Circles

It’s funny how something as somber and sobering as a death can provide a platform for so much laughter, music, and silliness.  Early last week, I lost someone close to me.  It’s funny to say that since this man was of no relation and was a good three decades older than I.  And yet he was a huge part of one of the best parts of my life.  My friend, Andy, was actually one of my father’s friends.  They had known each other growing up but not well.  They only became good friends about 15 years ago when they were brought together by other close friends of my father to sing in a little band that called themselves “The Elderly Brothers”.  

Ben would provide the strong voice and witty banter.  Tom would provide the guitar, mandolin and baritone.  My dad would provide the guitar and more witty banter (or less, depending on how you looked at it).  And Andy would provide the banjo-pickin’.  And he was really, really good.  The whole group was.  I don’t know how good they really were since I was, of course, biased.  But to me, it was the greatest music I had ever heard.  These men so enjoyed playing together – mostly songs of their youth – folk, with a little bluegrass mixed in here and there, and even a little more current (like, 1970’s) pop fare.  If you were a fan of that music, you couldn’t help but want to sing along.  And most of what they played, I had heard ad nauseum as a child myself.  Most people my age, if you polled them, would a. Not have any Kingston Trio songs on their I-pods or b. Even know who the Kingston Trio was.  I am not embarrassed to admit that I can answer affirmatively to both.

The group was formed over a slightly drunken weekend in Atlanta at the home of our dear friends, the Greers, who provided the inspiration for my daughter’s middle name.  I don’t quite recall exactly how it all came to be, but my memory is that by the end of the weekend, they had decided to play together at the rehearsal dinner of Ben’s older son.  During the singing and merriment (and wine consumption) my sister, who I will never forgive, came up with the name “The Elderly Brothers”.  It paid homage to the better-known Everly Brothers whose song Bye, Bye Love would be featured in the Elderly Brothers’ playlist while also pointing out that these men were old friends.  Old in the sense that their friendships went pretty far back, but also that they were grayer than they had once been.  It was the perfect name and one of those comic gems that I am so jealous I didn’t come up with.  Well played, Mary.  Bitch.

I had grown up knowing the Greers, but Tom and Andy and their families came into my life that weekend.  I immediately was comfortable with them.  I knew they understood the same kind of humor I did and they certainly enjoyed the same kind of music I had been raised on.  Each of the Elderlys and their wives were intelligent and hilarious.  Curious and interesting.  Just really neat people.  All of them.  That weekend was such fun for me.  It was a treat to be included and to instantly be treated as one of their long, lost friends.  These people were not “Mr. and Mrs. Kilpatrick” to me.  They were Tom and Bebe.  Andy and Jina.  And of course, Ben and Lynda.  I would have enjoyed simply watching them sing and laugh from a distance as I was required to do as a child due to the adult language and drinking.  But, given that I was now an adult, I was part of the fold.  And I will always be grateful for that.

Somehow, most likely due to a large amount of wine, my sister and I had agreed along with Lynda that we would also perform with them at the rehearsal dinner..  I started the weekend as Maggie Prugh, grad student.  I ended it as Maggie Prugh, one of the three members of the Viagras; backup singers to the Elderly Brothers.  And thus was born one of the best experiences of my life – my kinship with this group of people.

Ever since last Monday when I got the news that Andy had succumbed to the liver cancer that had invaded his body, I have had a hard time articulating – even to myself – how important these people have been in my life.  A lot of people grow up with “close family friends”.  We really didn’t.  I mean, we knew the Greers and thought they were hilarious.  One the occasions when they would visit, my sister and I would hide in the stairwell with a tape recorder and record all of the singing and laughing.  I knew even as a child that this was something special.  I remembered them visiting when I was fairly young, but we didn’t really see them during the middle and high school years.  I’m not sure when my parents reconnected with them on the level that led to more visits, but it wasn’t during most of my youth.  My parents had friends in town that they would get together with on occasion, but never with us kids.  We never really were close to any of their friends.  So when, as an adult, I became close with these people who had a shared history with my father, it was really an emotional connection for me.

Plus, these are really, really, interesting people.  They are well-read.  They are active.  They are creative and introspective.  I’ve always thought that my own friends were such neat people.  And they are.  All of my close friends are smart; all of them funny.  You can’t be funny without being smart.  It doesn’t work.  If you are a close friend of mine and you are reading this, know that that’s what I think of you.  If I allow myself to be close to you, I regard you as being “a couple of clicks above”.  (I realize that makes me sound pretty pretentious, but that’s how I feel about my friends.  I could be a total loser and you could be too, but I regard you as not being a loser.  So there.)  But the Elderly group is on a different plane than even my closest friends.  They are a group with whom I have shared some really beautiful and intimate times.

Music binds me to people.  So does humor.  So the fact that I share both with the Elderly Brothers and their wives makes them some of the most important people I have ever had, or will ever have, in my life.  There’s something that happens when you sit around a room together and sing and drink wine and laugh.  There is an intimacy in that goes beyond anything I could adequately describe.  There is a love that forms even if most of what’s spoken are well-timed insults and hilarious quips that make reference to long-running jokes.  All of the Elderlys and their wives have a deep love for one another.  And I have been lucky enough to be a part of their group for going on 15 years now.  My husband has been part of the group for 12 years now.  They have welcomed us in without ever realizing how important it would be to me.  Watching my husband sit around play guitar with them (is it any wonder I married a music lover?) is one of my favorite things to do.  

And that’s exactly what we did Saturday night to honor Andy.  There was a very informal gathering at the Kilpatrick’s house with Andy’s close friends and family.  Stories were told.  Tears were shed, of course.  Then the group dwindled down to about 20 of us.  There we were in the basement, wine in hand, picking and singing all of the songs I’ve heard for so many years.  There was a noticeable void.  No Andy on banjo.  The Elderlys stumbled over the lyrics that had long been deemed to be Andy’s parts in the songs.  And no one was quite ready to play Scotch and Soda which had become his signature song.  But, he would have loved it.  We were silly and sarcastic and off-color and raucous.  Had he been there, he would have been laughing louder than any of us at the dirty jokes and ridiculous conversations.  He was such a sweet man, but he had a wicked sense of humor.  They all do.  That’s why I love them.  To be a sensitive, caring human being but also funny as hell – that’s a good package in my mind.  And the Elderlys are that package and a lot more.  The music sounded great that night even in his absence.  Interestingly, no one asked the Viagras to perform.  Ingrates.  

To be a part of his memorial meant the world to me.  It meant that I had mattered to him in his life.  He certainly has mattered in mine.  I obviously did not know him as well as most of the people in attendance.  Most of the stories I heard about his background were new to me.  But I feel like I knew who he was.  Who he was came through as he played and sang with his old friends.  And on a couple of occasions, I was privileged to share the stage with him.  Granted, they were small stages.  Some might even call them “people’s living rooms”.  But still…

Since the memorial for him, I have caught myself humming and/or singing many of the songs that were sung that night.  One of my favorites, a Harry Chapin song from the early 70’s called Circle, has been running around in my head the most.  Maybe I’m stuck on it because it seems to accurately express the nature of true, significant and substantive friendships as well as the passage of time.  Here are the lyrics:

All my life’s a circle;

Sunrise and sundown;
Moon rolls through the nighttime;
‘Til the daybreak comes around.

All my life’s a circle;

But I can’t tell you why;
Seasons spinning ‘round again;
The years keep rolling by.

It seems like I've been here before;
I can't remember when;
But I have this funny feeling;
That we'll all be together again.

No straight lines make up my life;
And all my roads have bends;
There's no clear-cut beginnings;
And so far no dead-ends.
I’ve found you a thousand times;
I guess you’ve done the same;
But then we lose each other;
It’s like a children’s game;

As I find you here again;

A thought runs through my mind;
Our love is like a circle;
Let’s go ‘round one more time.

Andy, thank you for being in my life and allowing me to be part of yours.  You are missed.