YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE
I woke up this morning thinking about my grandmother. They were debating on the radio as to what role faith play in healing sicknesses. Before the cancer in his soccer toe billowed into the rest of his body, Bob Marley denied treatment on the grounds that Jah would heal him if it was Jah's will. He gave in, and the chemo made his dreads fall out in the shower, but it still got him. My grandmother, and quite to my ma's dismay, pulled the same move -insert Jesus for Jah-when I was three or so. She went through a mess of faith healers, but in the end, the cancer got her too. Not before she could teach me to sing YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE though (a song that to this day, weeps me up like a willow) Afterwards, Ma always said that my grandmother was my guardian angel. And I believed it. Maybe because I was little and Ma swore that Nana was trying to contact me through the plastic cream colored heart that was making figure eights around the oujia board. Maybe it was 'cause I was her sunshine. I don't know. But I believed it.
Now, by the time she was teaching me YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, her voice was a husky alto. But the story goes that she once had a beautiful soprano voice, which was the envy of all the choirgirls at Cold Point Baptist Church, where my great great grandfather was a minister. Later she would meet the minister's son, marry him, and give birth to my Ma. But not yet. At this point, she was just a girl with an extraordinary soprano voice who was walking home from school, when she saw her brother Tommy wave and begin to cross the street. The schoolbus didn't brake in time.
By the time she had finished screaming, her brother Tommy's legs and that lovely soprano voice, were gone. So the story goes. Like Huck says about Mark Twain, Ma told some stretchers here and there, but she told the truth mainly. So I believe it.
I only bring it up because I used to work with this sweet girl named Brie. She worked days with autistic kids, and moonlighted nights at my bar. She was borderline psychic too, man. She told me I'd be famous, "Though maybe not in this lifetime." She told me once, through tears, that I should play guitar. And she told that I shouldn't date the girl I was beginning to see at the time. And all in a voice that you could hear a pin drop in. Seriously, she spoke so quietly nobody could hear her. Customers couldn't hear her. The staff couldn't hear her. Nobody. She talked on tippy toes, and she swore that she couldn't raise her voice any further than this strange church mouse volume of hers. And she was pretty self conscious about it too. Later, it came out that she thought she was so quiet because of this incident she had when she was little. She had been playing on her rooftop with her brother in Manhattan. And she had seen him struck by lightning. And I connected her to my grandmother's story somehow.
So, last Sunday, Huckleberry Slim was geared up to play at Union Square -and to try out this cornet player and this drummer. Needless to say, we got rained out. The storm came down in sheets-browning out parts of the East Village, cutting off power in subways, creating "water situations" in Queens-and cancelling Huck Slim's Sunday night Jam in the park. I found out tonight that the same storm passed over Cold Point Baptist Church in Pennsylvania-where my great, great grandfather was a minister, where Nana met my grandfather, and where my mother used to go to church, and where they no longer have a bell tower-because it burned down during the storm last Sunday when Cold Point Baptist Church was struck by lightning.
And that's the truth, mainly or not. So, when I heard that and the radio this morning, I figured that Nana didn't need the plastic heart and Parker Brothers to contact me and that lightning could strike twice, so long as it's in a story. I do hope that Brie was right about the guitar though (for Huck Slim's sake) I know she was right about my ex gal. As for fame, it will prolly have to wait for that other lifetime-the one where Bob's got his dreads, and Tommy's playing hopscotch and dancing, and the loveliest of sopranos sings You Are My Sunshine.
Now, by the time she was teaching me YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, her voice was a husky alto. But the story goes that she once had a beautiful soprano voice, which was the envy of all the choirgirls at Cold Point Baptist Church, where my great great grandfather was a minister. Later she would meet the minister's son, marry him, and give birth to my Ma. But not yet. At this point, she was just a girl with an extraordinary soprano voice who was walking home from school, when she saw her brother Tommy wave and begin to cross the street. The schoolbus didn't brake in time.
By the time she had finished screaming, her brother Tommy's legs and that lovely soprano voice, were gone. So the story goes. Like Huck says about Mark Twain, Ma told some stretchers here and there, but she told the truth mainly. So I believe it.
I only bring it up because I used to work with this sweet girl named Brie. She worked days with autistic kids, and moonlighted nights at my bar. She was borderline psychic too, man. She told me I'd be famous, "Though maybe not in this lifetime." She told me once, through tears, that I should play guitar. And she told that I shouldn't date the girl I was beginning to see at the time. And all in a voice that you could hear a pin drop in. Seriously, she spoke so quietly nobody could hear her. Customers couldn't hear her. The staff couldn't hear her. Nobody. She talked on tippy toes, and she swore that she couldn't raise her voice any further than this strange church mouse volume of hers. And she was pretty self conscious about it too. Later, it came out that she thought she was so quiet because of this incident she had when she was little. She had been playing on her rooftop with her brother in Manhattan. And she had seen him struck by lightning. And I connected her to my grandmother's story somehow.
So, last Sunday, Huckleberry Slim was geared up to play at Union Square -and to try out this cornet player and this drummer. Needless to say, we got rained out. The storm came down in sheets-browning out parts of the East Village, cutting off power in subways, creating "water situations" in Queens-and cancelling Huck Slim's Sunday night Jam in the park. I found out tonight that the same storm passed over Cold Point Baptist Church in Pennsylvania-where my great, great grandfather was a minister, where Nana met my grandfather, and where my mother used to go to church, and where they no longer have a bell tower-because it burned down during the storm last Sunday when Cold Point Baptist Church was struck by lightning.
And that's the truth, mainly or not. So, when I heard that and the radio this morning, I figured that Nana didn't need the plastic heart and Parker Brothers to contact me and that lightning could strike twice, so long as it's in a story. I do hope that Brie was right about the guitar though (for Huck Slim's sake) I know she was right about my ex gal. As for fame, it will prolly have to wait for that other lifetime-the one where Bob's got his dreads, and Tommy's playing hopscotch and dancing, and the loveliest of sopranos sings You Are My Sunshine.
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