Row D, Seats 2 & 4

I’ve never been one to think if I don’t see a certain performer live, no matter how much I enjoyed their music, that my life would somehow be lacking something. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy live music. There is nothing like the feeling of the power a good group of musicians harness when working together. Some performers also have a tremendous charisma and presence that just can’t be ignored. Unfortunately for me, it is the totality of the event experience that wears me down. I dislike fighting through traffic then through crowds. Finally get to where you have rented a seat for the show’s duration just to cram your body into a seat in a row along with other folks who have crammed their bodies into seats. You also never quite know what to wear. If it is any kind of large venue, the place will be cold just because there is too much open space to keep the whole place warm. All this means you drag a coat to the venue only to have to take it off to fit into the seat at which time you end up having to hold your coat the whole show. And I could also talk about how some folks just don’t know how to behave in public but I am coming to the slow realization that fewer and fewer care about how they behave in public because they no longer know shame or no longer take pride in being decent to others so I’ll just keep that to myself.

There is also a certain understanding that my musical tastes probably went out of style a good twenty years ago, at the very least. Still, when the opportunity presents itself I will suck up my eccentricities to go to a live show. Recently as a birthday gift, my wife bought us tickets to see Emmylou Harris. So, on a Saturday night, we left our daughter with her grandparents and kicked out the jams in our own laid back way. Knowing how I dislike the whole event experience, Jennifer found just the right seats as we were seated at the end of an aisle.

You should know I have been a fan of Emmylou Harris’s music for many years. I recall much of her music from early in her career. It though was her bluegrass gem of an album “Roses In The Snow” that irretrievably made me her fan. My mom and dad were in a mail-order music club where they could purchase eight-track tapes at a reduced price back in the day. One selection that came to our house was this album. I would play it over and over and over. To me there is not one bad song on the album, from the plaintive “Wayfaring Stranger” to the lively “I’ll Go Stepping Too” to the yearning of “Miss The Mississippi and You” right down to the quiet hopefulness of “Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn”. Somehow all ten songs connected to me in some way.

Of course that album opened me up to the rest of her musical catalogue from her folk days to her days with Gram Parsons then into her country music career then into her forays where she has explored stretching her own musical boundaries after country music drifted far away from it’s own roots until it is in the unrecognizable pool of goo it wallows in today. As we took our seats on an autumn Saturday night I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. After all, Emmylou’s performing career stretches over parts of six decades and the selections she has recorded and performed in that time reach back much further.

She took the stage without introduction armed with her voice and a guitar then started singing “My Songbird”. Her five-piece band, the latest version of the Nash Ramblers, as cohesive a group as I have ever heard, joined her a song later. What followed was a sampling of her career and the music which has influenced her and in some way infiltrated my own life. There was Townes Van Zant’s “Pancho and Lefty”. There was “Shores of White Sand”. There was “If I Could Only Win Your Love”. There was Merle Haggard’s brutally sad “Kern River”. There was "Love and Happiness", her duet with Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits. There was “Red Dirt Girl”. There was her duet with the late Don Williams, “If I Needed You”. There was “Goin’ Back to Harlan”. There was “Making Believe”, the classic once popularized by Kitty Wells, my dad’s all-time favorite female singer. There was “Wheels” from the Flying Burrito Brothers, a song penned by Chris Hillman and Gram Parsons, Emmylou's lasting influence. And there was “Green Pastures”, one of those songs from “Roses In The Snow”.

Two hours and an encore later, we made our way toward home discussing the show. My wife, not really an Emmylou fan, seemed to have enjoyed the show. I was able to answer some of her questions about Emmylou’s career and music. What I didn’t know would be found later on the internet. Even later, I reflected on the show realizing what a wide swath of musical history we had heard that night. She had performed songs which covered her whole career. A few of them were her own. Others had been written by or performed by The Carter Family, the Louvin Brothers, Merle Haggard, Kitty Wells, James Taylor, Dion, the Stanley Brothers, Don Williams, Mark Knopfler and others. It was not just a career retrospective it was a doctoral study in a truly uniquely American art form that few have the experience to teach.

Honestly, I would have loved to have heard some of my other favorites. Maybe the guilty pleasure of 1989’s “Heartbreak Hill” or her very personal “Boulder to Birmingham”. Hearing her sing what I consider to be one of country music’s five greatest songs, “Together Again”, would have been tremendous. It would have been good to have heard some lost gems like “Drivin’ Wheel” or “I Don’t Have To Crawl” or “Till I Gain Control Again” or “Satan’s Jewel Crown” or “Even Cowgirls Get The Blues” or “White Line”. Some of her more recent songs like “Moon Song”, “Back When We Were Beautiful”, “Her Hair Was Red”, “This Is Us” and “If This Is Goodbye” would have been fun to hear as well. With Christmas nearing a verse or two of “Beautiful Star of Bethlehem” or “Christmas Time’s A-Coming” would have fit right in considering some people in our neighborhood already had their Christmas trees visible through their living room windows before the Halloween pumpkins had been removed from their neighbor’s front steps. Close it all out with a verse of  the gospel chestnut “Angel Band”. Of course I could list a dozen more songs if I tried. But, I know, she can’t sing all night. There was a bus ride ahead for her to the next show the next night in Birmingham. Still, I found it all very satisfying. And all those songs I would have loved to have heard her sing I can listen to most anytime as I have for decades, in my car, at my desk at work or through any other number of ways.

It’s funny isn’t it how we often gravitate to a performer. In today’s musical world, Emmylou Harris is yesterday’s news. Her time to churn out hits and stage massive concert tours passed by years ago. I often feel that way with the music I listen to when I can. Still, when she takes the stage her voice is as clear as it was forty years ago when she was the hottest thing country music knew at the time. Her music still resonates with me more than any performer churning out the hits today can. The distance time has put between then and now only makes what's left behind more timeless, more treasured. Those decades and the fickle nature of the taste of the public when it comes to music may be why a Billy Joe Shaver-penned song that she performed near the end of her show rang so true to me as it often feels the music I like, and time, in general, is passing by so quickly.

“It's taken me so long but now that I know I believe
All that I do or say all that I ever will be
Too far and too high and too deep ain't too much to be
Too much ain't enough for old five and dimers like me”

Now excuse me, I need to find an eight-track tape player.

Even For A Monday

Monday morning came, as it usually does, much sooner than I wanted. While I knew this Monday would have its own challenges I never knew how quickly those challenges would start or how deep into the day they would stretch.

Early on this Monday, the first challenge appeared. Somehow through my own natural clumsiness I managed to dump a nearly-full bowl of Cheerios and milk down my pants leg. I have been told once or twice to 'eat it or wear it' but this took that old saying to a whole new level. Somehow I remained calm then set ahead for the task of scooping wet cereal off my clothes. Then I attempted to dry the floor. Of course, the mess I created, and the clean-up of stated mess, caused me to be late leaving for work. You know how it goes...one thing leads to another...domino effect-Monday-morning style.

While I hoped things would settle once at work, I found myself grappling all morning with a software upgrade that did not want to cooperate. Simple steps the email implied. The implication it was a simple process was driven home the dozen or so times I read the email looking for some hidden clue I may have missed during the few hours I tangled with this task. After some wrangling, the software seemed to finally install in some form.

Lunch came next. The lunch line was not long but it barely moved. After a time, I returned to my office with an order of chicken fingers. Then on the second bite of the second chicken finger, the honey mustard sauce I dipped the golden brown chicken in slid off the chicken landing smack dab on my left pants leg. First, Cheerios and now chicken fingers, what would it take for me to eat a meal without dropping food everywhere on this Monday? Maybe I reasoned I just wasn't meant to have a meal without some mini-disaster on this day.

During the afternoon, I discovered the software installation from the morning had worked, sort of. When I tried to open the programs I needed I was reminded I was opening a trial version of the software. Funny how I don't recall the paperwork our department used to procure this software mentioning anything about a trial version. I wrote it off as an adventure to deal with the next work day as the last few hours of work on this Monday saw me fielding email requests and other issues right and left so much so that I thought I would not complete them all before I needed to leave for the day.

When I did leave, I drove a few miles away to pick Hannah up from school. She saw me step onto the playground then came running toward me, her face turning into a deeper frown with each step. She jumped into my arms then began telling me how she was hurting all over. Wonderful, I thought, now, a half-hour ride home with a tired little girl whose Monday seemed to go about as well as mine had.

Oh, and, by the time we got home, it had started to rain. I gritted my teeth trying to smile as I rolled the garbage can to the curb while raindrops grew heavier with each step. And, of course, by this time that old worn out cliche, 'when it rains it pours' seemed quite appropriate.

Still, home is home. It's the place I want to be after a Monday has wrung me out then put me up to dry. Once here, it wasn't long before I discovered Hannah's bad day had come from tripping over a tree root on the playground on two different occasions during the day. Once home, that was forgotten as she danced around to Patty Loveless's song "Santa Train", even though the song was a few months out of season. We would also read a library book about four kittens who had never seen snow. Later, Jennifer was busy preparing supper. As Hannah and I rested on the couch, Hannah turned to me and said, "Something smells good." I agreed.

A few minutes later, we gathered around our dinner table, blessed the food then ate the good stuff we had before us. Afterward, the routine of every night fit into place. Before I knew it, Jennifer was putting Hannah to bed while I sat with my laptop hammering away these few words. As this narrative came together, I could hear the two giggling and talking. The page filled with words as the beautiful noise from another room grew quieter as Hannah drifted off to sleep under Jennifer's own watchful but sleepy eyes. Kayla, the cat, even soaked in the silence as she lay sprawled on the floor on the other side of the room with me.

The quiet allowed me to reflect on the day that was, for all purposes, over. The spilled milk and Cheerios, the software struggles, the work demands and the rain faded into a place replaced with moments of laughter and meaningful time spent together as family. In the quietness that remained, I realized it really had been a very good day after all, even for a Monday.

Birdhouse Vacancy

One of the quiet traditions my parent’s grandchildren and great-grandchildren likely all have experienced is visiting the birdhouse with their grandfather. Just above their house on a metal pole sits a roughhewn wooden birdhouse facing west. It has a hole near the top of the front of the house and a lock on the roof that connects to the house to keep out predators. That lock also allows Pappaw to unlock it opening the top of the birdhouse so that he can hold new generations of the family up to it so they can gaze down onto a bird’s nest which is often filled with tiny eggs. Several in our family have pictures of Pappaw holding them in their younger years or holding their children in more recent times at that birdhouse peering down into that private little world.

Hannah has experienced this tradition. Every time we visit my parents she insists on visiting the birdhouse even if the birds have gone south for the winter.

I noticed Hannah’s fascination with the birdhouse. That wasn’t hard to do especially after last year when I asked her what gift she would like to buy her Mom for Mother’s Day and her answer was a birdhouse. My Dad also took note of Hannah’s fascination with the birdhouse. And, of course, my Dad did something about it.

In his spare time, Dad built Hannah her own birdhouse. Then, as a birthday gift to her, he and my Mom gave it to her. All that had to be done to it was to paint it then plant it in our yard.

Hannah and I went to the nearby hardware store one day. She picked out a brownish-brick color and some brushes. Later, she put paint to brush and her new birdhouse was transformed into a different looking home for the aviary set. We wrote her name and Pappaw’s name on the bottom of the house and dated it for posterity.

Once the paint dried, we had to determine where the birdhouse would be placed. I felt it would be best near the end of our drive way nestled in a bed of tangled vine of unknown origin. Hannah though felt it would be better resting in a nest of ivy above our driveway at the edge of our porch. So, for a few months, the birdhouse stood, facing west as my Dad suggested, but not one bird moved into the house. Likely, by the time we painted and planted the birdhouse, the season for nesting had passed by. Either that or the birdhouse is just too close to the human house for some birds. These birds, of course, would not be the birds who try to build in any nook or cranny or flat surface of our porch throughout the year.

Now as spring nears, we've moved the birdhouse to a new location. It now rests in the front yard in the flower bed between the two oak trees. We will see if this location will bring us our first tenants.

That said, if you know of any birds looking for a good place to stay, send them our way. We’ll treat them right. Of course, we reserve the right to look in on them from time to time.