Picture this: it’s a day off in elementary school, and my mom takes off from the salon to stay home with me. I get bored of playing with my American Girl dolls, and then I head to the living room. My plan of action is to tune in to my family’s heritage.
I ask my mom to help me tape two spoons back-to-back with black electrical tape. Since I can’t play an instrument but can keep a beat, I’ll play the spoons. I drag a kitchen chair into the living room directly in front of the television. I grab the clicker (what my family calls the remote) and turn the television to a bluegrass music channel in the 900’s.
You see, my mom’s dad’s (my PawPaw) side of the family once had a bluegrass band. They travelled around to different festivals pickin’ and grinnin’. My mom buckdanced, a skill I have yet to see from her in my almost 21 years, while the rest of the Corums played.
I unfortunately never got to experience this firsthand, but I always loved hearing stories and listening to recordings on cassette tapes.
I was recently in Denver on a public relations trip, and I was able to meet up with a friend who goes to school there. I texted her a few days before to make plans, and I was informed that she plays the upright bass in a bluegrass ensemble which just so happened to be holding a concert while I was there.
I. Was. Ecstatic.
The concert also featured a Northern Indian dance group and the University of Denver’s American Heritage Chorale. As the dance group finished their performance and the bluegrass drew nearer, my anticipation grew.
The ensemble played familiar songs that brought back memories of my raising. My leg bounced to the beat of each song as I listened to the mesh of fiddles, banjos and guitars. The sound reminded me of simpler times and reminded me of the love I’ve always had for bluegrass.
Several of the songs like “Angel Band” and “Didn’t Leave Nobody But The Baby” were made famous by the movie “O Brother, Where Art Thou,” a film I can practically quote. Others were new-to-me songs like “Beaumont Rag” that have since been added to my playlist in progress (check it out below).
The last song was “Are You Washed In The Blood?” The music minister at my church growing up played a lot of Southern gospel. The song took me back to the days of sitting in the pew with my mom and grandmother. During worship, there was typically at least one gospel song that the whole congregation clapped or stomped their foot to.
I sang along with the ensemble as they finished their set and remembered my grandmother singing and clapping her hands. Tears swelled up in my eyes as my mind wandered to thoughts of her singing her favorite song, “It Is Well With My Soul,” while she was in the hospital before she passed.
I went to the concert just excited to see my friend and enjoy music, but it ended up bringing more happiness than I expected by giving me a way to reflect on my childhood.
As I sit in my room at home due to COVID-19 cancellations, I see the dulcimer my PawPaw made. The broken strings desperately need to be replaced. I think back to the time in my grandparent’s sunroom when my PawPaw taught me to play a song on it that I no longer remember. Even in my lack of musical talent, he remained patient with me.
This memory sparks another. Many times when I was at my grandparent’s house, I went to their bedroom and pulled the black leather fiddle case out from under the bed. The metal latches would clink as I opened the case, lined with velvet. I never tuned the instrument or rosined the bow. I took the fiddle and the bow straight out of the case, put it under my chin and pulled the bow across the strings. I’m really not sure how my grandparents stood the squeaky, out-of-tune sound, but they put up with it because it made me happy.
I forgot about that fiddle after my grandparents moved houses to downsize. A few years later, when we were cleaning out the house after they passed away, my cousin texted that he had a surprise for us. It turned out to be the fiddle, restored and restrung.
Here are all these jumbled anecdotes to say: I’m thankful to have such a thing as music to connect with family, even if I didn’t receive the genes to make it. These little memories of my grandparents are so precious, and they’re all I have left of them.
