Bound to Ramble, part 3

It'd been five years since Harold left that place he once called home. Five years since he's seen his family and five years since he's been happy. He wasn't sure just what he would find on the road but he thought maybe he might find what he lost back home. However, life hopping rail cars and working odd jobs just so he could eat wasn't near as glamorous as some of the old songs had made it out to be. Yet pride ruled in Harold's heart and he set his mind to believe he was bound to ramble.

The trains had taken him all over Arkansas. But today he found himself somewhere unexpected. He found himself in the very same delta where he first picked on that old cigar-box banjo. He had hopped off the train the night before on a whim, not knowing where he was just that he wanted to settle for a while, try and find his legs again. The sights and sounds of that old delta town were once like a nightmare to him but today they held a promise. It was here that he had found his voice, found what he once thought was his true calling: to pick the banjo.

He found that old painted house they used to crowd all those summers. It had seen better days, he wondered if anybody had set foot in it since they left. Harold stood on the road side and just stared at it for what seemed like an eternity. He had always envision that the road would lead him to the next step in life not back to where it all began. With a great fear, Harold took his banjo Verne and set foot inside that old beat-up shack.

The place was bare, not a piece of furniture in it, there were signs of someone making a few nights rest here, but that was it. The house was like a picture of Harold's soul, once so full of promise and now so empty. He sat down on the dirt floor and began to pick Verne. And something happened that day that had not happened in a long time. Harold forgot, no, better yet, he overcame all his worries for just a moment and felt himself transported to that place like heaven. It lasted only a moment and the fall from that place hurt worst. He sat there in the silence listening to the echo of his picking and tears began to fill his face. It was almost a cruel joke to get that close again only to wake up and realize it was all a dream.

As Harold lay weeping, he was startled by the door opening. Despite his shock, Harold could hardly fell anymore and just lay there. The man in the door called to him, "Howdy."

Harold didn't respond. the stranger walked over and admired his banjo. "You play?"

Harold nodded.

"Well ain't that something. I sure love some good banjo music. I play a bit too myself, wanna take a go with me?"

The stranger's voice seemed oddly familiar. When he spoke it sounded like he had gravel in his throat. You could hardly make out his lips for the forest of beard hairs that had undoubtedly gone unchecked for decades. and even though the stranger spoke kindly, there was no denying the sense of deep sorrow behind every word.

Harold looked up at the man, "what's your name."

"I am who I am, nobody real important, just an old wayfaring stranger. but about that picking, you wanna play?"

Still reeling from his fall from grace, the last thing Harold felt like doing was playing. " I just ain't got it in me anymore."

The wayfaring stranger stared at him a bit, then he sat down beside him. This was the first time Harold had noticed his hands, they were hands like his dad's. Deeply wrinkled and calloused, they had seen hard days, but they also a gentle sense to them. Harold began to wonder what those hands could do. The stranger noticed Harold's glances, "they may not look like much, been to hell 'n back with these here hands. But I been to Heaven n' back too, play with me, just a song."

Harold's heart sunk at the mention of heaven. He knew that when he left home five years ago, that all he really wanted was to go there, tot hat place his banjo had once taken him but he doubted he would ever find it. And now, in the place he first found heaven and where he flirted with it today, this stranger promised to take him there again. "Heaven, huh? I been there too, now I'm not so sure there's even sucha place." Harold wondered aloud.

"Sure there is, its always just a note away. Its hard to find sometimes but a friend can help. Let me help you."
And with that the stranger pulled out a beautiful Gibson f-style mandolin. It was prettier than gold and then the stranger began to play 'Arkansas Traveler.' He closed his eyes and his fingers seemed to float on the double-strings of that mandolin. Harold thought he had met Bill Monroe himself, and the tears he once cried in mourning were replaced with new tears, tears of promise. The song demanded he do more than listen, that he feel it and ultimately, that he live it too. He picked up Verne and joined in and for the first time in five years, he was free. The two played near all night

Finally his fingers could take no more and with a smile he hadn't smiled in what seemed like forever, Harold asked  the stranger, "where you headin?"

"I'm going home"

They both sat there in silence. The moon poked its head in through the window and shed a bit of light across the floor. Harold lifted his hand to look at his shadow.

"Come with me." the stranger asked.

Harold looked at the bearded man , his face full of sorrow and joy. The man's eyes were robust and seemed to peer into his soul. Harold had found what he was looking for, the promise of heaven. He would follow this stranger home.

Bound to Ramble, part 2

Harold returned to Polk County that fall a new creation. That Banjo had changed him deeply, now he could travel to that special place, somewhere like heaven, whenever his heart desired. Harold loved that hollow-back banjo so much, he gave it name, Verne. The name didn't mean anything in particular, Harold just thought it fit. Harold would sprint the mile and half between the bus stop and their old home place every afternoon so that he could pick on Verne. Sure their were chores that need to to be done, but Harold couldn't help himself, he was born to pick.

Harold's chops got pretty fine, pretty quick with all that practice. Anytime their was a singing downtown, Harold and Verne were there ready. Harold even started playing at church, although he hadn't been in a while, the temptation of getting to play more was greater than his sense of religous guilt. And despite how cold that old Baptist church felt, Harold's spirit would soar when Verne and him took a turn at "I'll Fly Away."

Those two were inseparable. Some evenings they would play on the porch and all creation seemed to join in the tune. The lightening bugs would float on the breeze, the willow tress would sway in rhythm and the stars sometimes seemed to jump with delight as Harold and Verne explored "Uncle Pen," embodying the chorus proclimation, "You could hear it talk, you could hear it sing." It wasn't long before Harold's reputation began to spread, folks who wouldn't dare step into a church were washing there Sunday bests to hear Harold and Verne give new life to the Heavenly Highway Hymnal. The Saturday night singings got so big that they had to move them to the park so everyone could hear.  While all this seemed like a dream come true, Harold became uneasy with his newfound fame and so did his family.

Its hard to nail down when things started to go wrong and especially why. Maybe from the moment the kids started listening to Harold over their Pa's stories, the root of jealousy struck. Harold's old man had struggled all his life to make a living for his family, he worked odd jobs around town, fixing fences, cutting wood, and of course he had been traveling to the delta every summer sense he was sixteen. But nobody ever come to see him do nothing. That boy put a piece of drift wood on a cigar box with leather laces and all of a sudden  Pa didn't matter so much. Unintentionally Pa began to drive the family against Harold, blaming him for everything. Secretly, he justed wanted his boy back, he was scared where all this would take him. Fear and jealously birthed a rift between the two that seemed near impossible to fix.

"Where you off to tonight son?" His Pa inquired.
"I'm gonna play with the Dickerson boys down in the next holler."
"Is that so?"
"Well, I reckon I ain't gotta."
"You dern right right you ain't gotta, there's plenty needs to be done round here fer you go off runnin round."
"Yes sir."
"Just cause you can pick the blasted thing bettern most don't mean you can do whatever you want."
"No sir, I didn't..."
"Don't talk back to me boy," his Pa interrupted, "I reckon it'd been far better had you never started on that old cigar-box."

These exchanges increased in frequency and intensity. What had once been the greatest blessing of his life had begun to drive a wedge between Harold and his family, especially his Pa. All he ever wanted was to escape, to find that place that made him forget his troubles but now instead he just found more trouble. If it weren't his Pa's nagging, then Brother Lee was telling not to stand out too much on Sunday's; they were for the Lord after all not bluegrass, or the ladies down at the auxiliary who thought he should play more jigs, or even Sally, his sister and a good singer in her own right, who thought she oughta to get a chance to shine like Harold. It seemed to him that he hadn't took anyone with him to that place but drove them all away. Of course that wasn't so, the town loved him to death but to Harold all he seemed to do was disappoint.  He wondered where that place had gone to, that place like heaven, it had been far too long since he'd had a visit. Now, whenever he plucked on Verne, his heart twisted in pain. The thing that had once been so good, now seemed broken, maybe it was him, maybe it was luck, but it just didn't work no more.

Harold remembers that night just as clear as any in his life. The pressure of everything had finally gotten him. He lay sleepless in his bed, a bit deranged. His chest felt as if an ox were sitting on it, he found it hard to breathe. And all he could hear in his head was "Man of Constant Sorrow." The words reverberated in his mind, he felt bound, like he was caged in.  The words became him, he wasn't born to pick but bound to ramble. He had no friends to help him now, so he sat up, packed a sack, grabbed Verne and left the town he was born and raised. He left home and with a purity of confusion determined never to return again. Heaven wasn't there no more and he doubted he would ever find it again.

Bound to Ramble, part one

Harold had the bushiest eyebrows in all of Polk county. Folks when they would meet him would always remark about his eyebrows, no matter what else Harlod did. And that was indeed an impressive feat for Harold also played a mean banjo. Harold had been playing since he was just a boy, traveling with his family to the flatlands in the summers to pick cotton. Those kids swore that those summer evenings in the Arkansas delta were as close to hell as any place on this here earth. The humidity was so thick you could slather it on a piece a bread with a spoon. And so Harold began to pick a homemade cigar-box banjo he had made to keep their minds off the heat. At first, The kids couldn't decide which was worse: the pickin or the climate. But Harold, like his daddy, was as stubborn as an old dog and he picked that poor banjo every night after pickin that poor cotton. With callosed and even bloody hands, Harold would struggle to figure out how to roll his fingers in time to make that banjo sing like all the greats. When they were in the hills in the off-season, they could sometimes pick up the Opry on the AM radio if it were clear enough. They had heard Earl Scruggs and Ralph Stanley and in that hearing they were transported, not to Nashville, but to somewhere even better, somewhere like heaven were their troubles weren't gone but understood. When Stanley would moan Man of Constant Sorrow, they knew that pain instinctively. And it was only in that place, somewhere like heaven, that Harold truley felt home, felt alive. He knew he was destined to pick.

And so he picked and by the end of that first summer, he not only had the finger-roll down but he could play a recognizable Orange Blossom Special and for a moment the family forgot all about the Opry and found that place of understanding had found them there in that ghost of a house they filled. Each of the kids got to spend some of the cotton money on themselves, usually they would buy some prize like a coca-cola or if they had had a real good harvest a new pair of shoes. But this summer, they left the coke in the icebox and threw in to get Harold a real banjo, a used one that a friend at the gin got in Memphis, but a real one nonetheless. Years later, Harold would think back on that day, on that banjo and he would still cry. Never had he been so surprised, so happy, so whole. Harold took that hollow-back banjo in his hands and he smelled the wood, cedar. As he inhaled the distinct smell, he knew it was a good gift, the best even. And as he sat down to pick it, the Orange Blossom Special never sounded so good and perhaps never again. When we was done, he laid it down on the bed beside him and nearly prayed over that instrument, "Its so good, so very good." And so it was, for a time.



This is part one of a five part short-story I will be publishing the next five Thursday nights.

That High Lonesome Sound

One of my many passions is music.  Although I enjoy nearly every genre, one stands above the rest: bluegrass.  While there are many different definitions of what is or is not bluegrass, anything with a banjo and mandolin makes my heart sing.  One of the many reasons that I cherish Americana roots music is the sense of adventure found in the improvisation. There is something daring and beautiful that happens when a picker takes a turn and lets his fingers dance a bit.  This excites me because rarely can we witness the creation of something so beautiful and also unique, that moment of improvisation is both given and lost in a moment and only the reverberations linger.

There is a soul to this music rooted in the hills of Appalachia, nurtured in the hills of the Ozarks and refined the mountains of Colorado.  When I think on the geographic progression of the music, it mimics my move from the Carolinas to Colorado via Arkansas.  The words speak of hope found in pain seen through the lens of folk tied desperately to an unforgiving and rocky land.  Bluegrass pioneer Bill Monroe defines the music this way: "Scottish bagpipes and ole-time fiddlin'. It's Methodist and Holiness and Baptist. It's blues and jazz, and it has a high lonesome sound. It's plain music that tells a good story. It's played from my heart to your heart, and it will touch you. Bluegrass is music that matters." In many ways, Bluegrass music is the truest form of American music, a melting pot of European and African influences.  It is in our bones and it is in my blood.

My deepest attraction to this music is found in the "high lonesome sound" of my Grandfather Madison Pierce's Dobro (pictured above).  Before he left us nearly 20 years ago, Madison would tune his Dobro and head downtown for a "singing."  there other musicians would congregate to play the standards, a few hymns, and maybe a country song or two.  Everyone was invited to sit-in, there was no set band but you better be ready cause if you got the nod, you better have something to offer.  I am sad that I've only heard stories and seen videos of these singings. Yet, just as talented of a musician as my Grandfather was, so also he could tell a story and that gift in particular has carried down to his family.  My Grandma can bring me to tears merely describing the tone of Madison's Dobro.  That steel whine provides the soundtrack to my dreams.  Oh, I can't wait to pick one out with him one day in glory.  But for now, I honor my heritage and my heart by playing and listening to the music I love dearest.  And this is good because this is true music.  It tells the story of our pain and finds the courage to celebrate in the midst of that pain.  The "high lonesome sound" knows trouble and yet hopes for a brighter day when our tears are made dry.

So I leave you with a sample of that "high lonesome sound."

Think About Such Things

All this week I am taking a moment to dwell upon the good of 2010. On Christmas night I looked back a few books that impacted me and tonight I want to examine another art form that is rather inspiring, music. Here are a handful of albums, artists and songs that made an impact on me in 2010.

All Day by Girl Talk
More than anything this album reminded how much fun it is to dance. Cliff and I listened to the whole album on a trip back from Colorado Springs and I lost my mind about Monument and never got it back. Speaking of Cliff...

Clifford Hutchison
My dear friend has always spoken to my heart through his music but his latest writing and live performances in my living room have been like medicine for my soul. He is a joyful sound.

"O Come, O Come Emmanuel" by Sufjan Stevens
Stevens' entire Christmas album was a wonderful soundtrack to this Advent season, but his reworking of this classic hymn most resonated with my longing to rejoice at Emmanuel's coming.

Abigail Washburn and the Sparrow Quartet
I feel inept trying to capture what it is about these songs that open up my spirit and make it howl. Words just seem so inadequate when trying to describe a melody. Do yourself a favor and simply listen.

JJ Heller
A wonderful artist that has ministered to my whole family through both haunting and hopeful lyrics. Michala still sings "Keep You Safe" to Mary Grace when shes having a tough night, I think it means more to me than anyone. (The whole album is great but skip ahead to track 10 for Keep You Safe).

Thanks for Nothing!

    Praise be to you, O LORD,

 God of our father Israel, 

       from everlasting to everlasting.

       Yours, O LORD, is the greatness and the power 

       and the glory and the majesty and the splendor, 

       for everything in heaven and earth is yours. 

      Yours, O LORD, is the kingdom; 

      you are exalted as head over all.

       Wealth and honor come from you; 

       you are the ruler of all things. 

       In your hands are strength and power 

       to exalt and give strength to all.

      Now, our God, we give you thanks, 

     and praise your glorious name.

    1 Chronicles 29: 10-1

As part of our celebration of Lent, Michala and I decided to resist feeling ungrateful by taking inventory of the wonderful things in our lives (see above photo for the preliminary results). We soon found ourselves overwhelmed at the blessings that surround us.  With the grind of everyday life, it is so easy to forget that the very air we breathe is blessed, a miracle of grace.  Each snowflake, baby giggle, banjo string, and cherry is a wondrous gift from above.  The desire to grow discontent tempts us everyday, defaming the mundane, blaspheming the holiness of a hug.  May we as a people immersed in Grace see the winks of our Creator and Friend in every corner.  May we bless Him for the abundance of goodness that passes through our lungs every second.  May we not look at our next meal, job, lesson, moment and say "thanks for nothing!"  But may we look into the depths of our hearts and know that despite everything, we are loved with a love we will never understand and shout with a large breath of grace, "Thanks God!"