Song to Sing

Dave Pinkerton

   “Do you have a song to sing?” asked the picking circle’s de facto leader, Ron.

“Maybe next time around,” answered the new guy, Hep was his name. I overheard him saying he and his wife were RVing at the Tall Texan for a month. “Oklahoma City is over a hundred degrees about now,” he said, a distant look in his eyes as if avoiding the heat was somehow disloyal to his home state. “Had to get away.”

As is the habit in a picking circle, the opportunity to lead a song for the group moves to the next person, in this case that was Charlotte—a retired school teacher with a strong voice, quick wit, and an unknown energy supply. She makes volunteering at the food pantry, heading up a vacation Bible School, and serving on city council seem like what everyone does at 78 years young. “This town needs to hear people who have been around the block,” she told folks during the campaign. And folks agreed.

With a lively kick-off lick, we all came in on the down beat of Rolling in My Sweet Baby’s Arms. Charlotte played fast, expecting us to match her energy, but lagging just enough to keep us together. Having been around the block made for a good song leader, too.

I took a moment to notice how Hep sang; his head nodding in rhythm, eyes closed mostly, and hands tapping the off beat on his knees. He knew music—or maybe it was that he felt music—felt it in a way that transformed his body and affect into Buster Carter and Preston Young. They first recorded this bluegrass standard in 1931. I was glad that he chose to “get away” with his new friends in today’s picking circle.

Next up was Jackle. No, not Jack—Jackle. He was a long-faced dispensary-owner with Mick Jagger hair and a predisposition to play every tune in a blues motif. Imagine I’ll Fly Away sung and played by B.B. King. Jackle could do it well, and we all loved his interpretation of old songs weeded and pruned into a new mood. People who used his product knew that excellence, service, and long-term stewardship were his credo. His blues guitar in a bluegrass jam session didn’t hurt either. He led us in a Joe Walsh version of the Beatles tune, When I Saw Her Standing There. Not exactly a Hillbilly tune but, hey this is Gunnison!

Hep was smiling now, introducing some swaying back and forth to his projection of being “into it”. He could hit that Paul McCarthy “ooh” at the end of the chorus, pitch perfect. I could just about hear the 1963 teenaged girls screaming in delight. My friends in the weekly jam session were starting to notice. Hep was becoming part of the circle. The circle was becoming part of Hep.

Of course, the circle was unbroken. Each contributor, whether expert or novice, poured out his or her best in the spirit of making a joyful noise. Some could sing and play at an advanced level. Others could count to four, but not the same way each verse. Yet everyone, especially the spontaneous sidewalk crowd, loved it. The mandolins, guitars, ukuleles, banjos, and Dobratos vibrated each in their own voice, contributing to the bigger-than-them sound… making joy more important that perfection, “likes”, or sameness.

The circle came back to Hep. Ron nodded silently, somehow knowing how special Hep’s song selection and story would be. This is how it went.

Hep said, “I lost my dad a few months back—92 good years and one bad week—not too shabby.” He lowered his chin a moment. “Four brain lesions and he was flat out in a hospital bed, drooling and picking at all the tubes.” Hep inhaled. His head lifted and his eyes moved around the circle. “But we came here to get away from how much that hurt. And we found a circle of new friends. Not everybody is the same. No one sings the same song.” Another deep breath. “But I could sense this was a circle where I could tell my story and have people hear it, feel it, and share in it.”

All the instruments were silent, held in laps or set next to chairs.

“Dad was in memory care. He was a happy dementia patient. His favorite activity was the weekly sing-a-long. I sang his favorite song at his hospital bed that last week. He woke up momentarily and mumbled the melody with me.

Hep just began singing, no guitar or anything. It was that 1920’s tune When You’re Smiling. His voice was a wonderful blend of Chris Stapleton and Frank Sinatra. Every syllable had the sense of lasting authenticity in it—the felt reality of loss and renewal. The lyrics are simple and genuine.

When you’re smiling, when you’re smiling,

The whole world smiles with you.

When you’re laughing, when you’re laughing,

The sun comes shining through.

But when you’re crying, you bring on the rain,

So stop you’re sighing, be happy again.

So, when you’re smiling, when you’re smiling,

‘Cause the whole world smiles with you.

The circle, the sidewalk audience, and seemingly even the traffic along Main Street stopped for several reverent seconds. A few of us reached for handkerchiefs. Ron, the circle leader, nodded as if to say, “One more time, please?”

Hep closed his eyes and moved his hands like a conductor. We all knew what he wanted and came in perfectly. Harmonies layered in, clear notes resonated, and our phrasing was in perfect synchrony. We sang Hep’s song three more times, each with a slightly nuanced difference—more feeling, less consciousness of anyone listening.

And then it was over. Seconds expired. Ron started our traditional ending song, Will the Circle Be Unbroken.

When the closing song was complete, we packed up our instruments, chatted, and of course went over to Hep to say something appropriate about his loss, to ask him to come back, and to thank him for being so open about his grief.

I went home thinking about the picking circle, the wonderful way we all accepted our musical eccentricities and yet still made meaningful music together. But most of all, I thought about Hep and his gift to us—vulnerability, openness, and authenticity. I think we reflected that back to him, at least I hope we did. He had to “get away” from his home. I hope he found a new home here in Gunnison, at the very least for vacationing. We’re better for his visit. We’re better for a new member to the circle.

All of us in this valley have a song to sing. And it is a good feeling to know we have a head start on listening to those songs because of simple traditions like the picking circle and heartfelt guys like Hep.

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