" So what’s the story your grandpa told you?” I leaned back against the blanket, propping my head in one hand and looking up at him.

“It wasn’t about the pond, I guess. It’s more about the town. I didn’t ever come to Mona when I lived here. I never had reason to - so when I asked my grandpa if there were any good fishing spots around here, and he mentioned this pond, I asked him about the town. He said Burl Ives, the singer, was once thrown in jail here in Mona. It was before his time, but he thought it was a funny story.”

“I’ve never heard about that!”

“It was the 1940’s, and Burl Ives traveled around singing. I guess the authorities didn’t like one of his songs - they thought it was bawdy, so they put him in jail.”

“What was the song?” I snickered.

“It was called Foggy, Foggy Dew. My grandpa sang it for me.”

“Let’s hear it!” I challenged.

“It’s far too lewd.” Samuel pulled his mouth into a serious frown, but his eyes twinkled sardonically. “All right you’ve convinced me,” he said without me begging at all, and we laughed together. He cleared his throat and began to sing, with a touch of an Irish lilt, about a bachelor living all alone whose only sin had been to try to protect a fair young maiden from the foggy, foggy dew.

One night she came to my bedside

When I was fast asleep.

She laid her head upon my bed

And she began to weep

She sighed, she cried, she damn near died

She said what shall I do?

So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head

Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

“Oh my!” I laughed, covering my mouth. “I don’t think I would have stuck Burl Ives in jail for that, but it is pretty funny,”

“Marine’s are the lewdest, crudest, foulest talking bunch you’ll ever find. I’ve heard much, much worse. I’ve sung much, much worse. I tried to remain chaste and virtuous, and I still have the nickname Preacher after all these years - but I have been somewhat corrupted.” He waggled his eyebrows at his ribaldry.

“I kind of liked that song…” I mused, half kidding. “Sing something else but without the Irish.”

“Without the Irish? That’s the best part.” Samuel smiled crookedly. “I had a member of my platoon whose mom was born and raised in Ireland. This guy could do an authentic Irish accent, and man, could he sing. When he sang Danny Boy everybody cried. All these tough, lethal Marines, bawling like babies "

― Amy Harmon , Running Barefoot