Into the depths courtesy of Earl Scruggs

A banjo rolling; the sounds of crickets; the women chattering; the children screaming and laughing; the banjo rolling; the guitar G runs; the mandolin chortling; the fiddle tying it up; the tenor reaching the full moon; the banjo rolling.

My dad played Earl Scruggs style; he would sit and play over and over the above album; he would listen to the licks; he would work them and work them. Then during the afore-described music parties, he'd roll his banjo like Earl. We kids would be in someone's yard playing Red Rover or Chicken or lay-in-the-ditch-and-jump-up-when-a-car-comes-by-and-wave-and-scream. The women would be talking about us in the living room, our problems and stages. The men would be beating their tapping feet on the kitchen, instruments and ears poised, smiling, smiling, singing, singing, diving into the root depths, plunging, swimming, swimming.

It would get late. The moon would be high. We kids would have eaten all the cookies allowed; we would have played all the games imaginable; we would have started drifting indoors, hoping our fathers would notice, hanging on the edges of their circle. But, they would remained sitting with fingers flying and smiles smiling, and Earl Scruggs licks zipping. Finally, a guitar player would slow it down and begin to wail, "You spurned the love, I gave you darlin'. A love you once was proud to own . . . ." A midnight desire made public, crying confession; our feet would sink into a chair or a carpet space; our eyes would fight and suffer as our Dad would not notice us. He was overboard now in slowed down songs, the sadness of lost love, stabbed love, love of blue eyes now with someone new.

Finally, once we were fully slumped, the sound of chairs scraping, instrument cases being clicked shut, heavy footsteps caused us to break sleep's beginning stage, and we would sleepily go to him with all the men teasing us without our shy care: "Can we go home now, Dad?"

Time for the long hilly, curvy ride home.

But, on the way, in our ears, in our lives forever more, the banjo rolled in sound grooves, in the ancestral depths of plaintive and frolicking standards, in our blood, in associations, in love.

Good night, Earl Scruggs. Play one for us in the kitchen of the Angel Band. Thanks for the full moon and the bluegrass memories.

"One bunch of grapes," repeated my uncle. Smack went the paddle. "One bunch of grapes," said my uncle. Smack went the paddle. Mrs. Coble meant to win, but my Dad reported cheerfully his little brother held strong and had the final say, after the final futile smack. They ran out the schoolhouse door, making the other kids smile and yearn or tskk: those boys!

We were treated to more stories this weekend at the propped up feet of my reclining, grinning father. He's a natural storyteller, but he says he won't write a western this winter like I want him to. He'd rather have the immediate stage and laugh from all of us. This weekend, he told one story twice, which made me look at my mother and comment upon this fact, which becomes a hereditary trademark at around age 90 and the mind is an endless spin cycle. My grandmother lives in the nursing home in such a tight circle of memories, frets, pleasures, fears. She has the staff call, every once in a while, when they can't calm her down, her son, my dad, and she tells him that her niece, really her daughter, is lost, and she can't find her, and she's at a restaurant called "Autumn Oaks", and her car won't start. Dad reassures her that this niece is spending the night with them, and she is relieved, and her mind turns to the next groove (when she saw decorative crepe paper hanging on the walls of the nursing home, she turned and said to the attendant, "Well, why are my bras hanging out here!"). She's lived here for about four turning years.

But, for now, we enjoy Dad's stories, even twice told, because he always manages to say one new kicker, one funny line that has us grinning and dimpling up at his propped up feet and bright eyes.

Anticipation

I have the cutest kitty companion curled up on the bed beside me this morning. She's using my Norton anthology as a pillow in order to cram for her final, I guess. If my camera was handy, she, literary genius, would be immortalized and presented like Dryden. However, my husband now works from home some and has taken the upstairs office which means things are far away.

Many days, we're all home, stomping around the house, our whole family together while others have commuted, paid lunch out, hunkered in for long hours at a desk. Cody and I zoom away for lessons at various times. My daughter will maybe go out for a four hour shift at her strenuous (ha!) retail job. My husband will shut the door and talk for a four hour conference call, while he rocks furiously upon his chair. But many times, we're here, living our lives communally, watching our cute kitties, eating meals together. I enjoy it. I love my family.

Today my daughter and I are going out, though, for a few days. We're driving down to the farm which makes my whole senses anticipate that turn at the mailbox, onto the narrow rocky lane, through the gate, into my great-grandfather-former fields where we'll roll down the windows and admit the fullblownforce of tree and soil and flower and water and air smells, sensations, sweetness. Ah; it's my favorite part of the journey, heaven-hone, honeysuckle, here-we-be, happiness. We drive into it, park, greet Bo of the bales, and then, on air, meet my mother and father who always seem to be the same, smiling, always there (yet it slices me with sadness to remember their future). We sink into our chairs and begin to chat and laugh and relax. It's wonderful, well-being, worshipful, away from the world. I love them much.

However, my daughter and I will only stay one night (after all that!) because we're touring a school tomorrow in Springfield for her. I think the time together will be lovely. In some ways, the past, painful years of her high school career seem far away. God works to restore senses, relationship. It's good.

Therefore, I must stop writing about my life and live it.

Until later ......... God bless and keep you in your journeys!

Fifty-seven

As my class was leading "Panther Boy" from the alumni banquet stage this weekend, I saw my tall, strong dad in his striped polo and Levi's, at his '57 table, pointing me out to one of his fifty-years-ago sidekicks. His dimples were flashing as customary, eyes a-glinting. My sweet little mother with her natural brown hair by his side. He was indicating, later I learned "the prettiest one up there" said as a funny, but meant pridefully. And, as I see him now, the past, present, and future meld together, making me realize that I was granted that opportune glimpse.

And perhaps now I'll always see him pointing, waving back at me when I did so to egg him on, to aid him in his offspring identification. When he's no longer here, perhaps we'll still be waving, pridefully, gleefully, to signal our enduring, immortal blessed connection.

I'm counting on it.

While my son was entertaining one of our middle school neighbors, I sat in my room practicing my guitar and singing some songs from the big three ring binder which holds ALL songs which must be preserved. One year, I found an internet site that had lots and lots of bluegrass lyrics, and since my Dad was a master of “na, na, na, na”, I decided to make compiling a project. I printed off the site’s song title list, and he checked off the tunes that he “remembered” knowing at some point or time.I copied and enlarged and enumerated and alphabetized all of these into a songbook, which I had copied into about 15 sets. Now when I go to his house, we pull out the binder and work our way through from A (A Beautiful Life) to U (The Unclouded Day) which wipes me out completely but not him. :)

Since then, I’ve put in some other folk, alternative, rock classics which I use to practice chords (like “American Pie” for one) which aren’t too bluegrassy (E7m, Dm, A7, etc).
Anyway, because I started taking guitar lessons this week to learn how to read guitar music (I play by ear), I decided to practice up.

Soon I heard the middle school girl neighbor in the hallway listening, and she said, “Wow, that sounds really good.” We love this girl who is always welcomed in our home (she’s down in the basement now playing video games – Been here for about three hours!), and I would adopt her if I could. She’s great fun and is about the only person who is able to play with Cody for any prolonged amount of time. She’s the daughter of one of the two black families on our cul-de-sac (I’m glad our cul-de-sac is at least diverse – we have an Asian family two doors down as well.)

Anyway, I invited her to come in and sing with me, and we leafed through my songbook looking for a song that she knew. Hardly anyone under the age of 40 knows traditional bluegrass, so I flipped through these songs very quickly! Then slowly I flipped through the Beatles, Simon & Garfunkle, Lucinda Williams, Hank Williams, Pure Prairie League, John Lennon, Chuck Berry …. She thought she had heard of the Beatles, but she didn’t know for sure. Finally, we came to one we both knew, one we thought we could perform at a cul-de-sac celebration. Happily we sat on the bed together singing the only song we had in common: I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas.

Oooooh we were awesome together! We’re going to start a band together now and everything. :)