Friday, November 30, 2007

A Five-String Harp for Bob


"I'm coming home!" he called out to the unseen loved ones keeping him company that last day of life as we know it. "I'm coming home!" A dozen states and 1500 miles away and I can nonetheless picture his exuberant anticipation. Bob was always stepping into an adventure that became a part of his ever-enlarging home -- on a boat, learning and writing about the sea that feeds us; on a train, listening and singing and riding with hobos; on a stage, singing and pretending; in a classroom, telling stories to kids about Johnny Appleseed and more. Home became wherever he was privileged to be, and he was grateful, curious, respectful, and anxious to learn.

My first experience with him and my last were making music. I, the fairly ordered and ordinary constrained guitarist, and he the uninhibited banjo picker ever-launching into one or another obscure folk song that his memory had spent a lifetime gathering and pouring out. I think -- at least I hope -- that he enjoyed the music we made together, but he thrived to be with people who had one thing or another to teach him. Stood next to his, my life seemed rather limited and confined; my songs, thin and fading. The songs he knew -- and the living that surrounded them -- were timeless, earthy, hardy and real. I had nothing, really, to teach; all I could do was learn.

We shared a stage for a season, and a chancel from time to time. We shared a few living rooms -- both his, at a time in my life when I was full of lonely pain and grief and he and his beloved pulled out a chair from their table and served me grace; and mine, just a year ago in the company of a few last songs. The words eluded him from time to time; the tumor was beginning to speak too loudly for him to hear them. But the chords were there and the melody, the laugh and the joyful, crusty croon. And it was paradise for me.

He was, to me, the very portrait of life -- embraced, tasted, savored, and sung. His eyes, his heart, his spirit and his song were always wide open. Fitting that Thanksgiving was his ending.

He was always grateful.
As am I: for his life, his affection, exuberant example...

...and his song.

Welcome home, beloved friend Bob. And play on. There's bound to be something in those harp strings worth learning.

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

WOW!!! Terriffic! I know how hard this one was to write and accept. You wrote a great tribute and I know he was really special to you. Blessings, M

Anonymous said...

Beautiful tribute (glad I didn't read it at dinner, salty tears don't go well with salmon). Even more glad I had a chance to meet him. May the sounds of those songs always play on in your head, and on your heart.

Anonymous said...

Dear Tim,

I am Bob's oldest daughter, Sarah. I stumbled across this tribute on your blog when I found a link left on one of his on-line obituaries.

Thank you for this loving tribute! It is nice to know how much my father was loved in circles wider than our family.

lynn said...

I believe that people come into our lives for a reason and at just the right time. Bob obviously help you through a very difficult time in your life and it sounds as if you returned the favor.

Anonymous said...

Dear Tim,

Sending you my deepest sympathies upon the loss of our mutual friend, "Banjo Bob", and thanking you for this insightful and very touching tribute. Indeed, he will be sorely missed, but as he often reminded me, "the music lives on."

Blessings,
Cindy Peloquin