Over the years, we tortured poor Thoreau until his words were
quoted as, “Most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song
still inside them.”
Actually, I’m not sure that I “agree 100 percent with his
police work,” in either case, to borrow a quote from Sheriff Marge Gunderson of
Brainerd, N.D.
I’m afraid there is a tendency for us to assume that having
great “songs” inside us must demand that one have a great position in life. I’m
afraid there are souls from the highest skyscrapers in Manhattan that not only
lead lives of quiet desperation, but could only spew songs of imbecilic ineptitude.
Just read today’s newspaper.
Conversely, I have the singular honor of having known, once, a beautiful soul named Almeda Riddle who had so many wonderful songs in her heart
that one could hardly count them. Born in Cleburne County, Arkansas, she
received a welcome in such far-off places as the hallowed halls of Harvard
University. This was back in the days of folk music, a time I miss a lot.
She could be “misunderestimated,” as all wondrous souls are.
Once, after appearing at a Folk Music concert in Little Rock, a “journalist,”
having expected, I suppose, to see Joan Baez, or Joni Mitchell, gave Almeda’s reedy
voice a scathing review. There was a great scurrying next morning by her hosts
to hide the trashy review from her. As far as I know, she never saw it.
At party back then, fueled by a tragic volume of alcohol, I
was induced to play “The Wildwood Flower” for her and even to sing along with her
heart-piercing voice. She took it in stride like a true saint. She’d heard
worse, I imagine.
But as for me, I would not trade that moment with “Granny Riddle," for days with the “beautiful people” who are writhing in the fetid swamps of
America today, dominating the headlines from cold hearts and empty souls.
 |
| To have known her is a song in itself. |
No comments:
Post a Comment