sharing

The three of us wander aimlessly along the path next to Mission Creek in San Luis Obispo. Surrounded by the gracefully clumsy sounds of tumbling water and the flutter of October’s cool easy breeze ruffling leaves beside me, we amble.
Smiling, I silently remind myself “if I don’t look where I’m going I’m gonna fall on my face”.

We lope across the creek on a set of strategically laid boulders. Conversation is non-stop. The talk between us is fluid, expanding like water between glass.

We stop. I stand. I take it all in. My eyes drink the blue of a fall sky in early afternoon. Above me to the right, people pass on the bridge. The clumpy, thump, clump of each person’s passage echoes within the hollowed trestle of wood and stone. I love that sound.

Suddenly, I’m caught.

A voice is singing. I’m listening. He captivates me.

The depth of his crusty, aged understanding of the poetry he winds fascinates me.

His first song runs through me. The next song flies by me. Then, the song after that hovers all around me. He’s calling. And it’s as if he’s pulling me up the path with each collection of notes he strings together.

“C’mon!” I say to my companions, “I feel compelled to check out this singer.”

Off I am striding to discover the wizened troubadour of mystery who had locked my interest in his lyrical refrains.

I’m tracking the acoustic guitar’s picks and strums, all the while loving the unusual rendition of a song I don’t get to hear often enough, as I hunt my destination. Behind a brick wall atop the path, I round the corner and there he is….

Huh,……

He’s wearing a black golf cap, black shirt and a pair of black of shorts. His shorn hair is white blonde. He’s maybe… what? Twenty-six years old!

He has a smile that speaks tomes about his love of tune and desire to please. He is sweet. He is touchingly vulnerable. The fixed image I had in my head, while down below, of what this balladeer was going to look like made me have to laugh inside, at myself.

He finishes playing that song I know so well.
His vision of it is tender. His voice slips easily into the creases of unresolved hurt and sorrow that this specific love song defines.

He sits on a tall stool on a patio stage facing twenty or so tables filled with a rambling collection of people. Many sit chatting with each other, some are working, while others read or eat. One intriguing woman places her small dog on top of the table and proceeds to converse with it at great length, as she grooms and hand feeds it.

But, all the people, at every table, choose to ignore the gracious songster before them, song after song.

He covers familiar songs. He sings original songs of his own penning. It does not matter. They do not care. They cannot spare the time, the attention, the courtesy, or the kindness to glance his way. Nor can they be bothered to place their hands together to offer him the simple appreciation of applause.

So, the three of us sit listening to a kindly street artiste, deserving of more respect than he is accorded.

And in the halcyon weather along the path next to Mission Creek in San Luis Obispo we drink in the richness of fine song. And we look our minstrel in the eye, we smile at him and we applaud his songs, his talent and his courage.

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