In this eerie Tennessee folktale from Weakley County, a legendary fiddler emerges for one last contest, chasing the coveted “fiddler’s dram.” As his bow touches the strings, the room falls silent—because something about the man, and the music, isn’t quite right.

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Audio Story

In Weakley County, Tennessee – right up against the Kentucky state line – the old timers still talk about a legendary fiddling contest that took place during Depression times.  Imagine the world’s greatest rock guitarists, or jazz singers, or classical composers battling it out one night, on one stage.  That’s what fiddle playing meant to this rural farming community.  

And the finest player of all was a man named Ples Haslock.

Ples was born into poverty.  He was an only child, raised by his father Floyd after his mama died in childbirth.  Father and son eked out a living on a tiny farm.  Their house was little more than a battered, one room shack made of sagging clapboards, its roof shingles curled up like the feathers of an angry chicken.   Farming life held little prospects for young folks back then, and Floyd wished for a different life for his son.  

Most folks couldn’t buy things like building materials, furniture, or clothes when they needed them.  Instead, there was a bartering system where neighbors traded unwanted junk with each other.  

Legend has it that one day, Floyd traded a pony for a wagonload of junk from an old Roma woman (in less tolerant times, the Roma were called “gypsies”).  Floyd was a tinkerer, and could make just about anything out of a worthless pile of odds and ends.  But even Floyd didn’t know what to do with one object he found – an old wooden fiddle box, its strings long broken off, well worn and chipped in spots.

Finding a fiddle box was no surprise – many Roma families were skilled musicians, playing old folk songs brought across the sea long ago.  What was surprising was how Ples took to the poor instrument.  Floyd was about to throw it in the fire before Ples grabbed it out of his hands.  Ples had never shown such interest in anything before, and Floyd was happy his boy had found a hobby.

Ples couldn’t just go to the local music store and fix up his fiddle.  Like his father, he had to make do.  It’s said he made new strings from the innards of a cougar, shot by Floyd for killing his chickens.  He made a bow from the tail hairs of their horse.  He painted that fiddle bright red from some old barn paint.  It turned out as pretty as a fiddle from a junk pile could be!

Floyd stuffed cotton balls in his ears each night as Ples made hellish screeching sounds on his new instrument, stubbornly teaching himself to play.  But in no time, those screeches became notes, then songs.  Ples became so skilled a fiddler, his playing could make the meanest men weep, the prettiest girls swoon, and the surliest babies stop crying.  

But Ples could do more with his fiddle than just play songs.  He told stories with it!  In fact, he would ride around the county spreading the news of the week, or telling stories to children, with the help of his fiddle.  He’d rap his knuckles on the wood body for approaching horse hooves.  Pluck the strings for raindrops.  Lash his bow across the strings with a screech for tomcats fighting.  Ples was a shy man normally, but his fiddle almost became an extension of his brain – a second, more confident voice.

—-

Floyd died in later years from what they used to call heart dropsy.  Dropsy was a buildup of fluid around the heart or lungs that caused swelling, often leading to heart failure.   Ples kept living in that old shack after his father’s death, his best friend taken from him.  He had grown into a serious looking, lanky man with a long face and bright blue eyes.

Rather than live like a hermit, Ples threw himself into fiddling contests around the region.  Back then, fiddling contests were big social events.  Ples’s rivals were players like Coot Kersee and Old Rob Reddin.  These fiddlers were master showmen in their own right, whipping and scratching their strings in a frenzy, stomping their feet, sweat pouring off their brows.  But no matter – they always finished second to the otherworldly playing of Ples Haslock.

These contests weren’t held for cash prizes.  Other than bragging rights, the grand prize was the coveted “fiddler’s dram,” a large glass jar of locally-made whiskey.  Ples went home with so many fiddler’s drams a second dram was offered as a runner-up prize, just to keep other fiddlers interested.

—-

One day, news spread that part of the Dukedom jailhouse had collapsed in a storm.  The city had no money for repairs.  So someone came up with the idea of a fiddling contest.  Bringing all the best fiddlers together on one stage was a surefire way of raising the needed funds.

“We need to get Ples Haslock down here,” said the county clerk.  

Coot Kersee, who’d already agreed to play, spoke up.  “He ain’t been seen for weeks.  I hear he’s got the heart dropsy, just like his Pa.”

“I bet you hope so, Coot!” said someone in the room, drawing loud laughter.

“I’ll ride out to the Haslock place tomorrow and let him know,” said the county clerk.

So the next day, the clerk rode out to the Haslock farm.  It looked worse than he remembered.  Tall weeds choked the fields, and the farmhouse looked even more decrepit than before.  It was a miracle the storm hadn’t blown this place over, he thought.  He gingerly climbed the rickety stairs, knocked on the door and went inside.

He was greeted with the foul odor of unwashed dishes, mildew and filthy clothes.  Piles of junk towered from floor to ceiling.  The only cleared spot was the corner bed, where a gaunt and pale looking Ples Haslock lay under a dirty quilt.  The clerk was sad to see his sickly green, emaciated face.  Brown liver spots covered his shriveled hands, and his night clothes were badly stained.  He probably hadn’t bathed for weeks.  Lying beside him was his trusty fiddle, the only item Ples seemed to care for in the whole place.

The clerk told Ples about the fiddling contest, certain Ples would say no.  Instead, Ples’s sunken eyes shot open, flashing sparks of blue.  “Of course I’ll do it!” he cried in a cracking voice, as if someone had thrown him a life line.

“Don’t push yourself, Ples.  I hear you got the dropsy.  Maybe you can just come watch.”

“No chance,” Ples interrupted.  “I aim to play.  You tell everyone I’m comin’.  I’ll be on my feet in no time.”

—–

The jailhouse fundraiser took place in the local schoolhouse.  An overflow crowd packed the room.  Talented but now largely forgotten fiddlers came and went from the stage.  Behind polite applause, the crowds anxiously awaited another showdown between Coot Kersee, Old Rob Reddin – and Ples Haslock.

But as the night wore on, word spread that Ples was a no-show.  He was probably too sick to get out of bed, much less brave the long ride to the schoolhouse.  But getting that jailhouse fixed was the most important thing, and the crowd settled for another battle between Coot and Old Rob.

Both men were as odd looking as Ples – Coot with his skinny neck and beak-like nose, Old Rob with his short, plump figure and wobbling gut.  The crowds hooted when either man took the stage.  But once they started playing, hooting turned to astonished whispers, then raucous clapping and stomping.

Coot chose “Goodbye My Honey I’m Gone” by the Grant Brothers, sparking a few knowing chuckles in the audience.  But Old Rob chose the rollicking crowd pleaser “Whip That Devil Around The Stump.”  After much buck dancing in the aisles, all agreed Old Rob was the winner of the fiddler’s dram.

Old Rob leapt to the front of the stage to claim his prize, to the roar of the crowd.  But one by one, the crowd began to notice a shadowy figure who’d materialized at the rear of the stage.  Old Rob and Coot turned to see what the fuss was about.  

Everyone quieted as the mystery man, planter’s hat lowered across his eyes, ran his bow across his primitive-looking, red instrument.  They winced at the piercing shriek, as if a child had picked up the instrument for the first time.  But those shrieks became notes, then bits of songs – a lifetime of fiddle learning crammed into five minutes.

Like a mountain emerging from the fog, the notes melded into the old folk ballad “Pretty Saro.”  Folks from the old country welled up with tears.  They knew the song from the lips of their long departed mothers and fathers.  Shock waves of excitement shot through the room – the man was Ples Haslock!

It was said Ples played for nearly an hour, drifting from one teary-eyed ballad to the next.  The crowd sat frozen, watching this sickly man pour his heart out through his instrument.  And when he finished, stunned clapping turned to a deafening roar that could be heard two counties away.

There was now no question who the real winner was.  Even Old Rob didn’t seem to mind – he still got a dram of whiskey, after all.  Ples hobbled to the front of the stage on a crooked walking stick and accepted yet another fiddler’s dram.  As the crowd screamed for him to drink, he grinned, took a deep swig of the strong liquor…

And collapsed on the stage, the dram shattering into pieces.

The crowd gasped as the county clerk jumped to his side.  “Get a doctor!” he screamed.  He noticed Ples looked even dirtier than the day he went to visit him, covered in thick mud as if he’d walked through a swamp.  Ples was still grinning ear to ear, but had no pulse.

Soon the doctor arrived and confirmed Ples was indeed dead.  “How did this man even get here?” he asked.

They told the doctor about the dropsy, and Ples’s brave decision to play his heart out one last time.  “It must have taken everything out of him,” they said.  “He just keeled over and died.”

“Keeled over, you say?” answered the doctor.  “Why, this man’s been dead for at least two days.  And from the look of his clothes, I’d say buried, too!”

-THE END-

Where Did This Story Come From?

Our version of “Fiddler’s Dram” is adapted from a story passed through the oral tradition in Weakley County, Tennessee. The first known printed adaptation was by James R. Aswell as part of the Tennessee Writers Project, published in the book God Bless The Devil: Liar’s Bench Tales. The Tennessee Writers Project was part of a 1930s New Deal program to collect folktales from numerous U.S. states.

This story is frequently linked to another Tennessee fiddler’s story, The Ghost of Fiddler’s Rock, about a fiddler who charms rattlesnakes.

Story Credits

Adapted from folklore and directed by Craig Dominey

Storyteller: David Hirt

Audio Production: Henry Howard

Music by Randall Franks