Jeff Davis Pie

Song story & origins

Introduction

I’m writing this on Christmas Day, thinking about a family gathering in a couple of hours with my mom and dad—Christmas dinner and pie—which always turns me toward my grandmother. One of the joys of visiting her house for the holidays was the cooking: certainly cinnamon rolls, but also her specialty—Jeff Davis Pie. And yes, that name is the same as the Confederate figure; my grandparents lived in Arkansas, but they were Union people. For me, the name was simply attached to my grandmother’s pie and all the love and memories around it.

I wrote this song in 1992 for Grandma Mildred Stockburger’s 80th birthday—a big family party for her and my grandpa Loy. I packed it with childhood snapshots from their house and our holiday trips “across the mountain.” Decades later, when I recorded it for Do Not Rush the Dawn (2014), I had just returned from Hawai‘i with my first ukulele, and the track shifted from its original bluegrass feel to an almost reggae sway. That lighter groove brought the song to life for me in a new way; I’d played it at family gatherings for years, but the ukulele version made it dance.

Where the song came from

This is biographical through and through. My mom really did call and say, “We’re having a big party—bring Sheryl and the girls.” The “second 80” line was my way of saying we’d gladly take twice as much of Grandma. The verse about three daughters, ten years apart is exactly my family: Colleen, then ten years to my mom Patty, then ten more to Debbie—a spread that created its own sweet dynamics (an aunt the same age as a niece, etc.). Grandma sewed their clothes, and she made me a teddy bear I’ve kept my whole life.

The long middle list is a fast-moving memory-dump of their house: the screened-in porch (surprise ruined by the screen-door slam), cinnamon rolls, raw dough, old lipsticks in the bottom drawer, the big steel bed that squeaked, gas room-heaters, a magnifying mirror, a slightly spooky plastic shrunken-head hanging on the porch, coleslaw, toast and buttery bread—and the year Grandpa gave me the family .410. I shot a squirrel, and Grandma dutifully softened him in dumplin’ stew; I ate it, tough and all. After church, she always passed Certs around in the car before we went home to eat and nap.

In the years since, a cousin messaged to say he still remembers showing me the hole in the ceiling where he swore Santa came through—sweet and hilarious because it scared me back then. Those tiny details are the flavor of the song, like spice in the pie.

Sound and arrangement

On the recording I leaned into ukulele and a gentle reggae lilt—my first real ukulele track after the Hawai‘i trip. Earlier, I’d played the song more bluegrass, which I love, but the new groove fit the list-song energy and let all those images tumble out without feeling heavy. It’s one of those pieces where you get to cram a lot of words in, letting the rhythm carry the memory-stream.

What the song is saying

The tag spells it out: numbers aren’t the point. A life isn’t measured best by counting years or graphing slices. The measure that matters is quality—the people, the stories, the love. My grandparents did that beautifully. As it turned out, they had quantity too—Grandpa lived to 102—but the song insists on what lasts: Grandma, Grandpa, and Jeff Davis Pie.

Why it stays with me

Because it does what I hope family songs can do—pull us back together around a table, let us remember, and let even the odd details (that shrunken head!) become part of the laughter. Every time I sing it, I can taste the cinnamon rolls and I can hear the screen door. And if there’s a larger invitation, it’s this: don’t just admire the pie. Dig right in.

Source: New Music Memoir (1).docx