The Music of Gratitude – a Good thing to Practice

I suspect it is fair to say that most of my readers have been privileged ENOUGH to have owned or played a musical instrument somewhere along the path of their lives.  Sometimes privilege doesn’t even come into play.  Sometimes it is the opposite.

Case in point.  I often prefer driving back roads.  I remember one trip from years ago, driving from the southeast (when living in Marietta George) to upstate New York to visit my mother.  For that particular trip we had the unusual luxury of unrushed time.  While looking at the map now I really can’t calculate what possible route we took.  One might also wonder why?  It may have had something to do with mountain and woods, which between my husband, Michael (mountains) and me (woods) always call our names.

There is too much miscellany in my brain to remember everything about this long-ago trip.  I doubt it’s even the highlights that stand out in my memory. Rather it is a handful of images and encounters that play on my mind’s eye.  We found ourselves on very backroads in the heart of Appalachia.  Think ‘Deliverance.’   Comparisons to that movie are never complimentary; here neither.  And while we encountered no such drama, the images of the land and people felt accurate.

Before we ever made the turns that brought us to the true heart of the place, I remember stopping for gas a few hours outside of Helen, Georgia (a tourist venue, definitely not an enclave in the center of Appalachia).  We knew we were ‘no longer in Kansas’ (meaning Helen) when while the roads were still paved, we had not seen a gas station in ages.  We figured we would pay top-dollar for the fuel once we found a service station in this far-reaching outskirt from suburban life.  That was fine – you need it when you need it.  Still, at that point, gas wasn’t the only commodity we needed.  This was before GPS and we needed directions.  [Hmmm, maybe that is how we ended up where we did.]

Finally……gas ahead.  Michael was dealing with the purchase at the pumps; I walked into the ‘shop.’  [I hope you see the quotes around shop.]  A couple of men directly out of Hollywood casting lounged around.  I looked at the women behind the counter: beefy, upright, not toothless but on her way to much-needed dental care, and an obvious no-nonsense, proud character.  I inquired about directions and at the time gave the name of some specific (even if now forgotten) little town.  In a brusque but totally civil manner the woman laid out instructions and gesticulated directions and turns.  No doubt she had performed this same dance many times for what I suspect they call the ‘stupid city folk’ amongst themselves.  I could see the men microscopically nod their agreement with her guidelines.  Great.  Except that I understood not one word of what she said.  Looking back, I suspect I captured a word or two, but this could also be wishful thinking.

I panicked.  What to do?  I didn’t want to be insulting.  Perhaps in truth, I was terrified to be insulting.  I tried to hide my shock.  I may have even gulped.  I responded like you might under more normal conditions.  I repeated the advice in my own words, saying “so, I go this way (mimicking the gestures I remembered) and then I take a left and another left….” And so forth.  At one point I could tell she was attempting to correct me, so I shook my head as if “ah, yes, I understood.”  I then quickly said thank you with a big smile; nodded to the men and made my hasty escape.  Whether I was hearing remnants of German or a Scottish brogue (technically a Scottish ‘burr’), I didn’t know.  What I DID know was that it felt as remote as a foreign country.

On we went, following the ‘directions’ I had gotten.  I think we may have pulled off the road to stop laughing from my feeble attempts at translation.

Hours later the pavement was gone. In places the trees were almost as thick as the somewhat creepy kudzu (creepy literally and figuratively).  So engulfed in the middle of the mountains, their splendor was hidden from sight.  Still, periodically there was an open view into the ‘hollar’ below.  [For those never living in the south, that’s basically ‘down in the valley’ – just to show that I possess SOME translation skills.]  As with many similar places I have explored while living in West Virginia and even in the northeast (yes, there are some in the northeast), it appeared to be desolate in its beauty.  At dusk you realize that is inaccurate, as the desolation disappears with the dim glow of evening lights and with the smoke from wood stoves.

On this trip it was neither summer nor fall, but some shoulder time in between that is a preparation period for those who live in high or cold climates.  This particular day however was comfortably warm.  Although smoke from stoves was still visible, it was quite likely they were being used for cooking and not warmth.

Ramshackle homes in this place screamed out penury – poverty so severe as to make one wonder how its inhabitants survive.  There was not a lot of farming but there were occasional gardens along the side of structures (maybe or maybe not homes – none with paint).  Animal carcasses were in various stages of drying, hung either off trees or on what might have been a fence at one time.  Several houses we saw seemed to have no foundation, but built on stilts as dream homes often are along the beach.  That was a bit of a mystery.  Still is. Contrary to the poverty we also saw a few dwellings, no better looking than others, with TV antennas.  Can’t say this was a mystery; everyone finds comfort where they can.  Yet it was strange as some of those places didn’t appear to have electricity.

Children, yes unfortunately dirty, struck us in our split-second glances as shy.  Some with shoes, some without shoes – as is true of children everywhere, seemed to be scampering about.  They either ran about outside, hid behind the sheds or peaked out at us from small windows, at best single pane, that looked out on the road.  We contemplated the children even more forlornly as we realized it was a school day.

The scene was also set with many of the familiar stereotypes: old tires strewn about, rusted out pick-ups covered in vines, mangy-looking dogs barking in definitely-unfriendly tones, dead appliances parked anywhere, out-buildings (whether garages, barns, or outhouses) looking in better shape than living quarters.  And tiny front porches.  If the setting had been complete there would have been rocking chairs on those porches, but after hours of driving there we only saw a couple of these leisurely time-killers.  The idea of no rest for the weary comes to mind.

I have painted the picture.  You get it – they are poor!  And yes, we went through that same trite wonderment ‘how is this possible in America?’  But just like popular movies and their happy endings, there was one more scene here.

We were approaching one place we could see from ‘up the road a piece’ and rolled down our windows in preparation.  The house had a porch, but the little gathering of folks was elsewhere.  They were sitting on a variety of items (like 5 gallon paint buckets that you get from Home Depot), clustered in a nice patch of warming sun a few yards from the dilapidated front steps.  You guessed it.  They were playing music.

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Two older men, with a woman of hard-to-determine age, but not ‘spry’ and a young boy.  One man had a rather fine (but worn) looking banjo, another picked a guitar.  The woman was playing something on her lap which I couldn’t see but assume was either a dulcimer or an autoharp.  The young boy with his back to us was the percussion section.  The singing (and playing) was magnificently Appalachian folk; the sound that has luckily been preserved on old recordings.  But the best part was that you could tell they were enjoying themselves.  They were all smiling between their turns at singing.  As we had stopped the car momentarily to listen, they might even have smiled at us, maybe, a bit – if It wasn’t my imagination.  The scene was a small little gift.  A gift not only to hear them play, but to absorb the lesson of finding joy from music anywhere.

We have all heard stories of inspirational music and singing in concentration camps, or current-day symphony musicians playing in the streets of war-torn European cities.  I dare say that some of these lives lived in the Appalachians might be safer from human danger and political turmoil, but they are still mighty difficult.  Astonishingly more than the lives most of us lead.

If music can lift their spirits in the midst of such despair and scarcity, its power is evidently mighty.  We shouldn’t pass it up either.  Not only is it a delight in life, it is one that can easily continue for all of us as we age.  Participation levels may change, or not, but the enjoyment need not fade.

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I started writing this piece long before I ever realized that it would be posted right before Thanksgiving.  Thinking about it now, I believe there are few universal things that we can be as grateful for as music.  Whether you have a well-loved and well-played instrument, or one hiding in the dust cupboard; whether you like to sing in groups or just around the house when no one is listening, or if you dramatically conduct with your mixing spoon to the music from the radio or record (uh, CD) – enjoy it to the fullest.

This Thanksgiving, let’s not only be grateful for all we have but also for the insight to know that this synergistic duo of rhythm and melody can lift us joyfully higher – and touch the passions of our soul.

Indeed, I am also glad to have been able to share this remembrance at just the right time of year when the idea of gratitude is so close to us.  Hope you add music to your list of thanks.  I will.

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Pictures:
Title picture: source unknown; one reference found listed ‘Mozart Radford’; others claim picture of Pete Seeger. Author unknown.

Second picture: Oregon Hard Rock (or Gold) Miners Playing Music. Credits: Marguerite Black 1910-2007. Courtesy of Olena Black.

 

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