Thursday, January 17, 2019

Impoverished? Just give us music

Statistics are reported weekly about poverty levels around the world. In my little world, from late 2008 through early 2013 my household reported at 99 percent po’.

On October 15, 2013, NPR* featured a land of long-term poverty—Appalachia. The story, however, didn’t focus on lack of income. 

A bed of a cappella gospel music comforted like a thick, luxuriant blanket beneath reporter John Burnett’s voice. Not all singers stayed on key nor harmonized perfectly, but that wasn’t the point. Accompanying video showed many suit-donning, gray-haired folks deeply and solemnly sharing soulful hymnodies with God and one another. None seemed poor in spirit.

Burnett lightly brushed over the statistic that 25 percent of Appalachians live below a government-specified income level, but these folks gathered together to enjoy music, not commiserate. Gloom would have dissipated with every note anyway, even though some bluegrass lyrics dealt with troubled times. Every time has a song.

Music is a language I understand. Even when casual musicians start making music, the sun shines a little brighter and the air feels a little warmer just being together and playing our instruments. Bob tunes, then retunes his guitar (and anyone else’s that doesn’t sound quite right) before I start laying down chords on the keyboard and singing.

Terry, wearing cowboy boots and thick leather gloves, places a small wood block under one side of this washtub bass, allowing the deep, resonant thumping to escape as he secures the other side with this boot and plucks the rope fastened to a broomstick.

When Bill finally traipses in, he plucks his banjo or resins his bow and plays fiddle or breathes his energetic concertina, harmonizing perfectly with the other instruments.

Money might be able to buy good health, but sometimes music is better. And maybe those Great Recession years weren’t as poor as they could have been.

Can I hear an amen?

* http://www.npr.org/2013/10/15/234606252/before-church-songbooks-there-was-lined-out-singing

Minnesota Nice

Flying low on a two-lane highway that connects a succession of small farming towns, I looked up from reading CD covers in the passenger seat, saw 25 mph, and heard, “Crap!”

Oh geez.

The sheriff approached my new husband’s car from behind as Tom rolled down his window. 

“You were goin’ a little fast there,” the sheriff observed. “What brings yeh tö MinnesOta?” he asked, brandishing a chubby, friendly smile.

Always nervous about what might fly out of Tom’s Irish, drinking mouth, I leaned forward, securing eye contact with the sheriff, and answered, “We’re on our honeymoon! In fact, yesterday we visited the folks who bought my family’s farm in Montevideo, where I grew up, and now we’re on our way to St. Paul to visit my friend whose husband is a cop,” I said and nodded reassuringly.

“Congratulations,” Sheriff Keith said, smiling and nodding in return. Staying on course, he refocused on the driver, never losing momentum. “Have you had any citations? Or is your record clean?”

“No, it’s clean,” I heard, as Tom handed over his license and I prayed, since Tom has a habit of stretching more than his gut. 

“Thank you,” Sheriff Keith said. “I’ll be back in a bit,” and strolled to his car.

“How fast were you going?” I asked.

“Fifty, maybe sixty.” Only double or more the posted limit. Oh boy.

Apprehensively, I shuffled CDs around, tidied my two cubic feet of small-car space, and waited, all the while wondering how Tom would look in orange and if we still had cash left after our over-the-top-for-old-farts wedding.

A shadow moved toward the car. “Well, it looks like everything checks out fine,” Sheriff Keith confirmed. “So you said you were headed to St. Paul? Gee, you’re gonna be runnin’ into quite a detour, so just remember to keep your speed down and enjoy the country.”

As late would have it, the primary highway, US-12, leading from Willmar into the Cities was blocked for construction—all two and-a-half-hours’ worth, so we kicked our plans down a gear, texted Katharina to say we’d be late by who knows how long, and enjoyed the green, green grass of home.