I am Blind Lemming Chiffon and I am a filkaholic (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} lemmozine) wrote,@ 2008-02-27 09:02:00 |
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What I wrote for my mom's celebration of life (memorial service) today
When we lose someone close to us, one natural thing that most people need is to have some object, or even a memory, that ties us to that person and helps us to remember them. It's very important to keep our connection to the past as we move ahead.
The one possession of my mother's that I wanted most to keep is a piece of black-on-black pottery made by a Santa Clara Indian, signed R. (probably Ramona) Sisneros. I don't know how valuable it is, but to me it is priceless, because of the moment I shared with my mother, when I was about 10 or 12 years old. I saw it on display at Charlie Eagle Plume's shop, and pointed it out to my mother. Something about how it has two handles that are wrapped around each other made it stand out, and she agreed with me and bought it. My mother was always fascinated with Native Americans, and had many books about their culture, jewelry, pottery and so on.
It might have been that same day that Charlie, the owner of the shop, taught me something that has stayed with me my entire life. He gathered everyone in the shop together and had us sit in a circle on the floor. Then, of all those people, he picked me out, and asked me, "What is the most valuable thing in the world?" Being the materialistic coin-collecting brat I was, I guessed, "Um - the Hope Diamond?"
"No, that's not it."
"The gold in Fort Knox?"
"No."
"I was stumped, and sat there in silence.
"The most valuable thing in the world," said Charlie, "is a friend."
Now that I am 52, I have many friends, some of them still here, others gone. It is important to me to keep my connections, both to the present and to the past, and while I am still materialistic to a degree, the way I look at the objects I keep around me has changed. I have a collection of autographed books and records, and, for me, those autographs help me to hang on to my connection to that person and their work, however small that link might be. Just the memory, for example, of standing in line with hundreds of avid fans to get blues superstar Taj Mahal's autograph on a CD, and his taking a moment to shake my hand, means a great deal to me.
There is one connection, however, that stands out in my mind. In 1968, when we returned to Denver, my mother arranged for me to take guitar lessons at the Denver Folklore Center, and, as it turns out, that is the most wonderful thing that anyone has done for me, ever, and I can't even imagine my life without the music I found there. In later years I often shared music with my mother, bringing her to concerts at Swallow Hill, or playing CDs in the car. She especially enjoyed Hawaiian music, probably because of all the trips she took to Hawaii with my father, and how the music helped her remember those good times.
My guitar teacher took a 13-year-old wannabe rock 'n' roller Beatles fan, and introduced me to the music of black Americans whose music rock 'n' roll was based on. I learned guitar pieces by Elizabeth Cotten, Reverend Gary Davis, and most important of all, Mississippi John Hurt. John's records taught an entire generation of guitar players how to play, and I am one of them. I spent hour after hour listing to my one John Hurt record and trying to figure out how he made that guitar sound so great.
John's career in music was brief. He recorded a few tracks in 1928, and disappeared. One song he wrote, "Avalon, My Home Town," helped some young blues fans who were looking for him to find him in the small rural town of Avalon, Mississippi in 1963, and he suddenly became a recording artist, a star on the New York club scene, and a favorite of the Newport Folk Festival. He died 3 years later, but his music will never be forgotten.
Harry Tuft, who still owns and operates the Denver Folklore Center, once let me play a guitar that belonged to Mississippi John Hurt, and the connection I felt to John while playing it was, for me, perhaps the most deeply spiritual moment I have ever experienced.
Dick Waterman, a noted music photographer, and John Hurt's manager, wrote this in the liner notes of the John Hurt tribute CD:
"One of the last times I had with John was at the Cafe Lena in Saratoga Springs, New York. As we were packing up the guitar after the show, a young man came into the dressing room. 'John,' he said, 'When will I see you again?' John laid a towel over the guitar and then closed the lid of the case. He turned and spoke slowly, 'Well now, you can see me any time you want.'
The young man was puzzled by the response. 'I mean, when are you coming back here?'
John smiled and shook his head. 'You'll have to talk to Dick about that. But, you know, I don't have to come back here for you to be seeing me again.'
The room was quiet while the young man and I waited for John to explain. He touched his chest with the fingers of his right hand. 'Now that I met you, I took you to be my friend and I brought you down here into my heart. And if you take me to be your friend, then I'll be right down there in your heart. So any time you want me to be with you, all you have to do is think about me, and I'll just come right up out of your heart and I'll be there with you. That's the way it is with friends. They live forever in your heart. Any time you want me to be with you, you just think about Mississippi John Hurt, and I'll come right up out of your heart and I'll be with you forever.' "
When we lose someone close to us, one natural thing that most people need is to have some object, or even a memory, that ties us to that person and helps us to remember them. It's very important to keep our connection to the past as we move ahead.
The one possession of my mother's that I wanted most to keep is a piece of black-on-black pottery made by a Santa Clara Indian, signed R. (probably Ramona) Sisneros. I don't know how valuable it is, but to me it is priceless, because of the moment I shared with my mother, when I was about 10 or 12 years old. I saw it on display at Charlie Eagle Plume's shop, and pointed it out to my mother. Something about how it has two handles that are wrapped around each other made it stand out, and she agreed with me and bought it. My mother was always fascinated with Native Americans, and had many books about their culture, jewelry, pottery and so on.
It might have been that same day that Charlie, the owner of the shop, taught me something that has stayed with me my entire life. He gathered everyone in the shop together and had us sit in a circle on the floor. Then, of all those people, he picked me out, and asked me, "What is the most valuable thing in the world?" Being the materialistic coin-collecting brat I was, I guessed, "Um - the Hope Diamond?"
"No, that's not it."
"The gold in Fort Knox?"
"No."
"I was stumped, and sat there in silence.
"The most valuable thing in the world," said Charlie, "is a friend."
Now that I am 52, I have many friends, some of them still here, others gone. It is important to me to keep my connections, both to the present and to the past, and while I am still materialistic to a degree, the way I look at the objects I keep around me has changed. I have a collection of autographed books and records, and, for me, those autographs help me to hang on to my connection to that person and their work, however small that link might be. Just the memory, for example, of standing in line with hundreds of avid fans to get blues superstar Taj Mahal's autograph on a CD, and his taking a moment to shake my hand, means a great deal to me.
There is one connection, however, that stands out in my mind. In 1968, when we returned to Denver, my mother arranged for me to take guitar lessons at the Denver Folklore Center, and, as it turns out, that is the most wonderful thing that anyone has done for me, ever, and I can't even imagine my life without the music I found there. In later years I often shared music with my mother, bringing her to concerts at Swallow Hill, or playing CDs in the car. She especially enjoyed Hawaiian music, probably because of all the trips she took to Hawaii with my father, and how the music helped her remember those good times.
My guitar teacher took a 13-year-old wannabe rock 'n' roller Beatles fan, and introduced me to the music of black Americans whose music rock 'n' roll was based on. I learned guitar pieces by Elizabeth Cotten, Reverend Gary Davis, and most important of all, Mississippi John Hurt. John's records taught an entire generation of guitar players how to play, and I am one of them. I spent hour after hour listing to my one John Hurt record and trying to figure out how he made that guitar sound so great.
John's career in music was brief. He recorded a few tracks in 1928, and disappeared. One song he wrote, "Avalon, My Home Town," helped some young blues fans who were looking for him to find him in the small rural town of Avalon, Mississippi in 1963, and he suddenly became a recording artist, a star on the New York club scene, and a favorite of the Newport Folk Festival. He died 3 years later, but his music will never be forgotten.
Harry Tuft, who still owns and operates the Denver Folklore Center, once let me play a guitar that belonged to Mississippi John Hurt, and the connection I felt to John while playing it was, for me, perhaps the most deeply spiritual moment I have ever experienced.
Dick Waterman, a noted music photographer, and John Hurt's manager, wrote this in the liner notes of the John Hurt tribute CD:
"One of the last times I had with John was at the Cafe Lena in Saratoga Springs, New York. As we were packing up the guitar after the show, a young man came into the dressing room. 'John,' he said, 'When will I see you again?' John laid a towel over the guitar and then closed the lid of the case. He turned and spoke slowly, 'Well now, you can see me any time you want.'
The young man was puzzled by the response. 'I mean, when are you coming back here?'
John smiled and shook his head. 'You'll have to talk to Dick about that. But, you know, I don't have to come back here for you to be seeing me again.'
The room was quiet while the young man and I waited for John to explain. He touched his chest with the fingers of his right hand. 'Now that I met you, I took you to be my friend and I brought you down here into my heart. And if you take me to be your friend, then I'll be right down there in your heart. So any time you want me to be with you, all you have to do is think about me, and I'll just come right up out of your heart and I'll be there with you. That's the way it is with friends. They live forever in your heart. Any time you want me to be with you, you just think about Mississippi John Hurt, and I'll come right up out of your heart and I'll be with you forever.' "
