Small Town

Living here sometimes makes life difficult.  Everyday you have to schlep to the post office to get your day's mail.  The first and only ATM machine in town is only 3 years old.  In the summer, our two-lane Main Street sometimes has to handle the flow of a nearby 4-lane, divided superhighway.  On days like that, it's quicker to park in the cemetery, hoof it up the hill to home and to retrieve the car in about 2 days, after the
traffic clears.  Yes, we have a cemetery, but no 7-11, or even a corner deli for those late night milk and cookie runs. If you want something stronger to quench your thirst, you are plumb out of luck unless it's Thursday, Friday or Saturday night when the local jazz club is open for business.

Last week, one of our townspeople died.  She had a brain tumor with cancer cells thickly flowing through her lymphatic system and setting up residence in various other organs.  She and her teenaged son were living from paycheck to paycheck.  Then she lost her benefits, her income, and the bureaucrats kept reporting that she was not eligible for Social Security disability payments, since, in  their omnipotent judgment, she could still perform work.  The hospital and medication bills kept being rung up on the cash register.  On top of the  severe pain, deep concern for a son about to lose his only parent, a brick-load of debt was dumped by her hospital bed.

When someone is in trouble, this quirky town just goes about doing its miracles.  The call went out.  Like an old Judy Garland / Mickey Rooney movie, "Let's do a show." echoed in the town's hills.  The professional musicians (some with nationally recognized names and Grammy statuettes on their shelves)  started to assemble pick up groups for the gig.  The church started a fund for the monies collected (tax exemption, you know.)  An ad-hoc stage crew congealed and started measuring out a performance space in the church sanctuary and determining where the Kliegl lights were to be placed.  Two piano tuners showed up and gave the 1935 Steinway a tune up and oil change.  There was no publicity committee.  Didn't need one.  The little old magpies in town were told the particulars and set loose.


The night of the concert came.  A sound engineer from a recording studio about 20 miles away, opened the church doors and set up the equipment to record the concert for the hospital-bound guest of honor.  The make-do ticket booth collected the admission price from the lined up patrons. Ten dollars was the price of admission, but someone "forgot" to supply the box office with change.  All though the long show, they never  did get smaller bills to break the $20 bills everyone presented.  People milled around the  sanctuary-turned-bistro catching up on the happenings since the early  morning chats over post office mail boxes.  About 10-15 minutes after the scheduled start time, the light dimmed and the soft, rosy-pink glow of light gels warmed the front wall of the sanctuary.  (Forgot to mention that the town time keeps strict MDT, Musician Daylight savings Time.)

The first group of performers left their seats in the pews and ambled up to the stage.  After that it was pure transformation.  The audience was tossed from the wonder of a voice and a clarinet so in love with each other that one could not distinguish the two different voices, to the gentle, mellow sway of  sambas, from  plaintive renderings of Gershwin and to the upbeat swing of Cole Porter. When the last glorious note faded, the musicians whispered into the mike, "We love you." And the congregation replied,
"AMEN."  During the standing ovation, the performers disappeared into the audience and hugged their kids.


Next up was "Gaptime".  Sitting in a semicircle, they quietly talked and arranged their scores as they decided what to perform.  Why waste time rehearsing and planning when you know your fellow musicians so well that phrasing and timing are transmitted almost telepathically? The pianist / arranger ambled over to the Steinway. "1, 2. 1  and  2 and", the first chord of ragtime bounced off the vaulted ceiling.  If you looked around the assembly during that set there were 2 groups: the living and the comatose.  Feet bounced, toes tapped, heads bobbed and shoulders twisted in rhythm with or in syncopation to the melodies of Scott Joplin, Jellyroll Morton and others.  The comatose space occupiers did not yield to the waves of musical energy beating against their bodies and their souls. Don't know how they could not move to those on-rushing melodic tsunamis.  "We love you." was whispered into the mike. And the congregation replied, "AMEN."  Again, the performers slipped off the stage, carrying their music stands, instruments, chairs and other paraphernalia with them.

Arms stretched above heads.  Stiff bodies did jigs in the aisle to ease the kinks from sitting on 19th century church benches.  The sound crew adjusted mike stands, while the lighting crew looked over the light poles.  The minister started to auction off cushions, but didn't get any bids.  In this town, we're used to torture and hardship.  The hardness of the pews were nothing.  The minister took up the hand mike and said "Hey, there's a really full house for you here tonight.  People are standing along the walls and  sitting on the floor in the aisles."  Words to be listened to and treasured over the next few days of life.  "Don't forget to fill out your pink slips with your hellos and good wishes. We'll be getting a scrapbook together to go with tonight's tape, and we will be taking it to the hospital."  The minister was just about finished when the words were overpowered by electronic keyboard and guitar.


The last group was the next generation of town musicians.  "The kids. How wonderful to see them perform," chatted the old magpies. They had made the same comment for at least 2 generations of town musicians over the years.  Before the set began, the leader, with a choked voice said "thank you" to their patron, supporter and cheerleader now confined to a deathbed.  Paul Simon and Beatle tunes bounced with a jazz beat.  The saxophonist improvised with such mellowness and sweetness; the hard edge of his earlier, immature playing soften by experience.  A young singer wailed and scatted like her older sister in talent.  The pianist sat upright and played with cool hands, as if to impress a master teacher with his perfect keyboard form and grace.  The powerful sounds pushed against walls and reverberated in chests. The audience, even the oldsters, were held fast in the transparent gelatin of sound.  Did that group wail into the  night!  One could sense their concentration was focused on putting so much energy into the mikes that it would later explode in that hospital room, energize their friend and supporter, and lift her a millimeter off the mattress to relieve her back pain.  Then the sound stopped.  "WE LOVE YOU" was shouted into the mike, voices on the edge of a crack.  "Love ya. Hi there.  Thinking of you.  Warm hugs.  Miss ya." Phrases crowded towards a mike newly turned towards the audience.  People started to wave, until  they realized that it was not a video.  Never said the town is noted for the number of MENSA members who live here.  But the waves turned into applause, and the minister started giving a running commentary of the scene into another mike.  "Everyone is still here and it's still a packed house. Nobody wants to leave.  Hey, just got a rough tally for you. Over $4,300 for your medical bills and I know there's more coming in.  Good night and God bless.  There's a lot of love in this room for you."

The lights came back on.  People mingled about for some time before heading home.  Tomorrow was a workday.  A sunflower was picked from the flower arrangement to be pressed into the scrapbook. Fitting, a sunflower, the sign of love's constancy. Like this little, wonderful town of  mine.