Over twenty 4 to 6 year olds huddled on the old carpet. The fading sun seeped through the painted glass creating a holy aura that danced around the children.
As I sat back, I realized that the world of nations was sitting before me. Complex hairstyles, from straight to stubby bobbed in anticipation. The music was about to begin.
A young man, Junior, suited up with his Taylor and hooked his Hohner around his neck. It was a goofy harkening to a supposed dead generation. His pants were cinched too tight and his plaid shirt did not give away that it was an 80-degree day outside.
His older partner, Mr. Bones played with the spidery wisps draping off his skull. A shirt that was two sizes too big and pants that was no more than a pair of drapes with a belt line slid about as he moved in jerks. Yanking his squeezebox out of a brown paper bag, he flung the straps over his jutting clavicles that were perfect human hooks. The odd pleather on the outside of the instrument screamed of living rooms filled with davenports and ottomans with UHF as the ultimate luxury channel on television.
There they stood – the ultimate odd couple in front of a frothing, squirming, giggling gaggle of youth boiling over in a cream of anticipation.
Junior started to clap.
The first child to join in was in blue garb from head to toe save for the white referee stripes sweeping across his shirt. He jumped to his feet, bobbed his head and his hands spread like wings. As the odd duo started to play, the boy thrashed a bit, personal space be damned. His mother broke from the crowd of elders and gently sat him down. He turned and I saw vacant eyes light with recognition. He over-smiled and gently rocked to the rhythm of the Taylor 6 string. I knew then that this gifted boy felt a stirring that most in the room could not experience.
Stripes melded with the huddled brood and nearby Toby, a rambunctious 4 year old, strummed his air guitar with the power of an arena band. His Prince Valiant strands swayed to the squeezebox as Junior and his Taylor broke into This Land is Your Land. The children knew the words more than their parents as downbeat turned into impatient sixteenth notes.
Mr. Bones soloed into a sea chanty – Up She Rises. At once, Stripes was up again. His free spirit breaking into a Celtic jig was a magnet for the others in the brood to kick up their heels as high as they could, arm in arm, hand in hand. Children with no previous connection danced as if there were fireworks blazing across some miniature version of a village bastille day skyline.
Mr. Bones orchestrated the frenetic pile of small bodies into one sweeping ring of joy, as hand in hand, he led the march around room.
Stripes plugged his ears. His mind clouded by over sensation. A sullen air replaced the elated over-smile. His gangly 9 year old body gaudily adorned his mother’s lap. My heart sank. I felt his spirit sag.
Toby marched to another drummer, his feet stomping like some primeval animal from before the dawn of humankind. Cheeks rosy red and Valiant hair strands now sticking to his forehead.
Mr. Bones rounded back to Junior as the twosome ended with Lord, Lord, Lord – a new take on an old rendition from Lead Belly, another nod to the days of Woodie Guthrie.
The fading light brought out the reds in the stained glass windows now as the spiritual rendition of the demise of the gray goose, rendered the piccolo infused refrain from angelic voices – Lord, Lord, Lord.
My son grabbed my hand to make an instant escape from the cacophonic mixture of youth and overexcitement. I took one final look at Stripes whose drooping lids spoke volumes. Too much emotional disorder. Too much over-processing. I put away my pity. His spirit is freer than mine. That counts for something larger than the sky above.
Both mother and grandmother were corralling Toby. One large, sweaty nuclear beam of a grin enraptured by music two generations his senior. His arms and legs moved to collide with any object they could find. It will remain a memory that will stay hidden in his mind’s eye for a lifetime.
The doors slid behind us and we skated down a marble staircase. Father and son clutching hands and skipping to our own measure.
I didn’t expect to find magic this day.
However, that’s exactly what I found…lord, lord, lord.
