Jo’s Fanfic

Last weekend, as I was flipping channels, I happened upon the last part of a PBS special about John Denver.  Intrigued, I sat down to watch.  I found myself singing along with songs whose lyrics I thought I’d forgotten, songs that evoked images of a different world where a person could stand on a mountaintop and see nothing for miles except trees and lakes and astonishingly blue skies, where the only sounds were breezes rustling the leaves, crystal brooks spilling over rocks, and the swift, light gallop of a deer in the woods.

When the special was over, I opened the bottom of the hutch and rooted through my old LPs to find all my John Denver albums.  As little Olivia watched, white kitten whiskers quivering with curiosity, I drew out half a dozen albums.  I took them into the bedroom, where I have a stereo with a turntable, and I put on “Rocky Mountain High.”

It was a bit of a shock:  I’d forgotten how little bass folk musicians used in the early seventies.  John Denver was quite young when he recorded that album, and he was a high tenor singing a high song.  It took the better part of the record to get used to that unrelieved treble; in fact, I found myself wondering if the speed of the turntable was a tad off and if it might be playing a bit too fast, making the music sharp.  As I listened to the tempo, though, I was forced to conclude that the speed was probably correct, and likely I’d just been accustomed to hearing this kind of music when I was in high school.

As I folded laundry, I listened to side after side.  I remembered how, when I was fourteen, I’d once had a fight with my mother, after which I went into my room, put on “Rocky Mountain High” and “Poems, Prayers and Promises,” and turned out the light.  I lay on my bed in the dark, just listening to these songs, and somehow, they soothed me.  I listened, I smiled, and when “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” came on, I even danced and clapped.  Jennie didn’t pay much attention, but Livy seemed fascinated by my odd behavior, since I’m not generally much for dancing and clapping around the house.

This evening, another musical flashback occurred.  The other night, at rehearsal for Sunday morning, mention was made of how the accompaniment to my solo would be enhanced if they could persuade the woman who will be playing a violin solo for the prelude to play a particular phrase.  It’s not difficult, and when someone suggested that she might be uncomfortable just picking it up, I volunteered the opinion that I was certain a classically trained violinist could handle it with no problem. 

The thought stayed with me as I rehearsed this evening.  Driven by I’m not sure what, I took out my old violin.  The three-quarter-sized instrument hearkens back to the fifth grade, and I played it through college.  I was competent, but definitely not brilliant.  I tightened the bow and tuned the strings, and then I tried to play.  “Tried” is the operative word—you simply can’t be away from a violin for this long without a serious deterioration of technique.  Still, the things we learn in childhood stay with us, and within an hour, my bowing was much less awful and some of the sounds bore more of a resemblance to music than to a cat whose tail was caught in a vacuum cleaner.

Eventually, I tucked the violin away and returned to the piano, where I played through one of the hymnals.  Some of those old hymns, such as “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” never seem to see the light of day any more; others, like “A Mighty Fortress is Our God,” have been arranged for worship bands and modern congregations.  Even though I do enjoy some of the contemporary arrangements, though, my heart still belongs with the old hymns.  The lyrics are often much more direct and powerful than today’s worship choruses, and if the melodies are not as singable, their very distinctiveness evokes memories of standing in church pews with my parents. 

Perhaps it’s the busyness of life, but there are few songs that I’ve learned in recent years that I actually know by heart.  I may know the melody, or even the harmony, but I usually seem to need the words.  The old ones, though—those, I remember.  Whether it’s John Denver or Finlandia or Bach’s Double Violin Concerto in D minor, the music from years gone by resonates much more deeply in my heart.  I’m much more likely to recall where I was when I heard or sang or played one of those songs, as compared to the songs I sing as part of the worship team or as a soloist. 

I’ve heard it said that if you want to memorize something—a Bible verse, a poem, or even facts for a test—one of the most effective methods is to put it to music.  I’ve never actually tried this, but I’d bet it works.  After all, if I can sing along with “This Old Guitar” more than thirty years since I last listened to it, it certainly suggests that there’s something to the notion.  Then again, it’s possible that I remember the words, not because of the melody, but because of how the song made me feel.  Back then, there was all the time in the world, and possibilities for living were endless.  Now, as I’m breathing down the neck of my forty-ninth birthday, I find myself wondering what I could say to the child who practiced Bach or the teen who sang about poems, prayers and promises with a young blond folk singer.  Maybe I’d tell her to keep listening.  Maybe I’d say that, no matter what, she needed to hang on to the part of her heart that heard this music and recognized when it was true and real.  Maybe I would warn her that other things would try to drown out the music and that she would have to work to keep from losing it altogether.  Maybe I’d tell her that she would hear a lot more music in her life, but that she shouldn’t worry—there’s room for a lot of music in a person’s life.

And maybe after that, I’d tell her to get out more of the old records.  There’s some good stuff there.  She can lay back in the darkness, and she can listen and remember it all.