Click on the headline to link to a YouTube film clip of The Carter Family performing The Girl From The Greenbriar Shore.
Song lyrics to Girl On The Greenbriar Shore:
'Twas in the year of '92,
In the merry month of June,
I left my mother and a home so dear
For the girl I loved on the greenbriar shore
My mother dear, she came to me
And said 'Oh son, don't go, '
'Don't leave your mother and a home so dear
To trust a girl on the greenbriar shore '
But I was young and reckless too,
And I craved a reckless life
I left my mother with a broken heart
And I choosed that girl to be m' wife
Her hair was dark and curly too
And her loving eyes were blue;
Her cheeks were like the red red rose
The girl I loved on the greenbriar shore
The years rolled on and the months rolled by
She left me all alone
Now I remember what mother said
Never trust a girl on the greenbriar shore
Joshua Lawrence Breslin comment:
My old friend Peter Paul Markin (always known as Pee-Pee and not that odd-ball Peter Paul thing like some old time yankee Brahmin was getting ready to crash on his damn Irish-driven head and he needed their two name protection) recently sent me some old Bob Dylan bootleg stuff (christ, who knows what numbers in the series. It will take eons to unravel all the out-takes, remakes, fakes, flakes, and just plain thefts that guy has in his storage vaults that will keep the dwindling number of aficionados going on and on for many years after his demise). That grab bag included his version (really a few changed words and hence prima facie evidence for that theft comment) of The Carter Family’s The Girl From The Greenbriar Shore (which they probably stole from some poor Saturday night hay barn gee down in the hills and hollas of Kentuck, or those environs).
Listening to the lyrics of that song though reminded me of my own green briar girl, my crazy head over heels, run away from home, run away from everything for, Dorothy Donnelly. Let me tell you about it if you have a minute, and maybe a tear. No, forget the tear I went into that thing with my eyes open, wide open. Just listen, okay.
I grew to young manhood up in Olde Saco, that’s in Maine, shoreline Maine, ocean-fronted Maine, down by the shore and everything is alright southern Maine around Portland. I also, for you that know (or knew) the demographics of that neck of the woods, grew to that young manhood despite the surname in a serious French- Canadian American (F.A.s, hereafter) household and neighborhood, you know, the people that made the textile and paper mills run up there before times got tough, real tough right after the war (World War II). Part of that francophone upbringing was an incredible devotion by my mother to the church, the Gallic Roman Catholic Church, for the unknowing. And he passed on that intense devotion on to her children, including me. But it also included, since I was the only boy and the presumptive man of the house if anything happened to my father, kind of coddled, ma coddled. Don’t leave your mother in the lurch sonny boy coddled. And plenty of my high school friends were too.
Part of that coddle was that I would not “leave the faith,” would not leave Olde Saco (really not leave Breslin home), and get this, not marry outside of the French-Canadian community (no heathen Irish or English especially) after I graduated from high school. Yes, mother, yes, mother dear.
Then I met Dorothy Donnelly, jesus, did I meet Dorothy Donnelly. The summer of my junior year in high school I was working a lifeguard job at Point Of Pines over at the far end of Olde Saco Beach where all the heathens gathered (Ma talk) for their summer of fun and frolic. (The F-A’s, local slang, especially those vacationing from Quebec gathered down near the pier, amusement park, bars, and shops.) Now my guard post, all authority and tan, all red swimsuit and safety pak, was down toward the jetty that swung out toward the Saco River where the lobster boats worked the inner seas. In a little cove, just a little sliver of land really, most of the younger girls (young women if you insist, but chicks, really in the terminology of the day), the younger heathen women hung out looking, well, girls, young women, or chicks, looking beautiful especially to one non-heathen F-A (in red trunks).
One day I spied this girl, this real fox, although from a distant she looked, well F-A, kind of slender, long brown hair, nice legs, and no bosom, ya, definitely F.A. What’s more she was looking at me, well, kind of, I found out later. I waved at her and she waved back and then I walked toward her. Oops, definitely not F.A., no way F.A. but still with everything else I just mentioned, except I forgot to say that hair was more reddish than brown, and I forgot to say that come hither smile she gave me every time I asked her a question. Irish, Irish to the core, no question.
Naturally any sixteen year old guy, F.A. attached to Ma or not, was going to work his magic on such a fox and see what happens. Of course all bug-eyed I did not pick up on the fact that she (1) was staying with an aunt because of some “vague” problems with her family back home in Marshfield down in Irish Riviera Massachusetts and (2), she had a “kind of ” boyfriend back home. So I plunged ahead and asked her for a date, she said yes, and we were off. Off to Seal Rock a couple of nights later in her aunt’s car. Now for the uninformed Seal Rock (not its real name) is named that because that is where every local “hot” couple went to “watch the submarine races,” a local term for, hell you know, doing it, the thing, sex, whatever that might turn into and “seal” the deed with names chiseled on the rock. (You know, by the way, as well as I do, or you should, there have been no submarine races off Seal Rock since about 1942 when somebody though they saw a German U-Boat offshore and all hell broke when it turned out to be some maiden voyage thing for some sub from the Bath Irons Works, chirst)
Well it didn’t take long to go crazy over Dorothy, about another week. And she seemed wild about me too, or gave that impression. One night, one deep Seal Rock night she said, flat out, “Let’s go over to New Hampshire and get married (sixteen, actually younger, I think was the legal age to get married then there).” I was so perfume-whipped, so long reddish hair whipped, so nice legs whipped, so, you know, whipped, that I said yes. Let me go home and get my stuff and we would be off. When I went to get my stuff Ma (really meme, okay) was there, looking furious.
Somehow she had received information for unnamed sources ( I still marvel at that ma grapevine the F.A. mothers, hell, maybe all mothers, had when errant sons and daughters were involved) that I was seen with a heathen girl (jesus I am embarrassed to even say that now) and what about it, and don’t lie. Well I didn’t, or rather just a little. I said Dorothy was half-French on her mother’s side like me. No soap, no dice, no go. Heathen. Then she gave a classic twenty minute, maybe longer, screed about heathens. Finally she was done, or just ran out of hot day steam. I left without saying anything about where I was going, or anything. Ya, it was one of those Ma days that you all know about.
I went out the door, got into the car, and we headed over to Dorothy’s aunt’s place. As we entered the aunt’s drive-way I saw another car parked there. Some 1959 great two-toned Chevy that every guy at school was drooling over. And in that car was a tall guy, maybe eighteen, maybe nineteen, who called Dorothy over to him. I noticed that he was holding Dorothy’s hand kind of tight, like he was trying to lead her somewhere. And she wasn’t really resisting so much as kind of pouting, girl not getting her way pouting. I went up to this tall guy and asked what the hell (I think I used that exact word) was he doing to my girl. He laughed, laughed out loud, "Your girl? Dorothy and I have been married for the past three months. That’s why her parents sent her up here to her aunt’s place. I’m bringing her home to set up house now that I am eighteen.” Bang went my brain. And with my mouth open, wide open they roared off in his car.
Just so you know I in my three marriages (counting the present one) I never married “in the faith,” I never married a girl from the F.A. community and I never married a girl from Olde Saco. And maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t to spite Ma but to honor of Dorothy Donnelly. See every time I see that old worn out guard tower at Point of Pines or see those initials J.B. and D.D. carved inside a crude heart on the face of Seal Rock I think ruefully of that summer and her.
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