For the first time, I have a present all boxed up and wrapped for someone, but I'll never get the chance to give it to them. Inside is a Braves championship hat (that sure took its sweet time to get here). Also inside, was the hope for a little gift to cheer someone up who had just had another tough go at the hospital. Inside was soon celebrating the 70th birthday of a dear sweet and hilarious man, a little visit on Christmas, and that drive around Kona we never did get to embark on.
Late last night as I laid awake in my bed, deliriously tired from the grief still pouring out of me, but also unable to cross over into sleep, I had one of those dream-visions found on the borders of rest. In it, I saw Bobby board an old black steam train that wove its way up into the mountains, snake-like, deep into a holler where a little cabin full of old-faces-made-young-again waited to greet Bobby with grins and tales and songs.
If anybody would want a little “Cabin in the Corner of Gloryland,” full of friendly faces, with a big wide porch for visiting, it would be Bobby McMillon. I’m grateful to have known the man, the myth, the keeper of old ways and old knowings. I did record a good number of songs and stories from him, (still a drop in the ocean of his knowledge) but whenever I would sit down to do anything with them, a little voice would say: “instead of doing this right now, why don’t you call him while you still can.” So I would ring him up, and he’d say, “Will-am C. Ritter!” Or I would go over for a visit and help feed his and Joyce’s little herd of orange porch cats--fluffy, beautiful and kind of aloof Fuzz, sweet snuggly Yeller, and that other little skittish one. My last visit to Bobby, we didn’t really talk folklore. The three stooges were on, and muted. Their bodily humor was so genius that you really didn’t need to know what was going on at all to be tickled.
I’ve learned so many songs from Bobby, and I will always treasure them. I could have tried to record him more, and I know I’ll have those little regrets for not learning this or that, but I certainly do not regret choosing first and foremost to be his friend more than his documenter. I am grateful that Bobby got to see the Braves win the World Series. I am grateful too for his family and his dear friends. I’m also grateful for this poem by the late poet John O’Donohue. "Music echoes eternal tones," Bobby knew that well. Our paths diverge, dear friend. As I walk through these mountains, I feel blessed that your voice will still ring in my ears.
Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts
Where no storm on night or pain can reach you.
Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives,
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of color.
The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.
Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the alter of the heart,
Your mind always sparkled
With the wonder at things.
Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was alive, awake, complete.
We look toward each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.
Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our souls gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.
Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Besides us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.
When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.
May you continue to inspire us:
To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.
Late last night as I laid awake in my bed, deliriously tired from the grief still pouring out of me, but also unable to cross over into sleep, I had one of those dream-visions found on the borders of rest. In it, I saw Bobby board an old black steam train that wove its way up into the mountains, snake-like, deep into a holler where a little cabin full of old-faces-made-young-again waited to greet Bobby with grins and tales and songs.
If anybody would want a little “Cabin in the Corner of Gloryland,” full of friendly faces, with a big wide porch for visiting, it would be Bobby McMillon. I’m grateful to have known the man, the myth, the keeper of old ways and old knowings. I did record a good number of songs and stories from him, (still a drop in the ocean of his knowledge) but whenever I would sit down to do anything with them, a little voice would say: “instead of doing this right now, why don’t you call him while you still can.” So I would ring him up, and he’d say, “Will-am C. Ritter!” Or I would go over for a visit and help feed his and Joyce’s little herd of orange porch cats--fluffy, beautiful and kind of aloof Fuzz, sweet snuggly Yeller, and that other little skittish one. My last visit to Bobby, we didn’t really talk folklore. The three stooges were on, and muted. Their bodily humor was so genius that you really didn’t need to know what was going on at all to be tickled.
I’ve learned so many songs from Bobby, and I will always treasure them. I could have tried to record him more, and I know I’ll have those little regrets for not learning this or that, but I certainly do not regret choosing first and foremost to be his friend more than his documenter. I am grateful that Bobby got to see the Braves win the World Series. I am grateful too for his family and his dear friends. I’m also grateful for this poem by the late poet John O’Donohue. "Music echoes eternal tones," Bobby knew that well. Our paths diverge, dear friend. As I walk through these mountains, I feel blessed that your voice will still ring in my ears.
Though we need to weep your loss,
You dwell in that safe place in our hearts
Where no storm on night or pain can reach you.
Your love was like the dawn
Brightening over our lives,
Awakening beneath the dark
A further adventure of color.
The sound of your voice
Found for us
A new music
That brightened everything.
Whatever you enfolded in your gaze
Quickened in the joy of its being;
You placed smiles like flowers
On the alter of the heart,
Your mind always sparkled
With the wonder at things.
Though your days here were brief,
Your spirit was alive, awake, complete.
We look toward each other no longer
From the old distance of our names;
Now you dwell inside the rhythm of breath,
As close to us as we are to ourselves.
Though we cannot see you with outward eyes,
We know our souls gaze is upon your face,
Smiling back at us from within everything
To which we bring our best refinement.
Let us not look for you only in memory,
Where we would grow lonely without you.
You would want us to find you in presence,
Besides us when beauty brightens,
When kindness glows
And music echoes eternal tones.
When orchids brighten the earth,
Darkest winter has turned to spring;
May this dark grief flower with hope
In every heart that loves you.
May you continue to inspire us:
To enter each day with a generous heart.
To serve the call of courage and love
Until we see your beautiful face again
In that land where there is no more separation,
Where all tears will be wiped from our mind,
And where we will never lose you again.