Old Friends

Said goodbye to some old friends yesterday. Didn’t really want to, but times change, chapters come to an end. As I start advancing in years myself, a few lessons come to mind. Nothing really stays the same. Children learn and grow and mature into an adult. Flowers bloom, then decay and eventually die. Even a piece of wood slowly deteriorates sitting out in the weather, no matter the amount of preservation applied. Perhaps the biggest shock are the memories that seem to warp and evolve into bits of themselves, sometimes evaporating altogether. Doesn’t stop you from loving that old friend.

About eight years ago I fell down, had a heart attack. Had no choice but to accept this dramatic event. Ended up with triple bypass and a hole in my heart the size of a frisbee. Quite lucky to be alive I was told and nothing would ever be the same. That last part was more true than I could have imagined. I crawled back to work at four hours a day for most of the next year. Eventually, ended up working just as hard, if not harder, than before. Guess I was trying to change things back.

During recuperation, old friend Todd Holden would come by and scoop me up for Sunday drives in the country. He wanted me to get some fresh air, a little change. Then, one Friday evening he picked me up and took me to a place I hadn’t been before. Soon as I walked through the door I was transported back to a familiar place from long, long ago. Hard to describe in words the feeling that came over me as I looked around at the scene.

Table after table were filled with folks, talking and listening to the most wonderful music to ever fill the air. It was the real deal, that same home grown appalachian sound that had been swirling in my head for years. This was the music my own family had introduced me to during my childhood. This was change come full circle and I was in heaven being here with these people and the music.

When I was growing up, country music was part and parcel of life. As kids, we had a lot of laughter listening to songs like ‘Girl On The Billboard’ by Del Reeves, ‘Six Foot Two By Four’ by the Willis Brothers and others. Giants like Hank Williams, George Jones, Buck Owens and so many others helped provide the soundtrack for our childhood.

Harder to find and follow in the early days were the bluegrass boys. If you searched on the radio, you could find them, like the Sunday morning Stained Glass Bluegrass. But bluegrass for me came later, just because I was having so much fun with all the sounds of country.

When my stepfather quit smokin’, cussin’ and drinkin’ all in one day and found the Lord, well that changed things. My grandmother on my mother’s side hailed from a hard life down south. After coming to Maryland, she moved from Singer Road to Plumtree Road and Sunday afternoons were never the same. After church, we would gather at her place for lunch. This meant a spread of all things homemade and a lot of it. We had homemade biscuits, gravy, corn bread, potato salad, coleslaw, with all sorts of cakes and pies, you name it.

Then there was the music. I had two uncles who played music and man could they play those acoustic guitars. Both could pick hard at most any stringed instrument. When they played guitars together they knew how to alternate picking and playing rhythm. Kenny was wilder and always picked the raunchier tunes while Richard would stick closer to the more acceptable family numbers.

If we were lucky, the girls would join in. Wanda and Virginia could both sing and play. They had beautiful voices and could harmonize like angels. My mother had an alto that complemented any song. However, the best of the best was my grandmother. There wasn’t an instrument out there she couldn’t play, wasn’t a song out there she didn’t know. Well, she played the decent songs, the religious songs, had no truck for the bar songs. We would coax her and plead with her to play. Eventually, she would pick up a guitar, autoharp, maybe a harmonica and proceed to show us a thing or two.

My grandmother got me started on the harmonica as my instrument of choice. Dead serious about music, just didn’t know what I could play. Picked up the harmonica and couldn’t figure it out. I asked grandmom how it worked. “Just play the damn thing,” she told me. So that was my lesson and I took it from there. I think of my grandmother every time I look at a harmonica and I still play the damn thing. Now that’s one thing that so far hasn’t changed.

Anyway, Todd Holden did a wonderful thing that night and many nights afterwards. We had a blast, driving at Pop’s Place listening to some good old fashioned music. It was supposed to be bluegrass, but some of it was about as slow and country as it gets. I was the youngest fella there, but with the heart still mending, I was the slowest moving. These folks could high step it and keep time with the banjo and fiddle like no others I had met. When the spiritual numbers came on, no one had to say a word, there was no dancin’ allowed.

Towards the back, out of the limelight, sat a gentleman of distinction. He had silver hair with a fine silver mustache and wore suspenders. He was playing a chromonica to the music he heard on the stage. I sat close by, intrigued by this man and the joy he had following along with the musicians. Didn’t think this was allowed, especially a harmonica, as a harp is not particularly welcome in traditional bluegrass circles.

After a few Fridays, Gene and I are sitting next to each other, running the show. He sat with his homemade box of chromonicas and me with my own case of diatonic harmonicas. We’d quickly find the key the song was in as it started and play along as quiet as we could.

Gene and I became close friends. He kept encouraging me to get up on stage with the other musicians, just go ahead and try. I did on a few occasions and they let me play. When I played harmonica on stage at Pop’s Place, it was special. Even more special was playing harps at the back table with Gene, havin’ fun, givin’ each other a smile. Little did I know, within the year, things were about to change. You see, Gene had cancer and hadn’t told anyone. From what I understand, he kept it from his family till the last possible moment. He certainly kept it from his friends at Pop’s Place till he just couldn’t anymore.

Things changed when Gene passed and I didn’t really feel like playing harmonica there anymore. The bluegrass faithful and the old stalwarts were just as happy with me quiet, though I still came and listened. I still came and put a dollar or two in the donation box.

Folks at Pop’s Place were around long before me and did their hard livin’ without me to help them out. Still, I’m proud to have been there on those innocent Friday nights swapping stories and listening to good old-time music. The music’s never changed and neither have these people. They are God-fearing, fun-loving, good-hearted people who would give you the shirt off their back. That’s as long as you behaved yourself, stayed away from that Devil’s drink and kept your swearin’ to a minimum. Hasn’t changed over the years.

Pop’s Place closed its doors, but these folks will go on seeing each other, will go on livin’. The music will happen at other venues, but Pop’s will travel with every musician who’s ever played there. I’m grateful for Todd taking a weak heart and soul and helping to get both to a better place. I’ll remember Pop’s for Gene and all the friends I met. I’ll appreciate greatly all the musicians I could look in the eye and give a nod. I will treasure forever being transported back to a time where nothing needed to change.

Somewhere in the hazy archives of things I’ve kept, came across a snippet of a family gathering. Uncle Larry was on banjo, Uncle Richard on guitar, yours truly on the harmonica and the whole family joining in. By the time this gathering took place and the snippet recorded, quite a few family members were singing from beyond. Thanks Mom and Grandmom for giving me the gift of family, of music, of time standing still.

Did you enjoy the post above? How about a link to other relevant posts?

Standin Next To You ; Carry Forward ; Higher Calling Part I