As a kid of thirteen and fourteen, I would be happy to go with Dad on Sunday morning to deliver the Detroit Free Press on his rural motor route. This was one of the few times as a kid when I would see my Dad. He always worked two jobs to make enough money to support a wife and four hungry kids. His usual afternoon shift at Pontiac Motors sent him off mid-afternoon until after midnight. The Willcrest factory in Leonard was a part-time job in the morning from eight to twelve. Maybe it was mom’s need to properly clothe four children in school but this third job was enough to only see dad sleeping.
Typically, I had volunteered the day before and he would half carry my lazy body to the car at four AM. He would let me snooze between stops but the thick Sunday paper was much for him to handle and my task was to drag a pile from the backseat, fold and ready the bundle for the next paper box. A highlight of dad’s route was when he tuned the radio to the six AM broadcast of the Refro Valley Gathering. Dad was never much for music or religion at that time. I think it was more the simple down-home nature of the people from Kentucky that he could relate to.
Given that memory, in 1974, I was traveling back to a job in Danville, Kentucky after a weekend adventure to see Mammoth Cave when the exit sign read Renfro Valley. A pristine bit of Kentucky lay before me. Thrilled, I pulled off I-75 to see if this had anything to do with those childhood broadcasts. A gal at the local dinner confirmed they held jam sessions on Friday night at about seven o’clock.
The next weekend I returned mid-afternoon to get tickets. In the short line next to me was a young fellow about my age bubbling with excitement. He first caught my attention with his size-too-big sport coat that had a quarter-inch of dust on the shoulders from hanging in the closet for years. In his down-home country nature where no one is a stranger, he shivered and said, “Isn’t this exciting! Been listening to this on the radio for years and now I’s here.” He went on to explain how his brother-in-law had a delivery to make in Arkansas so he dropped him and would fetch him on the way back on Sunday. I relayed my boyhood listening and this one was for dad. I was struck on my return at six forty-five to see such a simple theatre. The floor was flat of unkempt pine. The seating was backless benches with capacity for a hundred shoulder to shoulder. The stage elevation was two and a half feet off the floor and as open as a church alter. My memory is fading but I think only eight-stringed instruments were there – banjo, fiddle, bass, and guitar. They must have had a piano too. I sat in the second row on the right side. My favorite was an eighty-something gent that scuffled in with wooden cane who sat across the narrow aisle to my left. The tuning and tweaking of strings stopped at seven and the music started and did it ever… This was real bluegrass. The foot-stomping started and the whole building rocked. Talk about pickin’ and a grinnin’ this is where it was happening. The gentleman to my left had been pounding his cane on the floor and bouncing in a stoop. Then about midway into the third song, he sprang to his feet and began stomping with his good leg. At that, I had to try it myself. Most were in the joy of their own but I looked to those happy faces, feeling what they felt just being there.
Typically, I had volunteered the day before and he would half carry my lazy body to the car at four AM. He would let me snooze between stops but the thick Sunday paper was much for him to handle and my task was to drag a pile from the backseat, fold and ready the bundle for the next paper box. A highlight of dad’s route was when he tuned the radio to the six AM broadcast of the Refro Valley Gathering. Dad was never much for music or religion at that time. I think it was more the simple down-home nature of the people from Kentucky that he could relate to.
Given that memory, in 1974, I was traveling back to a job in Danville, Kentucky after a weekend adventure to see Mammoth Cave when the exit sign read Renfro Valley. A pristine bit of Kentucky lay before me. Thrilled, I pulled off I-75 to see if this had anything to do with those childhood broadcasts. A gal at the local dinner confirmed they held jam sessions on Friday night at about seven o’clock.
The next weekend I returned mid-afternoon to get tickets. In the short line next to me was a young fellow about my age bubbling with excitement. He first caught my attention with his size-too-big sport coat that had a quarter-inch of dust on the shoulders from hanging in the closet for years. In his down-home country nature where no one is a stranger, he shivered and said, “Isn’t this exciting! Been listening to this on the radio for years and now I’s here.” He went on to explain how his brother-in-law had a delivery to make in Arkansas so he dropped him and would fetch him on the way back on Sunday. I relayed my boyhood listening and this one was for dad. I was struck on my return at six forty-five to see such a simple theatre. The floor was flat of unkempt pine. The seating was backless benches with capacity for a hundred shoulder to shoulder. The stage elevation was two and a half feet off the floor and as open as a church alter. My memory is fading but I think only eight-stringed instruments were there – banjo, fiddle, bass, and guitar. They must have had a piano too. I sat in the second row on the right side. My favorite was an eighty-something gent that scuffled in with wooden cane who sat across the narrow aisle to my left. The tuning and tweaking of strings stopped at seven and the music started and did it ever… This was real bluegrass. The foot-stomping started and the whole building rocked. Talk about pickin’ and a grinnin’ this is where it was happening. The gentleman to my left had been pounding his cane on the floor and bouncing in a stoop. Then about midway into the third song, he sprang to his feet and began stomping with his good leg. At that, I had to try it myself. Most were in the joy of their own but I looked to those happy faces, feeling what they felt just being there.
1 comment:
I miss Grandpa.
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