You could see it there on the left, just before you got to Van Buren. Built of weathered wood and a rusted tin roof, it wasn’t that great to look at , a large hand painted sign proudly proclaimed, “Kinfolks Mountain Music show”  Now being raised without musical instruments , it immediately aroused my curiosity.  We had heard country music on a forbidden am radio from time to time , but had never experienced a real concert. That was strictly forbidden in our church, almost as bad as drinking and card playing. So I reckoned we had to figure out a plan on how to attend.

It just so happened that The Troyer and Yutzy parents were off on a trip the same weekend,  so my good buddy Lloyd and I figured if the sons of Bishop Troyer could be coaxed to go along with us, the penalty would be greatly lessened.  We guessed right.

So on a warm summer Saturday night we met at my house. Wilbur , Paul, Lloyd, Blackwell and I  piled into Lloyds Grand Pre and set off for adventure, the thrill of forbidden pleasures beckoning.  We pulled into the dirt drive at Kinfolks and an Usher with overalls directed us to park on the trampled grass.  Then it was off to the ticket booth and finally we could see behind that stockade fence for the first time!  Spotlights lit up the stage, canned country music played softly, and a snack   stand with a chili dog special off to one side completed the scene  we made our way to rough hewn logs set on wood stumps and waited for the main act.

At last they came onstage,  cowboys with sequined shirts and shiny guitars,  and they played , the most beautiful beat I could ever imagine. It was Loud, Fast, and full of energy. I closed my eyes and let the wonderful melody of the steel guitar fill me to my very soul.  We clapped and stomped to lovely cover songs , from the likes of Alabama , Belemy brothers, Cash and Jones. It was everything I imagined and then some . It went on for a glorious hour.   My happiness far outweighed the guilt that night, and we all sang off key as we wound our way back home that night.

But somebody bragged , and the wrong person heard about it.   So the preachers hauled us in to the council room one by one and wanted all the details.  Daniel , the minister,  seemed keenly interested in what instruments the band had played, and I was quick to add that some gospel music was also on the menu, hoping to soften the blow.  The preachers reminded each of us that we had committed a grievous offence, and that non-believers were no doubt horrified that Mennonites were attending a heathen event.  They went on to say that they would pray about it and hand down our sentence the following Sunday morning.  I wasn’t worried, even tho this indiscretion would normally merit 6 months proving, without communion no less.

Sunday morning after the closing benediction, we were herded back into the council room and Bishop Troyer read our sentence. He would read off a statement in which we all agreed that attending worldly entertainment was an evil thing and we would never again drag the name of the Mennonite church so low.  We would all be asked to stand in acknowledgement after the statement was read.  We did, happily so, and grinned all thru the prayer as the congregation pled for our souls to be redeemed from Hell.

Friedrich Nietzsche once said: “Life without music is no life at all”. I was there , I lived without music. Until I was 18. He was right. There is something deep within the soul, a yearning , an empty hole that can only be filled with music

We sang a lot, acapella , in 4 part harmony, Every other Sunday morning for about 2 or 3 years (Except for the time I was excommunicated or on proving), I would start the service by walking to the front of the church to lead singing.  We had 2 pulpits, an elevated one for the preachers, and a smaller one on the main floor for the commoner’s. I of course, went  to the lowly alter and opened the black songbook. That was the signal for everyone to pull out a worn Christian hymnal from the rack and wait for the song number to be announced. After a suitable pause I would announce the number again and  blow the pitch on a pitchpipe, a round instrument about the size of hockey puck. After humming the appropriate note, we would be off and running, right hand beating the time, mostly 4/4 timing but occasionally 3/4 timing, (Also known as a Waltz)  Kinda ironic. Most everyone was a reasonably good singer and the ones that weren’t were drowned out, so all in all it was wonderful sound, depending on the song.  Allen Miller would occasionally lead songs as well, we always watched in fascination, as he pulled out a tuning fork to find the pitch. Pretty sure he just started the pitch wherever he felt like anyway. But it was a great piece of showmanship.

We always had shaped notes, I couldn’t read them, but then Blackwell showed up in my life when I was about 12. He didn’t know many of the hymns , but he would follow along in church mouthing the notes, silently for the first verse. Singing softly for the 2 nd verse, and then, defying all logic belting out the rest of the song in his deep bass voice. After church I demanded to know what manner of magic he was practicing, and he taught me the basics of music.

 

My dad loved music , even forbidden music.  He was careful not to show it, but it was there. Even tho the church expressively forbid any instrumental music, live or recorded. When we were on trips, he would often stop at amusement parks,  so us kids could enjoy the rides. But he would immediately grab  a schedule as soon as we entered the park and attended  every last music show.   He would often sing of golden harps in Heaven, as he puttered about his farm. And sometimes sing a line or 2 of a country song if he thought no one else was around.  He could also play a harmonica if someone happened to have one laying around.

One hot summer night my best friend Tim and I were sleeping overnight in the storm cellar, out near the hay barn.  It was much cooler there than the farmhouse. We had a tape player  going , playing an Oak Ridge Boys gospel album that I had secretly bought at Kmart the week before. Well dad walked out past the cellar to check on the cows and heard the wicked sounds. So he confiscated the cassette, burned it in the woodstove, and grounded me for a month. All because it had musical instruments on the tracks

My Brother Glen and I had a 1967 international scout with a scratchy am radio. Of course dad cut off the radio antenna and snipped the cable under the dash in half.  That stumped us for all of about 5 minutes.  We spliced the cable and wrapped it in black tape, then drilled a small hole in the antennae base. Then we  inserted a 3 foot length of barb wire into the hole. We always removed the wire before coming home, and threw it in in the back of the scout. Nobody could mistake it for an antenna. We would spend hours “Repairing fence” on the 40 acres just up the road,  country music blasting out of the tiny speakers.  Eventually a slow song would come on, and Glen would remove the antenna, and head for home, Stating, “This song aint worth getting caught over”.

I can’t find a way to wrap up this story so I’m borrowing from a 2018 facebook post. Sometimes life is like that. The music just fades away. Into silence.

It was a hot summer afternoon in Missouri. I was 13. My brother Glen and I were sipping ice cold cokes at Gearharts gas station. The dj on the old radio behind the glass topped counter droned on with the daily market report. But then, a song I had never heard before came over the airwaves. Wild and Blue, by John Anderson.

Milton Gearhart’s twin cousins were there that day, loafing on the backless bench by the cigarette machine. They traveled the US in a rickety motorhome, playing anywhere they could get a gig to pay for their food and gas . Great burly men, with matching neck beards, they didn’t say a word. Just stood up and opened up a couple of black cases, and withdrew shiny brass trumpets. Within seconds, they found the pitch and lifted that old country song to a whole new level with their perfect jazzy accompaniment. The trumpets wove up and down, soaring as the chorus rang out. And retreating as the verses started again.

To an ultra-religious country boy from the sticks, this was a very special treat. I could hardly absorb all the sounds as I swayed and tapped my feet. “Taking a journey up yonder” Anderson sang. And that sultry afternoon, along highway 21 in Hunter Missouri, I truly did.