Playing on Easter

I did not make it to church Sunday morning. Even when I was a regular, back in the day, I didn't much care for the "S'posed To's".

I must have led the worship service ("song service" as we simple folk called it) for three years or so at Pappy's church and always caused a commotion come the holidays. I did not think we needed to sing the same 8 songs that had always been sung on the holidays. I like "He Arose" just as much as the next guy born in 1923, but it gets a little clichéd by the 73rd Easter or so. The Church of My Choice had a sunrise service at 6:30 a.m. this Easter. I explained to someone that I would not love the Lord less at 11 a.m. than I might at 6:30 a.m., so the sun would rise without me, not upon me. I have paid my dues where sunrise services are concerned. I think they're mostly attended by masochists, insomniacs and people with too much time on their hands, anyway.

I drove an hour and a half to have Easter lunch with my grandma, Pappy (who looked very, very thin and old), my aunts, uncles and many cousins (who have procreated profusely). Mom and dad were there. We have a barometer for these occasions: how many of the 10 of us in my generation actually appear. This was an 8. Not bad. My generation hid eggs for the next one. Three groups of searchers this year: "I Can Almost Tell An Egg By Its Shape", "I Know This Game and Will Knock You Down To Get An Egg" and "Pick It Up and Shake It. If It Has Money, Keep It, If Not, Leave It." I hid eggs for the latter.

We informed the older (9 to 13 year-old money grubbers) that when WE were children, the only thing inside our egg was...well....egg. You had two choices; eat it or pitch it. Now, the eggs they find contain coins or candy. They looked at us like we'd come over in covered wagons. I like being this old. I know things. I cheated on behalf of the less aggressive boy, a son of my cousin. I would not-very-surreptitiously point out the general vicinity of eggs I spied after the other monsters had left the vicinity. This year's eggs were plastic, as they have been for a while now. Some of the kids colored eggs, I learned, but they weren't among what we hid. I thought that was missing the point of the Easter Egg Hunt: Pagan Ritual meets Christian Crucifixion Fixation, Results in Sulfur Smell by May. But what do I know?

I got home in time to catch Sunday Evening service at church: a dicey proposal. But I went anyway. Far fewer folks go to church on Sunday night, so you're practically committing to a conversation just by showing up. It was nice. Their drummer hadn't shown up, for whatever reason, so the pastor looked down from her perch and asked of me, "Do you play drums?" Out of shock and respect, I answered - too completely. "NO, ma'am! I play piano." I could have left the second half out and saved myself a world of interaction that followed.

I was invited on the spot to prove it, basically. I declined. No sense touching their pretties and then being I.D.'d as the fag who tickled their ivories. Not yet, anyway. Two of the "band" invited me to Dairy Queen and it didn't feel like the lead-up to an inquisition, so I went. I had a banana split and didn't offer anymore than "nothing" when asked, yet again, what I "do". They invited me back to their home for a jam session that they routinely have following Sunday night church. We used to have one of those years ago. All of the musicians would get together, run to Taco Bell and then gather somewhere to take out all of our musical frustrations that were pent up after the 173rd playing of "He Arose". It was therapy.

The older lady who plays bass guitar at this church hosted Sunday night's session. Her husband was at home, having refused to go to church that evening. He has Alzheimer's and has just gotten to the persnickety stage. She's not quite sure what he might say when or to whom, so it's just as well, she advised. I played piano, she harmonized and her male friend played mandolin (he helps care for her mister). We made our way through most of the 30 year-old songs they knew by heart and her husband sang along half-heartedly on a few. Half-heartedly....until I hit the first 3 bars of "Have a Little Talk WIth Jesus". I thought he'd come unglued, as we say. His face lit up. Every memory connection in his head was suddenly eloquent with recollection, it seemed. He didn't even look at the page for the words. He knew it by heart. And this time, his heart hadn't failed him.

Let us have a little talk with Jesus.
Let us tell him all about our troubles.
He will hear our faintest cry and
He will answer by and by...

I hadn't met the man before, but I recognized that he had found a spot of lucidity that is getting rarer for him by the day. I played the last few times through the chorus with wet cheeks and watered eyes. It's a good thing I can play by ear. I'd have never seen the notes. And I don't even like that song that much. It's certainly not one of the ones that tug at my heart. But that old man and his moment... But for a slip of the tongue when the lady asked me if I drummed, I'd have missed it.

That was worth playing on Easter.