In Sparta, there is a place called the Crouse House. If you are a music lover, it's the place where you spend most evenings. On one particular evening, I sat rather precariously balancing in my rickety folding chair and I watched as my grandfather and his group of friends sat in a circle and serenaded the setting sun with an unscripted repetoire of good, old-fashioned, down home bluegrass. If you were looking for some honest-to-goodness pickin' and grinnin', you'd have found it that night. All it took was a chord from one of the expertly strung instruments, and all the others would instantly melt together into melodies and harmonies that put the symphony of chirping crickets to shame. I remember leaning over to my cousin and whispering, "Isn't amazing how it only takes one note and they all instantly know what to play?" I don't remember if she was too entranced to answer me or not, but if she wasn't, I was obviously too far gone to retain any response she'd given me. It's spellbinding really, to watch bluegrass musicians do what they do. I feel honored to have that in my blood, even if I can't really play along. So, we watched, thinking these things. Proud of our grandfather, amazed by the way we couldn't tell when the sound of one instrument ended and the next began, wishful...so wishful...that we could do it too.
Then, something unthinkable happened. "You girls gonna do a song?" I looked at my cousin, then back toward the circle of musicians. I squinted in the darkening evening. Yes, they were looking at us. And yes, my grandfather had just volunteered us to play. Silence ensued. Followed by the awkward protests of my cousin and I. We were SO not worthy to play here! After...this was the CROUSE HOUSE. It was only for real musicians. My grandfather handed my cousin his guitar (one he'd made from scratch). She sheepishly strummed a few chords. We were beckoned into the circle. "Come on let's just do it," I'd said. "It'll be a story to tell!" Finally, after some coaxing, we were convinced to enter the Realm of the Bluegrass Masters. Admittedly, with our heads down and tails between our legs. We sat on the opposite side, as far away and unnoticeable as we could be. Everyone waited in silence, waiting to see if these two young whippersnappers were actually going to open up and sing or just sit there like fools. But as good as we are of making fools of ourselves, we did not have to add the events of July 5th to our list of reasons why we can never again show our faces in public. And we knew we'd already gotten ourselves in too far to turn around, so I looked at my cousin and my cousin looked at me. We smiled a nervous little smile, and then finally the silent crowd was rewarded with the chord they'd been waiting for.
I must say, there is a chord that exists that is unlike any other chord that can be played. The opening strum. As soon as my cousin's fingers hit those strings and made that chord, I knew there was no way to undo anything that would ensue. But let me tell you, my dear readers, the anything that ensued was anything but something I would ever want to undo. I don't believe there exists a word that describes what happened there, in the Realm of the Bluegrass Masters. It was as if there was no such thing as "nervous." No such thing as "skill level." No such thing as "judgement" or "better than." there was only the song, my cousin and I, and my grandfather's guitar. You know, they say the grass is always bluer in the mountains. That's definitely true for Sparta. And the essence of that moment there in Sparta, at the Crouse House, was something I can only really describe as "bluer grass."
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