other. I could learn one song and sing it next in an hour if I'd heard it just once.

If you sang "John Henry" as many times as me -- "John Henry was a steel-driving man / Died with a hammer in his hand / John Henry said a man ain't nothin' but a man / Before I let that steam drill drive me down / I'll die with that hammer in my hand."If you had sung that song as many times as I did, you'd have written "How many roads must a man walk down?" too.

And he goes on like that tracing early folk and country and western music and connecting them to his songs.  It’s absolutely fascinating.  I’m not going to give any further examples, so if you have any interest in Dylan’s music or the history of American music, it’s amust read.

While for the most part Dylan showered gratitude in his speech, but every so often he took shots at his critics who claim he can’t sing and can’t play music.  Now let me add here that while fior the most part I like Bob Dylan’s music, I too have been critical of his virtuosity. His guitar playing is simple and basic, his vocals are crude, and his harmonica playing is the pits.  There are those that claim his songs are poetry, and I bristle at that.  His lyrics, if you remove them from the music, do not rise to poetry.  Sorry he is not a poet.  But he is a great song writer.  No one can take that away, and I want to highlight a few of my favorite Dylan songs as an appreciation of the man and his music.

For me “Mr. Tambourine Man” is the prototypical Bob Dylan song.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

 Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to
 Hey ! Mr Tambourine Man, play a song for me In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

“Lay Lady Lay” is such a romantic song, and not exactly what you think of when you think of a Bob Dylan song.

Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bedLay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bedWhatever colors you have in your mindI'll show them to you and you'll see them shine.

 Lay, lady, lay, lay across my big brass bed Stay, lady, stay, stay with your man awhile Until the break of day, let me see you make him smile His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean And you're the best thing that he's ever seen.

And let’s not forget that Bob Dylan had a religious conversion and had a number of religious songs.  “Gotta Serve Sombody” is  probably his best religious song.

You may be an ambassador to England or FranceYou may like to gamble, you might like to danceYou may be the heavyweight champion of the worldYou may be a socialite with a long string of pearls.

 But you're gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed You're gonna have to serve somebody, It may be the devil or it may be the Lord  But you're gonna have to serve somebody.

And I’ll end with a song with a nice touching song, “Girl from the North Country.”  I'll post the entire lyrics of this one.

If you're traveling the north country fairWhere the winds hit heavy on the borderlineRemember me to one who lives thereFor she once was a true love of mine.

 If you go when the snowflakes storm When the rivers freeze and summer ends Please see if she has a coat so warm To keep her from the howlin' winds.

 Please see if her hair hangs long If it rolls and flows all down her breast Please see for me if her hair's hanging long For that's the way I remember her best.

 I'm a-wonderin' if she remembers me at all Many times I've often prayed In the darkness of my night In the brightness of my day.

 So if you're travelin' the north country fair Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline Remember me to one who lives there She once was the true love of mine.