Author's note: All dialogue contained in this passage should be read with a southern drawl for maximum effectiveness. For example, "Virginia" should be pronouced: "Ver-jee-nya."
It came out of nowhere:
Pop: Hey, you wanna go down and see some live bluegrass music tonight?
Me: Uhh…sure!
I'm always down for live music.
We went back to our respective activities, I finished reading a novel and he finished watching a documentary about Cleopatra's seductive methods of procuring and managing an empire.
Oh, Pop has a Jersey accent and I'm a normal West Coast speaker, so don't read that dialogue like a southerner…you'll ruin it.
Two other ladies from the local community were also planning on attending this social event and offered to drive, so we met them at the only meeting place in Montebello, the general store parking lot (They have a light!) and Pop and I swung into the back seat of the SUV. That was the last time my stomach and I were on speaking terms with each other. Rain was falling steadily as we sliced the curves off the mountain heading into the valley. Turning off of the back highway onto a nameless road, the directions of "Turn at the place where you'll go under the bridge" were quite clear to the locals. We turned, and proceeded down a paved, bumpy back road that had been entirely neglected by the line-paint truck. Onto another back road we swerved and my innards protested. Finally we slowed enough to pull off the road onto what could pass as a gravel driveway. Passing a few small houses, several single-wides, and an opening in the dilapidated wooden fence we found a spot to park the car; nestled between broken-down tractors, corroded lawn-mower parts, and a thousand other random collected farming tools my stomach and I finally found each other. Come to find out the gal who was driving is from Jersey….I should have known.
Looking around I would have never pegged this place as a music venue. We followed our hosts into a door in the corner of a building. Passing under the corrugated metal porch roof we entered a surprisingly warm room. It was well lit with halogen lights fixed in the low ceiling. What looked to be an old garage had been roughly converted into a meeting place. The large bay doors, obviously shut, were the backrest for a row of chairs set up against them. Two rows of seats were set up on the adjacent wall, comprising of everything from white plastic lawn chairs, old couches from someone's grandma's estate sale, twirly office-style stools, and benches from a school bus. Pop and I, taking advantage of our premature arrival, chose two brown leather seats nearest the black wood stove in the center of the wall. In front of the third wall was a large counter-type thing, probably 4 ft deep and 15 ft long. The office twirly stools stood in front of the counter, sharing the open floor space and served as the stage area for the band yet to be determined. The fourth wall was open, leading into an attached area reserved for food and drinks.
The reason we didn't know who the band would be is because no one knows until they show up. Local fellows who feel like playing that night will arrive with any array of instruments that may fit into the "bluegrass" genre. The first four in the door were a fiddler, acoustic guitar, lap steel guitar, and banjo players. A few more members of the audience claimed their seats as more band members strolled through the door. Another acoustic guitar. Another banjo. A mandolin. Chatter livened up the room as the musicians began tuning their instruments. As they walked in they placed their cases on top of the gigantic counter and removed their respective sound machines. Finally, a tall man arrived lugging a large black bag which I instantly recognized. He was a burly guy, dressed in kind with blue jeans and matching black button up shirt and black cowboy boots. Gingerly he unzipped the case and lifted the upright bass onto the worn plywood floor. The party just arrived.
These fellows have been playing together for many years. Some of them more, some less, and anyone is welcome to join the jam session each Tuesday night (provided you can find the place in the dark). Be sure you come in jeans and close-toed shoes because you'll be tapping, shuffling, and jamming them on the dance floor. The group started with one of their old favorites which I didn't recognize and off they went. More players sifted in throughout the night and my count at it's highest was 11 people playing simultaneously. A pleasant-looking man set himself up on an empty stool and commenced picking away at his acoustic guitar, ignoring the can of chew obviously straining against the front pocket of his jeans. Two more acoustic players came in (totaling 4 of them) as well as another mandolin and banjo. One guy even brought his own mic so his voice could be heard above the merry fracas. After each song the group took about 2 minutes to determine the next one.
"Larry, what'cha got?"
"I dunno Bob, I'll play whutever."
"Aww, cum on! Pick one an' we'll play it!"
"Well, I kinda like that one….you know…that one about the Blue Mountains in West Virgina."
"Sure! Alright boys, let's do the one about the mountains in West Virginia…you all know it right? In G…"
And they would be up and running…well, maybe up and picking would be a more appropriate expression. These fellows were very talented! Most of them played a variety of instruments and between the 11 of them I found it hard to keep track who was playing what. Often their 2 minute pow-wow was littered with chit-chat about local news, whose wife had been sick lately, how many strings he had broken at the last gig, and how this gosh durn weather kept changing on a dime. Oh yes, it was still raining, in fact we were in the middle of a bone-fide Virginia thunderstorm. From my cozy perch I saw plenty of lightning flashes out the window across the room, heard the booms of thunder above the music, and glanced up at the ceiling when it rained cats and dogs. Turns out it was hail…no wonder it was so loud. Each time the door opened in the corner the entire room of heads turned to see who let in the draft, and who else was crazy enough to brave the storm and enjoy some local bluegrass music on a weeknight.
I made a friend. She's about 9 years old. About an hour into the festivities she came up to me and said,
"Don't eat any of the food on the back table. The ants got into it."
Thanks pal.
A little later she stole Pop's chair and sat next to me.
"Hey, do you know that one word…"
I'm sure I do.
"It's really long…"
Okay, my list just got shorter…I know about two "really long" words and I'm sure you've only ever been exposed to one of them at your age.
"It's like…something-something….ahiemghsndoshus."
Ahh yes, that's what I thought, and you're lucky I'm a cultured and educated woman.
I shared my wealth of knowledge with the young girl.
"Oh, you mean supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?" I offered.
"Um…maybe…"
"Well, that's the only word I know that sounds even remotely close to what you said, and it's a pretty popular word too." I explained.
She looked really confused.
"So…how do you say it again?"
I took it step by step and had her repeat it after me in chunks. I asked her if she knew where it was from. She said no, but didn't it have something to do with ducks? I quickly dismissed that bit of misinformation, and explained it was from an old movie and basically was a word that meant absolutely nothing, therefore it really wasn't a word at all, just a bunch of gibberish and sounded fun to say. There's even a song about it. She held my gaze for a moment when I mentioned the song, like I was the lunatic who made it up. I assured her that the song was legit and I could even spell it out for her if she wanted to look it up. She didn't, but instead ran across the room weaving through the band and sat up on the counter between the black cases with her other friend. After a few minutes she came back.
"My friend (another lady in the room) said it's 'supercalifragidocious."
Well that's close but not quite. I broke down the morphemes again and when she memorized it went racing across the room. The next time I saw her she proudly stood before me and announced, "I can say it." and rattled it off perfectly. I gave her a high five and a big smile and she went around the room, telling everyone about the biggest word she could say. Truly an empowering life achievement for a 9 year old and I'm glad I could share it with her.
One of my favorite characters (and I mean that in a very endearing way) was an 87 year old man. Thin, shoulders slightly hunched, and hands at the ends of long dangling arms showed weathered years of hard labor. The laces of his work boots were covered by the faded blue overalls, and the brown plaid shirt matched his farmer appearance. His face, wrinkled with time, lit up the room as he proved to be the most lively dancer out on the floor. Even between sets he could hardly keep still, shuffling around and tapping his toes to any beat put out by the improv line of the banjo. I totally know how he felt. I think musical souls can understand one another even if the genres don't match up exactly.
There were many other characters there but I was the youngest, save my little logophile friend. Halfway through the night one gentleman found an old white bucket that had been cut to half size, and walked around the room collecting donations and passing out red peppermint candies. I'm not sure where the money was going, possibly to the band or the owner of the property. We saw people going in and out of the door all night and Pop and I looked at each other. "Do you think that's where the bathroom is?" "I dunno, let's ask." So Pop walked over to the ladies who brought us and they confirmed it was around the side of the house. Pushing open the door we were surprised to find the porch standing room only with chattering smokers. Oh. THAT'S why everyone was going outside! All the same, we still had to go. I asked one of the ladies as she exhaled a puff of gray into the night air: "Excuse me, where are the restrooms?" "The whut? Oh, you mean the port 'o john…yeah, it's right aroun' the corner. Menfolk go on out past the machinery…jus' find a place out thar…" And so it was. I gingerly opened the door to the outhouse (which had no latch) and was careful not to touch ANYTHING as I held my breath. Poor Pop had to dodge the broken machinery-turned-lawn-ornaments and tall grass in the dark to wander out and find a barn wall or tree or whatever….probably ended up finding an old tractor to pee on. We made our way back inside and gave each other understanding looks of sympathy that conveyed "when in Rome…"
We were the last to leave, given that our hostesses were hard-core dancers and bluegrass disciples. The buzzing of the lights faded leaving us in the quiet wake of the storm. In my flip flops I deftly navigated across the pot-holed parking area to the car. I found a quarter. Respectfully I requested a slower ride home (especially around the corners) and the driver graciously obliged much to the relief of my innards. When we finally swerved past several deer in the road and made it up the mountain Pop and I were ready for bed. I don't know if we'll go back next week….I think the best part was the novelty! If I do make it back I'm bringing a harmonica. I'm not very good but it'll add some texture and gender! Oh! I should learn how to play the Jews harp…yeah….
It came out of nowhere:
Pop: Hey, you wanna go down and see some live bluegrass music tonight?
Me: Uhh…sure!
I'm always down for live music.
We went back to our respective activities, I finished reading a novel and he finished watching a documentary about Cleopatra's seductive methods of procuring and managing an empire.
Oh, Pop has a Jersey accent and I'm a normal West Coast speaker, so don't read that dialogue like a southerner…you'll ruin it.
Two other ladies from the local community were also planning on attending this social event and offered to drive, so we met them at the only meeting place in Montebello, the general store parking lot (They have a light!) and Pop and I swung into the back seat of the SUV. That was the last time my stomach and I were on speaking terms with each other. Rain was falling steadily as we sliced the curves off the mountain heading into the valley. Turning off of the back highway onto a nameless road, the directions of "Turn at the place where you'll go under the bridge" were quite clear to the locals. We turned, and proceeded down a paved, bumpy back road that had been entirely neglected by the line-paint truck. Onto another back road we swerved and my innards protested. Finally we slowed enough to pull off the road onto what could pass as a gravel driveway. Passing a few small houses, several single-wides, and an opening in the dilapidated wooden fence we found a spot to park the car; nestled between broken-down tractors, corroded lawn-mower parts, and a thousand other random collected farming tools my stomach and I finally found each other. Come to find out the gal who was driving is from Jersey….I should have known.
Looking around I would have never pegged this place as a music venue. We followed our hosts into a door in the corner of a building. Passing under the corrugated metal porch roof we entered a surprisingly warm room. It was well lit with halogen lights fixed in the low ceiling. What looked to be an old garage had been roughly converted into a meeting place. The large bay doors, obviously shut, were the backrest for a row of chairs set up against them. Two rows of seats were set up on the adjacent wall, comprising of everything from white plastic lawn chairs, old couches from someone's grandma's estate sale, twirly office-style stools, and benches from a school bus. Pop and I, taking advantage of our premature arrival, chose two brown leather seats nearest the black wood stove in the center of the wall. In front of the third wall was a large counter-type thing, probably 4 ft deep and 15 ft long. The office twirly stools stood in front of the counter, sharing the open floor space and served as the stage area for the band yet to be determined. The fourth wall was open, leading into an attached area reserved for food and drinks.
The reason we didn't know who the band would be is because no one knows until they show up. Local fellows who feel like playing that night will arrive with any array of instruments that may fit into the "bluegrass" genre. The first four in the door were a fiddler, acoustic guitar, lap steel guitar, and banjo players. A few more members of the audience claimed their seats as more band members strolled through the door. Another acoustic guitar. Another banjo. A mandolin. Chatter livened up the room as the musicians began tuning their instruments. As they walked in they placed their cases on top of the gigantic counter and removed their respective sound machines. Finally, a tall man arrived lugging a large black bag which I instantly recognized. He was a burly guy, dressed in kind with blue jeans and matching black button up shirt and black cowboy boots. Gingerly he unzipped the case and lifted the upright bass onto the worn plywood floor. The party just arrived.
These fellows have been playing together for many years. Some of them more, some less, and anyone is welcome to join the jam session each Tuesday night (provided you can find the place in the dark). Be sure you come in jeans and close-toed shoes because you'll be tapping, shuffling, and jamming them on the dance floor. The group started with one of their old favorites which I didn't recognize and off they went. More players sifted in throughout the night and my count at it's highest was 11 people playing simultaneously. A pleasant-looking man set himself up on an empty stool and commenced picking away at his acoustic guitar, ignoring the can of chew obviously straining against the front pocket of his jeans. Two more acoustic players came in (totaling 4 of them) as well as another mandolin and banjo. One guy even brought his own mic so his voice could be heard above the merry fracas. After each song the group took about 2 minutes to determine the next one.
"Larry, what'cha got?"
"I dunno Bob, I'll play whutever."
"Aww, cum on! Pick one an' we'll play it!"
"Well, I kinda like that one….you know…that one about the Blue Mountains in West Virgina."
"Sure! Alright boys, let's do the one about the mountains in West Virginia…you all know it right? In G…"
And they would be up and running…well, maybe up and picking would be a more appropriate expression. These fellows were very talented! Most of them played a variety of instruments and between the 11 of them I found it hard to keep track who was playing what. Often their 2 minute pow-wow was littered with chit-chat about local news, whose wife had been sick lately, how many strings he had broken at the last gig, and how this gosh durn weather kept changing on a dime. Oh yes, it was still raining, in fact we were in the middle of a bone-fide Virginia thunderstorm. From my cozy perch I saw plenty of lightning flashes out the window across the room, heard the booms of thunder above the music, and glanced up at the ceiling when it rained cats and dogs. Turns out it was hail…no wonder it was so loud. Each time the door opened in the corner the entire room of heads turned to see who let in the draft, and who else was crazy enough to brave the storm and enjoy some local bluegrass music on a weeknight.
I made a friend. She's about 9 years old. About an hour into the festivities she came up to me and said,
"Don't eat any of the food on the back table. The ants got into it."
Thanks pal.
A little later she stole Pop's chair and sat next to me.
"Hey, do you know that one word…"
I'm sure I do.
"It's really long…"
Okay, my list just got shorter…I know about two "really long" words and I'm sure you've only ever been exposed to one of them at your age.
"It's like…something-something….ahiemghsndoshus."
Ahh yes, that's what I thought, and you're lucky I'm a cultured and educated woman.
I shared my wealth of knowledge with the young girl.
"Oh, you mean supercalifragilisticexpialidocious?" I offered.
"Um…maybe…"
"Well, that's the only word I know that sounds even remotely close to what you said, and it's a pretty popular word too." I explained.
She looked really confused.
"So…how do you say it again?"
I took it step by step and had her repeat it after me in chunks. I asked her if she knew where it was from. She said no, but didn't it have something to do with ducks? I quickly dismissed that bit of misinformation, and explained it was from an old movie and basically was a word that meant absolutely nothing, therefore it really wasn't a word at all, just a bunch of gibberish and sounded fun to say. There's even a song about it. She held my gaze for a moment when I mentioned the song, like I was the lunatic who made it up. I assured her that the song was legit and I could even spell it out for her if she wanted to look it up. She didn't, but instead ran across the room weaving through the band and sat up on the counter between the black cases with her other friend. After a few minutes she came back.
"My friend (another lady in the room) said it's 'supercalifragidocious."
Well that's close but not quite. I broke down the morphemes again and when she memorized it went racing across the room. The next time I saw her she proudly stood before me and announced, "I can say it." and rattled it off perfectly. I gave her a high five and a big smile and she went around the room, telling everyone about the biggest word she could say. Truly an empowering life achievement for a 9 year old and I'm glad I could share it with her.
One of my favorite characters (and I mean that in a very endearing way) was an 87 year old man. Thin, shoulders slightly hunched, and hands at the ends of long dangling arms showed weathered years of hard labor. The laces of his work boots were covered by the faded blue overalls, and the brown plaid shirt matched his farmer appearance. His face, wrinkled with time, lit up the room as he proved to be the most lively dancer out on the floor. Even between sets he could hardly keep still, shuffling around and tapping his toes to any beat put out by the improv line of the banjo. I totally know how he felt. I think musical souls can understand one another even if the genres don't match up exactly.
There were many other characters there but I was the youngest, save my little logophile friend. Halfway through the night one gentleman found an old white bucket that had been cut to half size, and walked around the room collecting donations and passing out red peppermint candies. I'm not sure where the money was going, possibly to the band or the owner of the property. We saw people going in and out of the door all night and Pop and I looked at each other. "Do you think that's where the bathroom is?" "I dunno, let's ask." So Pop walked over to the ladies who brought us and they confirmed it was around the side of the house. Pushing open the door we were surprised to find the porch standing room only with chattering smokers. Oh. THAT'S why everyone was going outside! All the same, we still had to go. I asked one of the ladies as she exhaled a puff of gray into the night air: "Excuse me, where are the restrooms?" "The whut? Oh, you mean the port 'o john…yeah, it's right aroun' the corner. Menfolk go on out past the machinery…jus' find a place out thar…" And so it was. I gingerly opened the door to the outhouse (which had no latch) and was careful not to touch ANYTHING as I held my breath. Poor Pop had to dodge the broken machinery-turned-lawn-ornaments and tall grass in the dark to wander out and find a barn wall or tree or whatever….probably ended up finding an old tractor to pee on. We made our way back inside and gave each other understanding looks of sympathy that conveyed "when in Rome…"
We were the last to leave, given that our hostesses were hard-core dancers and bluegrass disciples. The buzzing of the lights faded leaving us in the quiet wake of the storm. In my flip flops I deftly navigated across the pot-holed parking area to the car. I found a quarter. Respectfully I requested a slower ride home (especially around the corners) and the driver graciously obliged much to the relief of my innards. When we finally swerved past several deer in the road and made it up the mountain Pop and I were ready for bed. I don't know if we'll go back next week….I think the best part was the novelty! If I do make it back I'm bringing a harmonica. I'm not very good but it'll add some texture and gender! Oh! I should learn how to play the Jews harp…yeah….
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