Memorable Performances

[Stephen Mills]

Some recent threads have reminded me of my first performance, memorable despite its lasting only about half a minute. It was on guitar; I had been practicing classical guitar for, oh, about a year and a half. I had been invited over to my thesis advisor’s for dinner. I had previously given him the Jean-Pierre Rampal flute album “Japanese Melodies for Flute and Harp” and I knew that the tune “Sakura, Sakura” was his favorite as well as mine. I had found a simple arrangement of the tune, and knowing that his daughter usually had a nylon string guitar lying about the living room, I worked up the piece with some anticipation.

 

There was also another person at dinner, a house guest from British Columbia. After dinner, during conversation, I nonchalantly picked up the guitar and tuned it. No one was paying much attention, as planned, so I launched into “Variations on Sakura”. Not 20 seconds into the piece, the visiting woman burst into tears and ran from the room. (Of course, I’ve come to expect that since, but usually they hurl curses before they leave.)

 

It turns out that she was visiting because her husband had very recently died, and that he had often played “Sakura” on the piano. It did put some damper on the evening. Well, I’ve never really wanted to be a performer per se; I'm pretty happy closing the door and playing solo in some room at home. My first performance was also practically my last, although not for that specific reason. I think, though, that other regularly-performing c.net members must certainly have had some highly memorable performances. Please, regale us with them.

[Alan Day]

My first time on stage was at a Folk club in Horsham (Sussex).I just went there to watch and the organiser and host had heard me sing a bit at a pub sing around and invited me on stage to sing.(I was not playing the concertina at that time).Like a fool I agreed,I think I was flattered to be asked up there and accepted.

Off I went "In South Australia I was born" it was then I realised I had pitched it too high,instead of starting again, I carried on.I was then hit with what I can only describe as sheer panic,I suddenly became out of breath,as if I had just sprinted around the block before getting on stage ,so much so my intake of breath sounded as if I was being strangled (which may have been a happier option)

My heave away ,Haul away sounded more like a donkey impression,particularly the heee bit and the Haw followed shortly after.How I reached the end of the song I shall never know ,strangely I was not asked for another one.A polite round of applause finished my first time on stage and I was getting strange looks for the rest of the evening.

Al

[stuart estell]

In about '98 I had a band called "Papal Visit", named after a song of the same name by The Fall, and the material we played was a curious blend of very loud guitars, rockabilly, 50s surf music and techno. A singalong band we certainly weren't.

 

The most entertaining gig we did by far was at Birmingham University. A friend of mine was a welfare tutor in one of the halls, and they were looking for a band for their after-exams party. I said we'd do it but described our "sound" as best I could, and suggested they listen to our demo to make sure we were the kind of thing they wanted. They declined the offer of the tape, which surprised me, but I thought, foolishly, that they must know what they were doing...

 

I can't really remember why, but I ended up doing our publicity material; I'd just got a half-decent graphics program fro my PC, so set about finding something usable. In the end I found some very nice heraldic shields, and set about making them look a bit more abstract, printed off what I thought was quite a nice poster, and popped it through the door of the halls. In the middle of this, we sacked our drummer and decided to do the gig anyway as a duo with the preprogrammed drum tracks, seeing as the electronics were at least on an equal footing with the live drums.

 

When we got to the gig, we found out that they'd been really worried by the poster, as they thought it looked like a load of burning crosses, which hadn't even vaguely crossed my mind... they had put two and two together with our name and panicked because they thought we were some kind of satanic death metal band. So we unloaded all our gear and soundchecked. They realised that we weren't going to sacrifice anything live on stage, and everything was fine.... ish.

 

We started our set with a version of Link Wray's "Rumble", and then it dawned on us that our audience had little or no concept of what an "instrumental" was, and really only wanted to sing songs by either Oasis or the Beatles or both. The fact that we followed it with our "interpretation" of Firestarter, by The Prodigy, which was still a student dancefloor favourite at the time, didn't really help. We robbed the song of all of its sinister undertones by turning it into a surf number -

with the bassline from "Wipe Out" underneath it!

 

We started with an audience of about 100. By the time we finished, just over an hour later, there were no more than 20 people watching us, if that, although they claimed to have enjoyed it. I suspect they were fixed to the spot out of some sort of morbid curiosity, and were just being polite.

 

I'm not sure what the moral of the story is, but I certainly wouldn't put myself in the same position again

Edited July 9, 2004 by stuart estell

[Lon Mercier]

Last June I was at Stanford University for my niece's graduation. The day after the ceremony I helped move her out of her dorm. Between moving sessions I decided to take a short music break. I sat on the end of the moving van and began to play some of my Irish tunes. Well, before long there were people actually stopping and listening to me. I became rather self conscious, but I continued anyway. When I finished my set, an elderly man came up to me, thanked me for the music and a put a one dollar bill in my open case. I was very surprised. I guess I must now consider myself a professional since I am now being paid for my music!

[JimLucas]

I guess I must now consider myself a  professional since I am now being paid for my music!

"Semi-professional" is probably more accurate.

Or (mixing threads once again) is there such a thing as a "cent-professional"?

[Lon Mercier]

Jim, I guess "semi-professional" would be more accurate since I am "semi-competent" on the instrument. Maybe next time I'll earn more than one dollar - these concertinas are not cheap.

[Wrigglefingers]

Hey Stuart!

 

I think I vaguely remember the gig (although not getting home or other stuff) I just failed my viva and was too drunk to move. Happy days (you've just plugged a gaping hole in my memory bank) ......

 

Jill

 

(I knew I seen you before Hawkwood this year and probably explains why I still haven't got my PhD!)

[JimLucas]

Performances can be memorable for any number of reasons:

+++ During a pub concert by a friend, a fist fight broke out between two members of the audience. With professional indifference, Greg continued playing his flute as if nothing unusual were happening, while I and a couple of others separated the combatants and ushered them out.

+++ At a concert of chamber music -- basically string quartet with various combinations of additional instruments -- at a prestigious venue (you notice I'm not naming names; I know some of the people involved), the clarinettist (quite well known) was off stage for the final number,which involved French horn, but not clarinet. For the final bow, he returned from the wings with his clarinet... and nothing else. (This was during the "streaking" craze of the '70s.)

+++ There was the time in a coffee house performance where I stopped in the middle of a Macedonian ballad to say, "Oops! Wrong verse. Let me start that one again." Afterward, someone came up to me and said, "Now that's integrity!"

+++ And then there are the Irish sessions where I've been complimented on my Gaelic singing... just after I've sung a song in Russian.

+++ A phone call from a café owner: The (American) group scheduled to perform that night has just cancelled. He's called me, another American, and a local blugrass guitarist, hoping we can split the evening and placate the audience. I was relatively new in town and had never met either of the other two, and they had never played together. But after 5 minutes of "do you know this one...?" we decided to go on as a group and wing it. It turned out great!

+++ At a small family concert, just as Jane reached the part of the ballad where the girl had a baby, an infant in the front row started crying. Then shortly aftward, as I was starting in on, "Will ye gang tae the Highlands, Leezie Lindsay", in through the door (arriving late) stepped a woman named Lindsay.

+++ Unpleasant experiences? How about being hired by a pub owner, but after the first set being told by the bartender (the owner being absent) that he'll pay me in full, but he will not let me go back on... unless I switch to guitar and do rock & roll?

Edited to add: (I almost forgot.)

+++ I used to busk occasionally at South Street Seaport in New York (before it became yuppified). One day I decided to try the same in Greenwich Village. I had what I thought was a great spot (one I had seen others use with apparent success), but over the course of 2 hours I had only received one quarter (=25 cents, = 1/4 dollar). Then a fellow stepped up and asked if I could play a hornpipe on my concertina. I said yes and proceeded to do so. He said he really liked the way I played it, and he asked for my phone number. And that's how I came to be both Assistant Music Director and an orchestra musician for an original ballet performed on a tour by The New Jersey Ballet Company.

Edited July 13, 2004 by JimLucas

[jmyersgoucheredu]

an elderly man came up to me, thanked me for the music and a put a one dollar bill in my open case.  I was very surprised.

My family and I just returned from two weeks in Italy. We brought my concertina and a violin. Since our hotel in Florence was across the street from the Dublin Bar, we got out the instruments and started playing some Irish tunes, me on the concertina and my wife and daughters taking turns with the fiddle. We made seven euros!

 

A couple days later, my wife and I played along the canal in Venice. We didn't open a case up for money (the kids weren't there), but an old fellow did stop by twice, conveying to us (he had no English, and my Italian is a bit rusty) that he used to play a PA. Of course, my report of his enthusiasm for our music must be qualified by the fact that he was wearing a hearing-aid. My oldest daughter said, "I thought so."

 

Jeff Myers

 

P.S.--Oh, one tourist took a video of us playing. She's probably showing "the Venetian street musicians" to friends and family.

[Brian Humphrey]

A few years ago I was in an Iriish band playing squeezeboxes on Saturday nights in an upscale pub in Coral Gables Florida (near Miami). The stage was small, and my spot was right at the end of the bar, which ran the length of the room. Just before intermission, my Wheatstone Aeola developed a wheeze. At intermission I removed the end-bolts; the bartender gave me a glass to put them in; and I proceeded to dislodge the dust from the reed. When I reached for the end-bolts, the glass was gone. The barback had "tidied up" for me.

 

Momentarily, I froze. The barback ran me back to the kitchen and we began digging through the tubs of dirty dishes. Most of the kitchen help got into the act, and helped us search the sink, the garbage cans, the stacks of dishes, and the buckets of food scraps. The band started the second set without me.

 

Half an hour after dis-assembling my concertina, I was elbow-deep in a trash can, successfully retrieving the last end-bolt. I put all eight in my pocket; dashed off to clean myself and the end-bolts; reassembed my concertina; and rejoined the band, drenched in sweat and perfumed by a few other substances.

 

Brian

Edited July 18, 2004 by Brian Humphrey

[synchopepper]

I have been thinking about my memorable performances and decided to write the following memoir, I hope is isn't too lengthy for a forum listing.

 

 

In 1964 when I was a kid in high school I got together with three other guys to form a folk music group called the Town Cryers. The following summer we decided to try and earn some money doing what we loved best – playing and singing.

 

In those days the Southwest corner of Michigan where we lived was home to a number of resorts. Most of the smaller ones were “American Plan” resorts. The American Plan resort typically consisted of numerous small cabins, a recreation hall, often a lodge containing single rooms to rent and a dining hall with kitchen. Meals and entertainment were included in the “American Plan”. These resorts always had someone who organized entertainment and activities for the guests. This was often the owner. American Plan resrots were the workingman’s cruise ship of their era.

 

American Plan resorts were always located on a body of water and their main forms of entertainment were fishing, socializing and drinking - with a good measure of hi-jinks thrown in. The clientele were predominately blue-collar families from the Chicago area but occasionally also from Detroit and other metropolitan areas. Families would book reservations at the same resort, in the same cabin and on the same week year after year. The summer season at an American Plan resort consisted of fifteen one week sessions. Because the same group of guests came on the same week year after year each session had it’s own unique atmosphere, characters, rituals and legends.

 

By the spring of 1965 we had lined up numerous engagements at nightclubs and resorts. Several of these resorts were American Plan resorts. At two of the American Plan resorts we would end up playing regularly, every week, for seven seasons until we went our separate ways after college. During most of those years we would play evenings during the week and then drag into a day job the following morning to earn additional money for school. While I recall how tough it was to make it into the day job every morning I don’t remember having the same problem with our evening job. Those were always great fun.

 

Our favorite American Plan resort was called Smallbones’ Maplewood Resort at Sister’s Lakes, Michigan. This resort consisted of about 35 cabins, a big kitchen/dining building, and a recreation hall. I can only recall the Town Cryers playing in the recreation hall at Smallbones’ on a few very wet nights in all those years. All the other times we played on the broad beach in front of the dining hall.

 

The owner, manager and entertainment director at Smallbones’ was George Smallbones. George’s grandfather had opened the resort over fifty years before and George, a WWII veteran and former star collegiate football player, had grown up at the resort. George was about seven feet tall and weighed something over 300 pounds. He had a disposition and voice as gentle as a lamb – a real Ferdinand the Bull. He glided through the chaos and hub-bub at Smallbones’ like an oversized ship of state – totally competent and unflappable.

 

Over the years a ritual developed regarding our weekly visits to Smallbones’. In the late afternoon on the day of our visit George would have a fire laid out on the beach. This was no common campfire. George owned a sawmill and the fire he laid out consisted of about 100 to 150 scrap boards each about 12 feet long. The boards were stacked in a teepee about 12 feet from the shore and secured with metal bands. Next George carried a heavy table and two old cast iron bathtubs down to the beach. These were set up about 20 feet from the Dining Hall facing the fire and the lake. The table was set with marshmallows, hot dog buns and condiments. The tubs were filled with ice and then charged with about four cases of beverage each – one for soft drinks (called pop in Michigan), and one for beer. Chairs were then laid out in an arc several rows deep. Each end of the arc was anchored at the lake’s shore, its apex the bathtubs and its central focal point the fire pit.

 

The backdrop of this layout was the dining hall - the domain of Silvia The Cook. Silvia was a huge old woman - even bigger that George. She had been the cook at Smallbones’ since prehistoric times and reigned like Jobba-the-Hut like over her minions with a pontifical patronage. One of the most enduring legends of Smallbones’ was that Silvia had grown so large over the years that she could no longer fit through the dining hall doors and had been confined there for some time. I, for one, never saw her anywhere but in the dining room where we sometimes went before playing to tease snacks out of her. We had our own superstition about Silvia. If we caught a glimpse of her broad features in one of the fire lit windows as we went on to play it would be a great performance. We always checked for this benediction.

 

Around dusk after Silvia’s crew had cleaned up from the dinner setting Silvia would put a big black kettle on the huge black stove in the kitchen and stock it with ten gallons of water and about forty pounds of hot dogs. About the time Silvia’s kettle went on the stove adult guests would start gathering around the dining hall, in the general area of the beach, joking and laughing about the day’s activities. Kids would play ping-pong in the recreation hall across from the dining hall, or softball in the field behind or just generally run around blowing off steam

 

In Michigan it is a time-honored tradition for cottage dwellers to cruise around the lake at dusk. On the lake at Smallbones’ the general evening parade of promenading pontoon boats would begin to fall out into anchorage just off the beach. As nightfall approached the resort guests would sort themselves around the arc of chairs in the same seating arrangement they had assumed on the same week for many years. Some nights we had a bigger crowd on the boats than around the campfire

 

The traditional beginning of the evening’s rituals was the lighting of the bonfire. After liberal squirts of kerosene George would ignite a farmer match with a flick of his massive thumb and toss it into the base of the bonfire. Within sixty seconds the entire beach and the most of the lake would be illuminated by the conflagration. Both the beach bound and the sea faring observers would shrink from the blasting heat with ohs and ahs. While we would have our sound system set up in front of the bathtubs we kept our instruments cased, as we knew the first shock wave of radiating heat from the bonfire was hot enough to blister the finish of a guitar top or pop a banjo head.

 

After about ten minutes the fire would begin to die down, swimmers would return to their boats and guests near the fire would reclaim their seats. Anticipation rose as the evening’s entertainments were about to begin. The festivities formally started with George. He presided over the beginning, the middle and the end of these Thursday evening ceremonies. He would wrap a huge hand around a microphone stand and, holding stand and mic like a toothpick, launch into the time honored ritual. His evening introductions started with an official welcome to the guests followed by a recitation of Indian lore supposedly having to do with the local lakes, rivers and Smallbones’ long history.

 

The official welcome would be followed by several comments on the recent exploits of a few unlucky guests singled out to warm up the crowd. When George had the crowd sufficiently warmed up and the fire had sufficiently cooled down he would launch the traditional introduction of the Town Cryers which always went something like this:

 

“Tonight we have with us four young boys from the great city of Buchanan on the banks of the father of rivers, the great Saint Joseph. They tell me they flew in tonight and their arms aaare tired but I think they have rested up by now. When these boys first came to me they said wanted to play at Smallbones’. I told them we didn’t allow any pornographic songs and Tom said that was OK because they didn’t even own a pornograph! So with out further ado here are the Town Cryers!”

 

Amid a scattered applause we would take the stage, thank the audience and George and launch into a rousing opening number. A joke or two, often about George, would follow the opening song. Next would come a serious song and a funny song and then usually we would launch a sign-a-long. Leading up to the sing-a-long was always a high-tension time for us. During our opening numbers the huge bonfire before us would begin to collapse. The blackened boards would begin to settle, sometimes shifting slightly. This was our signal to be alert. At some point during the first part of the show we knew the whole assembly of boards still bound with metal bands would, like some alien machine, topple over on stiff legs. When this burning pile hit the ground in one piece it would send up a huge mushroom cloud of hot sparks and superheated gases. Those down wind would reap the consequences.

 

Sometimes a crosswind would send this pyroclastic flow into the seats near the beach and occasionally even set a guest on fire. The smoldering victim would often be forced to make a swan dive into the lake, clothes and all, to extinguish themselves. This provided high entertainment to the other guests and a place in the parthenon of Smallbones’ legends to the luckless victim. More often the on-shore evening breeze would push the maelstrom towards us, as we were well aware. During this fire alert period of our program we were always ready to grab all valuable instruments and in a split second leap the bathtubs in a single bound. The burning effigy would often take a faltering step or two prior to falling face down at our feet. These false starts made for some interesting numbers as we continued to perform while leaping into the air.

 

After the bonfire collapse it was usually smooth sailing to the highlight of every evening. The Intermission. After playing about an hour and a half we would take our one break of the evening. When we played our last song before this break and after a our elaborate passing of the baton back to the boss we were able to withdraw to the periphery of the circle, pops in hand, to witness George perform the Ancient Smallbones’ Intermission Ritual.

 

Picking up his toothpick mic George would begin a time-honored dialogue. This harangue went on for some time in his oddly small quiet voice. First George would relate several stories about present guests that allegedly had occurred in the distant past. These stories usually had the subject squirming in their seat and everyone else snickering and gra-fawing with plenty of cat calls to go around. Over the years as we became a fixture at Smallbones, we too were the occasional subject of these stories.

 

One of these stories concerned an incident that happened during a show the first season we performed at Smallbones’. Our base player suffered a sound post collapse. His ancient bass fiddle had a post inside that supported the top just under the bridge. If he became overly energetic in slapping the old gutbucket around this post could collapse. The collapse of the post was accompanied by a sound similar to a gunshot and our bass player, muttering half heard dark oaths, would drag the corpse off stage for emergency surgery.

 

On the night in question this happened during the latter part of the show when the guests were already well oiled. The post collapsed with a bang in the middle of a rousing rendition of The MTA. Immediately a tremendous commotion broke out in the audience - a crashing and banging that lasted for several seconds. When things died down everyone’s attention was drawn to a pile of chairs from under which a guest was sheepishly emerging with a drawn pistol. At the time we assumed he was a Chicago cop on vacation as some other Smallbones’ guest were. In succeeding years as this legend was told and retold we learned otherwise. Our base player, upon reflection, became skittish about this incident and thereafter always fell to the ground when the post collapsed to avoid the anticipated crossfire. This became one of his most popular stunts and evolved into a comedy skit about our attempts to revive him.

 

After George spent about fire or ten minutes roasting a selection of those present he got down to the heart of his intermission performance: the Sacred Smallbones’ Oral Tradition. This collection of doggerel verses and ribald songs were the ritual core of all the weekly cultures that faceted the Smallbones’ experience. George would recite and sing these ancient relics in a clear tenor voice but only after the general clamor among the crowd reached a fever pitch. Then, like Pontius Pilot, George would call to the masses “Do you want ‘She was Bred in Old Kentucky but She’s just a crumb up here”? Or do you want “I Kissed Her on Her Ruby Lips and Left Her Behind for You”? The crowd would erupt in general mayhem but after a few seconds some communal will seemed flow over the rabble until all shouted in unison “Give us ‘Keep the Light Burning Tonight, Father’s Coming Home with a Load’” or “Give us ‘You Worked So Hard for Me Dear Mother, Now Get Out and Work for Yourself’!”

 

After an absent look as he took time to rummage around in the Smallbones’ archive filed in his big skull George would begin a recitation or a song while the audience silently mouthed the words. While his performance always began in a deadpan after a couple of lines or a verse when he had time to reflect upon the content odd little noises would creep into his performance. As he progressed little hoots and sniggers would punctuate his serious delivery and sometimes these little out breaks would completely disable him and the smoldering crowd would have to finish it on their own.

 

There were two songs in this collection that were the defining icons, the alpha and omega of the Smallbones’ experience. ‘The Dirty Japanese Song’ and the ‘Smallbones’ Anthem’. “The Dirty Japanese Song” contained the essence of the big man himself and the “Smallbone’s Anthem epitomized his resort.

 

The zenith of George’s performance was the ‘Dirty Japanese Song’. George, a WWII veteran of the Pacific Theater, claimed to have learned this song at the feet of a famous geisha who was concubine to the Royal Emperor himself. Most listeners believed this to be true since no one who ever heard it knew Japanese and, therefore, no one could refute it’s authenticity. George would preface the performance of this song with the admonition that all children should return to their cabins, as the words were not appropriate for their ears. Of course no child would miss it after that introduction.

 

After his usual blank stare a sound would suddenly fill the earth and heavens so ethereal and alien that birds started from their roosts, fish jumped from the water and dogs all around the lake barked and howled. The audience stared gape mouthed at the big man not believing this sound could be coming from him. As the high plaintive voice of a seventy pound Japanese geisha poured out of the giant man he became transformed. His frame seemed to shrink as he tottered forward daintily on the bound feet of a royal courtesan. His face became a powered mask and his features softened into a girlish demeanor with fluttering lashes and dainty puckering mouth. His hands moved in delicate gestures as they swayed on willow arms.

 

A collective groan arose from around the campfire and the boat decks – a sucking and gagging noise as people struggled for breath. Faces turned red and then blue. After three short stanzas George would whisper “here’s the dirty part” and perform the final stanza in such a lurid voice and with such come-hither gestures that a collective roar rolled across the lake and echoed back from the other side. Men wept, women cursed and children cheered. In the aftermath of George’s performance people would become so convulsed in laughter they would literally fall to the ground and roll around. Week after week, year after year this happened - there was no antidote.

 

The stunned interlude following The Dirty Japanese Song was really a pre-able to the grand finale of the intermission show. As the confusion slowly cleared a chant would start – quietly at first but quickly picking up strength until it was an irresistible command: “THE SMALLBONES SONG – THE SMALLBONES SONG!” George would egg the crowd on by saying he was too tired or that it was too late but inevitable prevailed and he would let himself be cajoled into starting out -

 

I’ve traveled all over this country and been to some fancy resorts

Some were costly and some were posh, some reminded me of cells.

But the last one I stayed at was Smallbones’ so nifty, so thrifty, so neat

But the best thing of all as I recall was what we had to eat.

 

On Monday we had bread and gravy on Tuesday was gravy and bread

Wednesday and Thursday were gravy and toast now that’s just the same as bread

On Friday we went to see Silvia to ask her for something instead

So on Saturday night we had with delight some gravy without any bread.

 

After the cheers died down George would welcome back the Town Cryers for their last set. From here on it was smooth downhill sailing. The ceremony that defined Smallbones’ resort was over. There, was however, one last spectacle to look forward to. Just before the grand finale of our last set two of Silvia’s kitchen scullions would appear from around the corner of the dinning hall sweating and groaning under the weight of the big black hot dog kettle. The kettle would be hefted onto the table beside the bathtubs, next to the condiments and buns. As the Town Cryers signed off and packed up George would take his position behind the big kettle, tongs in hand, ready to serve the growing queue of guest eager for a bedtime snack. Safe in his pocket would be the official Smallbones’ hard rubber wiener.

 

George was a master at slight of hand having slipped this rubber hot dog onto thousand of rolls over the years. Although everyone closely scrutinized his hands as he deftly served up the bunned dogs I never saw him caught in the act. He had a sixth sense too about who was the least suspecting victim in the line. Few people realized they had been duped until their jaws were bouncing back from the bun. Even then some refused to believe it - often making a second and even a third attempt to bite off a piece of the vulcanized sausage.

 

I must admit that I myself have bitten into the Smallbones’ trick wiener more than once. These occasions were the only opportunity to examine this artifact closely. When I did so I was fascinated to find it’s gnawed and gnarled surface incised with thousands of indentations like the cuneiform clay tablets I had observed on a boy scout trip to a museum. Sometime this relic made more than one round in an evening depending on how quickly it was discovered and retrieved.

 

My tail of the Thursday night rites held at the Smallbones’ Maplewood Resort those many years ago must end here. By then the boats were leaving for home and small groups of guests with a penchant for talk or drink would huddle into the night around the dying embers of the bonfire but the show was over. We had to set out for home and a short nights sleep before trudging into the day jobs early the next morning.

 

The years passed and the Town Cryers went their separate ways to live different lives in far away places. About twenty-five years later I found myself back living in Southwestern Michigan. In the intervening years American Plan Resorts had fallen out of style and lake front property had become a very valuable commodity. Gone was the great arch that spelled out MAPLEWOOD over the entrance of Smallbones’. George’s children had gone on to pursue their own lives which did not include old vacation resorts and George and his wife had gotten old.

 

One day the inevitable had happened - George received a good offer for the resort and decided to sell out and retire. The old resort was dismembered and condos built in its place and George and his wife retired to a lakefront cottage nearby. In one of those odd turns life sometimes makes I came into possession of a cottage across the lake from his. I visited him now and then and we would talk and laugh about the things we had done in the old days.

 

Several years ago George was out for a walk with his wife near their cottage and died suddenly of a heart attack. Now I only have the memories of those nights long ago. But sometimes when sitting on the porch at dusk I notice a glow in the sky across the lake that looks more like a bonfire than the sunset. And once in a great while, if it’s a quiet evening in the middle of the week, I think I can just make out a very small voice singing in Japanese.

[JimLucas]

...Smallbones’...

Bravo!!!

[Animaterra]

Syncho- that was brilliant! Thank you!

[Steven]

Synchopepper, you weave a heck of a tale. It left me feeling nostalgic for those memories, and I never even experienced them! And the gig sounds like an awful lot of fun. Thanks so much!

 

Steven

[Alan Day]

A great story and well told,I feel as if I was there,your writing was so good.I wonder if the cook had to be helecoptered out when the place was sold .A good story leaves you either thinking or laughing about it for hours after and this has.If I wake up at three in the morning and start laughing about the dirty bit and wake my wife your to blame.

Al

Ps have you got the words?

[A.D. Homan]

A great story and well told,I feel as if I was there,your writing was so good.I wonder if the cook had to be helecoptered out when the place was sold .A good story leaves you either thinking or laughing about it for hours after and this has.If I wake up at three in the morning and start laughing about the dirty bit and wake my wife your to blame.

Al

Ps have you got the words?

 

 

 

Really wonderful writing, and just like Al said, it keeps resonating long after reading. I'm going to share it with my mother-in-law, who grew up in Harrisville!

Thanks for sharing,

Andy

[Helen]

A super story and a great read after being away for five days.

 

Thanks.

 

Like the others, I felt that I was there (a great tribute to your writing skills) and was upset that the place was sold and I can't go anymore. Never mind that I have never been there, I felt as if I had.

 

Ta da, encore encore

 

Helen

 

Surely you have other memories. Maybe you could be your own section on Cnet.