You are one of my very, very first musical memories. Daddy used to play you when he was still Daddy, not Dad. He and Mommy would pile Brother and me and our beloved Sheltie in the car and wed take trips over rivers, through grassy fields, thick forests, and wavy hills to Gramma and Grampas house in rural Ohio.
And youd sing for hundreds of miles while Brother and I would settle in and the bumpy roads would rock us to sleep. When Brother and I would wake, youd still be strumming and singing your songs of woe.
When wed get to Gramma and Grampas place, wed be treated to Grammas wonderous chicken and noodles, fresh berry pie and Grampas homemade ice cream and apple cider. And then Grampa would tell us story after story. Stories of war. Of hunting. Of old family friends. And then hed get out his guitar and strum and SING! Oh the voice! Those old-time songs from the hills. Sometimes horribly sad, sometimes amazingly joyful. But Grampas voice, though pitched slightly higher, was remarkably similar to yours. Those wavy words that seemed so simple, but said so much.
I wish Id paid more attention back then. I wish Id cherished those moments. But I was just a child. I wanted to play in the garden with Brother and those cool dumptrucks. I wanted to swing on the rope swing that Grampa hung from the tall, tall tree. The tallest one in the great big yard. Id swing waaaaaay out over the giant sloping hill. It felt like flying. Flying. I wanted to spend all day flying. And I did. But your music was always in the background. Grampa was strumming those songs on the porch.
And the years in between were a blur of sights and sounds and experiences.
But the songs came back so easily and so sadly when our family got together for Grampas funeral. I could almost hear his wavering voice singing softly in the background once again.
From then on, every time I heard one of your songs I thought of Grampa.
And now, a kind of harmony.
Goodbye Johnny. You are a legend. I miss you Grampa. You are my heart.
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