As I sit here and write this, I am on the heels of my Mother’s sister, Auntie Niece, leaving after a three day visit. She is 94 now, and though she has a smile of a 20 year old and that ever-sparkly glint of love in her eyes, when you speak to her… she is showing significant signs of her age. She can no longer hear—even with her hearing aid and her mind gets rearranged from time to time, but her recall of the days with my Mother and her husband, family, rolled off her lips as if it was yesterday. I could see her as a young girl and frankly, it was like having a visit with my own Mama. It was joyous. As we spoke of this family picnic and that family picnic, I became uncomfortably aware that my generation and younger, don’t really just pick up and say, hey, call everyone and lets all meet to have a picnic by the river, or park, or over at the house. I remember those days so clearly—and we did it often. All the oldies, I, then, a youngster, sitting on laps begging my Uncle Frank to smoke his pipe, or telling my Uncle Pappy I am almost as tall as you; or being chased by my Uncle Bob who was threatening to tickle me. Cousins on swings and merry-go-rounds in the park or us young girls wearing our special spaghetti-strapped sun suits, swimmin’ in the river; I can still see the dappled light at the park; hear the swift-white-water sounds of the great Rogue; and watching my Mom and Dad laugh and dance while my Uncle played his ukulele and those not dancing, singing the old songs with him.
Always, always, always, there were certain topics that would come up during those days. Calls to Auntie Anne, making sure she brought her family-famous tater salad. My Auntie Jack, always brought the fried chicken, because…well…no one got it crisper and juicier than Auntie J. Mama would inevitably be in charge of her famous slaw. It seemed there were always a few coolers; one full of pops for the kids, along with lemonade and water on the picnic tables; and of course, always a few beers in the other cooler. Dad and the rest of our family, for that matter, were big watermelon lovers. That was back in the days you could get a 20 lb watermelon for 2 cents a pound. And if we went to the river for a picnic, Dad would always bring a big melon and put it in the river to keep it cold. Oh, how I fussed over that melon—always concerned it was going to float away, and yet it never did. And when it came time for the cracking of it, it was crisp and cold and the perfect treat on a hot summer’s Oregon day. My Auntie Niece’s Great Grandfather-in-Law, made violins. Or in our family, they were called fiddles. My Great Grandmother, Annie, picked fiddles and there was always a jig, just around the corner, when we were with her. Music, as most of you might know, was everywhere in my family. Having my Mother gone, for almost a year now, it had been some time since I had that kind of recall in conversation. Auntie told of times when my G-Grandmother Annie, would sit out on the stoop of their home in South Sioux City, when she was a kid, and she would pick songs in the blistering Nebraskan sun: kids running through sprinklers; and enough food to feed an army. Isn’t it funny, the American’s of the Great Depression—honestly not enough money in their pocket to rub two dimes together—always had more than enough food to feed their family and anyone who might need a meal. Those were the days when television wasn’t even a cog in the wheel. The days when you would settle at night to gather around the radio; or finish up your canning; or walk to the corner pub and see what Uncle Chuck was up to; those were the days music was glue; music was the fantasy; music was the opioid for the heart and soul. Those were the days that maybe it was bath night, and maybe you shared the water with your siblings in an old tub. Those very days, if there was a washboard near, a jug
or a box: you suddenly had percussion. Those were the days my Grandmother would lift the hem of her dress up a bit and dance, while everyone sang along and grabbed their sweetie to join in the fun. Yes, those were the days if there was some butcher string within reach, you could tie it between to firmly stead objects and pluck the night away. I read, sometime back, where the last Saturday of August was Play Your Music on the Porch Day. What I wouldn’t give to have some hours of those days back. I have decided to call my friends for a picnic at my house, next Saturday. Many friends, musicians and singers: ask them to bring a favorite dish; a song and a story; their instruments and prepare to celebrate all that’s come before us; all that is to come. Last night, our on our deck, having bbq’d chicken; and the conversation of the days of family, when we all lived in the same town; shared the same values, and weren’t spread out over hell’s half acre; living life so intensely we won’t take time to remember the potato salad, the jigs, the summer days that never seemed to end: was an elixir. It healed aches I didn’t realize I had. I hope this next Saturday you all can take some time and play some music on your porch; gather the family; remember when and create a new memory for the youngsters to recall with their old Aunties and Uncles one day. I hope America never forgets why we are and why we do. I hope many good things and as I write you this, I can’t think of anything better to bring your loved ones together and celebrate ‘Play Music on the Porch Day.’ What a perfect way to spend a Saturday. And if there isn’t a chicken leg left, know that at the very least, the music will fill your soul and someone else’s long after you are gone, as they re-share those moments with their own grand and great-grand children one day.