I missed Dinner this week.
Late last week one of our team members who works for an organization called "Community Living" sent out an SOS of sorts. They were holding their annual barbeque and "music under the trees" and had some trouble lining up the music. As it turned out the fiddler and I were both available.
Great party. Lovely people. Really lovely.
Community Living is a registered charity, "Providing support to individuals with intellectual disabilities since 1959". The annual barbeque is a community-wide invitation to any and all, in the spirit of "promoting an inclusive community and (providing) an opportunity to meet new people."
To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I got there. I've never sung for an audience so largely made up of adults with intellectual challenges. I haven't spent a lot of time with people who fall under that umbrella and I was - not nervous, exactly - maybe just very aware, very conscious of the fact. Hoping I wouldn't say something inappropriate, assume something unfortunate... Don't know exactly what. But nevertheless. It's that self- and other- consciousness that you get when you know that you're a bit different from everybody else and don't want to make a fool of yourself. Or that feeling you get when you're surrounded by strangers who you think might decide unexpectedly to enthusiastically hug you whether you want them to or not.
Or is that just me?
Because regardless of how terribly PC and tolerant we all are these days, there is still a fear of the other. The different.
And this was definitely different.
When I arrived, the fiddler was in the little open tent, setting up his gizmos. The kind of thing, pedals and switches and such, that I associate with rock guitar. An impressive array of boxes spread out on the grass. All I had to unpack was my pair of ukes (Pooch and Nina) (Oh, like you've never named anything. I bet your coffee maker has a name) so I went on first.
I set out the ukes one one chair on the right side of the tent and my orange song binder on another.
Clue 1 that this would be a different kind of gig was the man standing at the back of the tent with a drum in his hand. He smiled a warm, welcoming smile and introduced himself. "I'm the drummer!"
"Are you going to play for me?"
"Yeah!" (Everything anybody said to me over the next hour was punctuated with an exclamation mark and a smile.)
"Great!" (Now I was doing it.)
An older lady wearing a visor emblazoned with "Las Vegas" in pink sparkles came up to the side of the tent and gave me a big "HI!".
"HI!"
She picked up one of the ukes and said, "Do you need help with these? Do you want me to hold them?"
I told her thanks!, but no. They were safe where they were.
She said, "OK! Do you know Jesus Loves Me?"
I told her I knew it, but I didn't think I was going to be singing that one!
"What about Kenny Rogers?"
Had to disappoint her there, too.
She pointed at the binder and asked, "What's in there?"
I said there were a lot of songs in there! but that I should probably get started singing.
She said, "OK!" and sparkled and grinned back off somewhere to the right.
I started with a medley, the best part of which was Skinnamarink because I could hear it being sung back to me.
Right after the first song, Sparkles came back. She stage whispered, "HI!"
"HI!"
"Could you say something to Susan?"
"I think I'm just supposed to sing!"
"OK! Bye!"
"Bye!"
I sang a few more songs and saw a sparkly wave out of the corner of my eye.
"HI!"
"HI!"
"Could you sing a song for Susan?"
"What kind of music does she like?"
"She likes music!"
I looked at my binder and the next song up was "Ring of Fire."
I asked Sparkles, "Does she like Johnny Cash songs?"
Gasp. "OH! Yes! She likes Johnny Cash!"
"Me too!" This from a man in the front row wearing a cowboy hat.
Sparkles pointed at the mic and asked, "Can I use that?"
I said, "I think I'd better use it!"
She said, "OK!" and she grinned and put her finger to her lips in a sparkle of conspiracy and whispered, "Sing for Susan!"
"OK!", I whispered.
And she sparkled away again.
I turned to the mic and said, "I understand that there might be somebody here who likes Johnny Cash songs!"
Probably a dozen people thought I was talking about them and hollered back.
So we all sang Ring of Fire. We didn't all sing the same words or the same notes at the same time. Some of us sang with our voices, and some with our feet, and some with hands in the air. But we were all singing the same song.
After the first couple of chords, a middle aged woman with curly dark hair ran up in front of me, fixed me with the most intense, joyous eye-contact and danced with the kind of abandon most of us have forgotten. She sang, but with her eyes and her grin and her fists. She sang the words into the ground with her feet.
"Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring
I fell for you like a child, and Oh, the fire went wild
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire
The ring of fire."
I can still see her there, dancing and singing and loving Johnny Cash the way so many people do. Joy. Just joy.
When the song ended, I said to her, "You must be Susan." She laughed and nodded and ran off somewhere. When she came back, she smiled exclamation marks at me and showed me the plastic mic in her hand. She stayed in that spot for a while singing along, with her joy and her mic and her feet.
The whole time, about an hour, that I was singing, there was a young woman off to the right of me, also singing along. Just loudly enough that I could hear her above the sound system and myself.
It took me a while to notice it, but once I had, it was the strangest and most magical thing I've ever experienced.
I sang a mix of familiar songs - Ring of Fire, True Colours, Somewhere Over The Rainbow - and a few of my own. And she sang along on every one.
On every song.
Even the ones I'd written, that she'd never heard in her life.
She did this by following me - I'd sing a word and a split second later, I'd hear it sung back. I'd sing a note and a split second later, hear it matched. Like some kind of human reverb. Not distracting, but engaging, intriguing.
No matter how I improvised on the melody, or changed keys or octaves, my echo followed.
She wandered up and down in the space to the right of the tent and sang and sang and sang.
Until the last song.
The last song was Love Me Tender. Quiet and gentle, in an easy 3/4 time.
Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go
You have made my life complete and I love you so
I was looking forward to singing that one with her, moving back and forth. But she surprised me.
She walked right up the side of the tent and stood there, in one spot, for the whole song. Echoing, following, word for word, note for improvised note, sweet and gentle and plaintive and so so achingly vulnerable.
Followed me on the key change, followed me on my rather unpredictable melody, as though we were hand in hand on our way someplace new.
We sang together, sang of love and longing and belonging and being held. We sang together of sweetness and tenderness and trust and dreams. I sang for her and she sang for me.
And when the song ended, she wandered away again.
I think I learned something from her. I'm just not sure yet what it was.
So, yeah, it was different.
Thank God!
r
Late last week one of our team members who works for an organization called "Community Living" sent out an SOS of sorts. They were holding their annual barbeque and "music under the trees" and had some trouble lining up the music. As it turned out the fiddler and I were both available.
Great party. Lovely people. Really lovely.
Community Living is a registered charity, "Providing support to individuals with intellectual disabilities since 1959". The annual barbeque is a community-wide invitation to any and all, in the spirit of "promoting an inclusive community and (providing) an opportunity to meet new people."
To be honest, I wasn't quite sure what to expect when I got there. I've never sung for an audience so largely made up of adults with intellectual challenges. I haven't spent a lot of time with people who fall under that umbrella and I was - not nervous, exactly - maybe just very aware, very conscious of the fact. Hoping I wouldn't say something inappropriate, assume something unfortunate... Don't know exactly what. But nevertheless. It's that self- and other- consciousness that you get when you know that you're a bit different from everybody else and don't want to make a fool of yourself. Or that feeling you get when you're surrounded by strangers who you think might decide unexpectedly to enthusiastically hug you whether you want them to or not.
Or is that just me?
Because regardless of how terribly PC and tolerant we all are these days, there is still a fear of the other. The different.
And this was definitely different.
When I arrived, the fiddler was in the little open tent, setting up his gizmos. The kind of thing, pedals and switches and such, that I associate with rock guitar. An impressive array of boxes spread out on the grass. All I had to unpack was my pair of ukes (Pooch and Nina) (Oh, like you've never named anything. I bet your coffee maker has a name) so I went on first.
I set out the ukes one one chair on the right side of the tent and my orange song binder on another.
Clue 1 that this would be a different kind of gig was the man standing at the back of the tent with a drum in his hand. He smiled a warm, welcoming smile and introduced himself. "I'm the drummer!"
"Are you going to play for me?"
"Yeah!" (Everything anybody said to me over the next hour was punctuated with an exclamation mark and a smile.)
"Great!" (Now I was doing it.)
An older lady wearing a visor emblazoned with "Las Vegas" in pink sparkles came up to the side of the tent and gave me a big "HI!".
"HI!"
She picked up one of the ukes and said, "Do you need help with these? Do you want me to hold them?"
I told her thanks!, but no. They were safe where they were.
She said, "OK! Do you know Jesus Loves Me?"
I told her I knew it, but I didn't think I was going to be singing that one!
"What about Kenny Rogers?"
Had to disappoint her there, too.
She pointed at the binder and asked, "What's in there?"
I said there were a lot of songs in there! but that I should probably get started singing.
She said, "OK!" and sparkled and grinned back off somewhere to the right.
I started with a medley, the best part of which was Skinnamarink because I could hear it being sung back to me.
Right after the first song, Sparkles came back. She stage whispered, "HI!"
"HI!"
"Could you say something to Susan?"
"I think I'm just supposed to sing!"
"OK! Bye!"
"Bye!"
I sang a few more songs and saw a sparkly wave out of the corner of my eye.
"HI!"
"HI!"
"Could you sing a song for Susan?"
"What kind of music does she like?"
"She likes music!"
I looked at my binder and the next song up was "Ring of Fire."
I asked Sparkles, "Does she like Johnny Cash songs?"
Gasp. "OH! Yes! She likes Johnny Cash!"
"Me too!" This from a man in the front row wearing a cowboy hat.
Sparkles pointed at the mic and asked, "Can I use that?"
I said, "I think I'd better use it!"
She said, "OK!" and she grinned and put her finger to her lips in a sparkle of conspiracy and whispered, "Sing for Susan!"
"OK!", I whispered.
And she sparkled away again.
I turned to the mic and said, "I understand that there might be somebody here who likes Johnny Cash songs!"
Probably a dozen people thought I was talking about them and hollered back.
So we all sang Ring of Fire. We didn't all sing the same words or the same notes at the same time. Some of us sang with our voices, and some with our feet, and some with hands in the air. But we were all singing the same song.
After the first couple of chords, a middle aged woman with curly dark hair ran up in front of me, fixed me with the most intense, joyous eye-contact and danced with the kind of abandon most of us have forgotten. She sang, but with her eyes and her grin and her fists. She sang the words into the ground with her feet.
"Love is a burning thing, and it makes a fiery ring
I fell for you like a child, and Oh, the fire went wild
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down, down, down and the flames went higher
And it burns, burns, burns, the ring of fire
The ring of fire."
I can still see her there, dancing and singing and loving Johnny Cash the way so many people do. Joy. Just joy.
When the song ended, I said to her, "You must be Susan." She laughed and nodded and ran off somewhere. When she came back, she smiled exclamation marks at me and showed me the plastic mic in her hand. She stayed in that spot for a while singing along, with her joy and her mic and her feet.
The whole time, about an hour, that I was singing, there was a young woman off to the right of me, also singing along. Just loudly enough that I could hear her above the sound system and myself.
It took me a while to notice it, but once I had, it was the strangest and most magical thing I've ever experienced.
I sang a mix of familiar songs - Ring of Fire, True Colours, Somewhere Over The Rainbow - and a few of my own. And she sang along on every one.
On every song.
Even the ones I'd written, that she'd never heard in her life.
She did this by following me - I'd sing a word and a split second later, I'd hear it sung back. I'd sing a note and a split second later, hear it matched. Like some kind of human reverb. Not distracting, but engaging, intriguing.
No matter how I improvised on the melody, or changed keys or octaves, my echo followed.
She wandered up and down in the space to the right of the tent and sang and sang and sang.
Until the last song.
The last song was Love Me Tender. Quiet and gentle, in an easy 3/4 time.
Love me tender, love me sweet, never let me go
You have made my life complete and I love you so
I was looking forward to singing that one with her, moving back and forth. But she surprised me.
She walked right up the side of the tent and stood there, in one spot, for the whole song. Echoing, following, word for word, note for improvised note, sweet and gentle and plaintive and so so achingly vulnerable.
Followed me on the key change, followed me on my rather unpredictable melody, as though we were hand in hand on our way someplace new.
We sang together, sang of love and longing and belonging and being held. We sang together of sweetness and tenderness and trust and dreams. I sang for her and she sang for me.
And when the song ended, she wandered away again.
I think I learned something from her. I'm just not sure yet what it was.
So, yeah, it was different.
Thank God!
r
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