August 13, 2010--Midcoast: Rona Gets Picked Up

“I play the guitar and a little French horn but I what I’d really like is to be able to play the banjo.”

It was a beautiful Monday evening. The light was so perfect that it was easy to understand why so many artists have been attracted to this area. There is the dramatic coast and the ubiquitous lighthouses but sitting out there on the lawn in Round Pound, with a glimpse of the translucent harbor, not for the first time, I wished I had the ability to take brush or pastels in hand and produce something worthy of the scene because, I realized, it is all about the light.

“You know, the song they are playing is from the Second World War. There was lots of wonderful music composed then, as well as during the First World War. Much of it sad but much of it wonderful.”

The song he was referring to was being played by a group of pick-up musicians who gather informally each Monday evening during the summer on the lawn of the Round Pound Green assisted living home. Right by the King Ro General Store where they grab empty milk crates and use them as stools on which to sit and play. Mainly local guys. About a dozen altogether. Mainly guitar players, with a couple on banjos, a bass player, and a fiddler.

Folks like us come by with fold-up lawn chairs and blankets, buy a soda or beer from the Ro, and hang out for a couple of hours while they play us into the sunset.

Rona wasn’t ignoring him but she was there primarily for the music and to soak up the good feelings and so did little more than nod. Undeterred, he chattered away. “Speaking of music and war,” clearly this was one of his subjects, “did you know that the Civil War was the last time there were little drummer boys on the battlefield?”

“I didn’t know that,” Rona finally said. Perhaps intrigued, maybe to at least acknowledge him. “They had little boys out on the battlefields?”

“As a way of communicating. Like the way they used to use bugles to signal charges and retreats. And of course, in the mornings, back at the barracks for Revelry and then in the evening for Taps.”

“But little boys?”

“It was a very bloody war and boys, children in general, were not as valued as they are today.”

He smiled at Rona because he was a little boy himself. No more than seven or eight.

“How do you know all these things? About history, I mean.” Just the other day Rona and I and a couple of friends were talking again about how nobody now seems to study or know any history. And because of this we keep getting into the same sort trouble.

“I read quite a bit,” he matter-of-factly said.

The musicians were now playing bluegrass, seeing if they could top each other by singing songs with the wryest or most preposterous lyrics. About the ironies of love and loss and especially how the men keep getting deservedly undone by their wily and dangerous women.

Now at least as interested in the kid as the music, Rona asked, “So what are you doing here?”

“I’m here with my grandmother who has a big shingle house on the harbor.”

“You’re here on your own?”

“My sister is here too. My little sister.”

Interested now, Rona tweaked him, “And you spend your days playing the French horn and reading? That doesn’t sound like fun.”

“Yes and no. I’m also in sailing camp. Which is fun. The take us out twice a day and we sail in Muscongus Bay. Unless the weather doesn’t cooperate.”

“So, you’re learning to sail.”

“Actually, I already know how to sail. My mother says I was practically born on a boat. Seriously, I don’t think that’s true but they tell me I was a good sailor when I was only 16 months old. Not literally a sailor of course, but happy to be along for the ride.” He smiled at that distinction.

A couple of young girls joined the musicians who eagerly widened the circle to include them. They were happy for some gender balance. I couldn’t hear but they indicated they wanted to sing something and began to teach the guys the chord structure. It was clearly not something with which the others were familiar. Something folky.

The sun had dropped behind the eaves of the old age home and with that the breeze freshened. The family next to us had ordered a pizza at the Ro and when it was ready passed the box around among themselves. While Rona was being chatted up I leaned in their direction hoping they might ask if I wanted a slice. They didn’t take the hint. The ethic of small town sharing goes only so far. Maybe, I thought, they’re here just for a week and haven’t yet discovered the value of interdependence that is so essential to living and surviving up here where resources are scarce.

I heard the kid say, “We live in Massachusetts and I’ve been summering here since I was little.”

Little, I thought, what does that make him now? He’s only four feet tall! I was feeling jealous wasn’t I? Of a seven year-old? I was feeling both old and a little pathetic.

“It’s a wonderful place to sail and read. And of course practice my music.”

“If you play the guitar,” Rona said to encourage him (not, I thought, that he needed any) learning the banjo should not be that difficult. You read music I assume?

“I do, but I play guitar more by ear and hope to be able to do the same thing with the banjo. But my schedule is kind of full.” He was looking serious though I wondered half out loud—So he also has a schedule! What four-foot kid of seven has a schedule in the summer?

“If you have a good enough ear that shouldn’t be a problem.” Rona was being her supportive best.

The girls who joined the musicians had got them playing along with them but I was so focused on listening in on Rona and the kid that I couldn’t get myself to pay attention to what they were singing.

“I do worry about all the picking that’s involved. On the guitar when playing chords I generally strum.”

“From what I know about the French horn you must already have the dexterity you need to play the banjo.”

“I think you may be right. I think the horn more than the guitar will translate to the banjo. I have one with me and will look for the time to get to it.”

“Maybe before the summer’s over you’ll be joining the group.” Rona said, gesturing toward the circle of musicians.

“That is a possibility,” he said.

To tell the truth I was getting tired of this overly-precocious kid and was happy when the pizza his grandmother ordered was ready. I had no intentions of showing any interest in a slice. I was just glad he’d have something other than Rona to concentrate on. He ran over to get a some for himself and I again had Rona to myself. We tuned back into the beauty of the evening. I reached over to hold Rona’s hand. She returned the pressure and I was feeling good about things again.

“I thought,” he was back at Rona’s side, “I thought you,” and he meant Rona, “that you might like a slice. So my grandmother put one on a plate for you. It’s delicious. They make very good pizzas here.”

She shook her head and thanked him. “That’s very nice of you but we’ll be having dinner later.” He didn’t seem disappointed and proceeded to munch away on his slice, bobbing his head to the beat of music as he chewed.

Turning again to me, Rona, squeezing my hand, whispered, “This is one of the mostly wonderful evenings of my life.

I wondered if Rona was feeling this way because of the setting and the music and the sense of community and me, or because of that smart-ass, pipsqueak of a wonderful kid?