Ben's Bells, Ralph Stanley, and The Littles

They don't like being referred to that way, the elementary school cohort in Amster's life. True individuals, they require different pieces of my attention.  Always have, always will, I imagine. That's what makes it interesting.

Because of a difference of opinion over child care, my presence was required on Thursday afternoon.  Somehow, life knows when to send me the means to soothe my soul. I was in need, and The Littles were there to help.

Off the bus and into The Schnozz, Kindle taken out and promptly put away as I declared my car an electronics free zone. No, not even just on the ride.  I kept to myself the fact that some of the most interesting conversations I've ever had have occurred just on the ride.

Train switches and round-abouts, bicycle riding and banjos and being the elder sibling, a little bit of teasing and tickling and a whole lot of laughing and we were in the parking lot.... because none of us had any quarters for the open meters surrounding our destination. The Littles help me figure out the Pay Here Machine, Miss Texas ran back to put the ticket on the dashboard, and, after a brief discussion about the difference between the visor and the dashboard, we were on our way.

The last time I brought them, I couldn't keep up.  On Thursday, we all tumbled in together.... noting the restroom on the way.

It's a beautiful, open, courtyard in the middle of downtown Tucson, where the temperatures were in the upper 60's and the sun was playing hide-and-seek between the clouds. The kids carted the supplies to the table

and started painting like old hands.

There was no poking or teasing.

There was serious concentration

and an eagerness to share  

the more interesting of the fired pieces we were able to decorate.

There's something about the atmosphere that brings out the best in everyone.

They were amazed that the activity came with no fee.

We're doing a good deed by making these beads.

The notion was a big one for little heads.

There was silence, and random nodding, and then, accompanying Ralph Stanley on his Pandora Radio station playing softly on my phone, were Messers 8 and 10, crooning that they, too, would Fly Away, oh Lordy

It was a moment, denizens.  

All the pieces of my life were coming together.

There was nothing to do but smile.

At ten minutes to closing, we cleaned up

and rinsed off

and admired our work. 

Do you see the smiley face?

We made a donation, 

I hugged Ben's mom, who was working but still had the time to applaud my BE KIND Ben's Bells' logo'd t-shirt,

we bought some Kindness Coins and a BE KIND hand and took a decal or two 

and I dropped them off at Amster's office, full of stories and Mom, listen as she and I smiled and hugged.

Life is good.

Doing good makes it even better.

Doing good with little ones..... for me, that's the very best of all.

Old And (definitely not) In The Way

Miss Vicki and I were in the presence of a legend last night.

No, it wasn't the aging hippie birthday boy with the blown out greying locks above his too tight plaid shirt. It was the bass player Miss Vicki saw toting his instrument into the theater as we arrived downtown for a before the show dinner.  It was also Dr. Ralph Stanley, 87 years young.

True, there was the occasional wandering around the stage when he was supposed to be singing at the microphone. A padded chair was center stage, and the whole audience exhaled in unison when, half way through the set, he managed to lower himself safely down onto the seat.  He looked frail and fragile and uncertain, until he opened his mouth.

His voice has always been high and reedy. There's none of the roundness his son, Ralph Stanley the Second, carries. There's a mournful, verse-repeating, church-like quality to it.  He told us that he learned to sing in his old Baptist church, a capella, praying to the Lord.  I'm listening to my Pandora Radio Ralph Stanley station as I type and I can't tell which tunes were recorded in the 1980's and which last year. Pandora's biography calls it high lonesome and I think they've got it right. 

When he began claw-picking the banjo, the way his mother taught him in 1930, the clock rolled back to his dark haired prime.  His spine loosened, his hand was a blur, his head was lost somewhere in the moment. So were we all.

It was a blue-grass savvy audience.  There was a lot of clapping along and shouted requests came from every corner of The Fox Theater. Each member of The Clinch Mountain Boys is an accomplished solo-artist in his own right, so it doesn't seem right to refer to them as the back-up band. The audience certainly did not regard them in that light; every artist had his moment, and the applause never wavered.

It was a long, wonderful set, the end to a long, wonderful evening.  We saw history and musical excellence and indulged in a little bit of hero worship.  It was perfect.