Past Ramblings
Breakfast at Grandmas
Strong Foundations
Grandpa In The Garden
Family Reunions
Halloween
Saturday Nights
After Sitka
The Gift

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.The smell of motor oil is thick in Uncle Shelly’s garage, its odor clinging to the shabby wood frame of the building.  Tools are scattered here and there and odd parts to cars clutter the corners.

In the center of the hard packed dirt floor are a dozen or so wooden chairs, waiting. Over by his old Craftsman’s toolbox, a fresh pot of coffee is perking with six thick white mugs close-by. 

It’s Saturday night and soon, one by one, they'll start drifting in. The players, the singers, and the neighborhood listeners. 

Daddy is usually one of the first. He's had a hard week at work, but tonight all that's forgotten.  There's a glow of love on his face as he carefully opens the beat up case and pulls out his six string guitar.  He bought it at a pawn shop and although it's made a few trips back, so far every time he's managed to get the money to get it out. Taking out a felt rag, he lovingly rubs the glowing wood, making sure no dust or scratches mar its shine. 

Laying his ear close to the strings, he fine tunes them one by one. Playing a few chords of “Your Cheating Heart,” he checks its tone. By this time, other chairs have been pulled up and likewise you can hear a chorus of different notes as everyone gets ready. 

Mama and Aunt Christine are shuffling through music sheets to find their favorites and Uncle Shelly and my cousin, Mike are leaning towards each other already, playing the “Dueling Banjos”.  Uncle Lee has set up his steel guitar and is softly playing a slow whining tune. 

Grandpa Simmons shows up with a rocking chair for Grandma and his own special cup of coffee with just a little “medicine” in it.  Once Grandma is settled with Uncle Lester on her lap, Grandpa pulls up an old chunk of wood, has a seat, and pulls out his harmonica. 

As the room gets crowded, us kids are sent outside to play, but the fresh night air and games of tag hold no interest for me and leaning there in the door of the garage, I listen, wishing I was older. My voice blends in quietly as Mama sings “Please Release Me, Let Me Go”. Her thick black hair glows with lights from the overhead bulb as she tilts her head back allowing her rich voice to rise with the misery of the song. The night picks up a beat as Daddy plays Jim Reeve’s “Bimbo” and everyone's clapping and laughter lightens the room. 

Thick cigarette smoke drifts out of the garage as the evening lengthens and turns into morning and one by one chairs are emptied, leaving a slowly thinning band. This was always my favorite time, for now there was room for me.  Curled there at Mama's feet, I could sing to my heart's content. I grew up singing just about every country song there was. 

There's been times when I wonder to myself, where I get my ideas about life and what is right and wrong. I don't remember Mama and Daddy going on about it much, but now when I think of it, perhaps they shared their values in their music.  Songs rich with love, pain and dreams, created an image of the world for me. 

It's strange how kids learn. The smallest thing can cling to their minds, making them the person they come to be. I wonder about our kids nowadays, what with the music they listen to and such.  What ideas about the world will they have... 

Copyright by: Sharon L. Romine October 1993