Free Vineyard Blues by Philip R. Craig Page A

of thanks for grace and music, and turned the evening over to Corrie, who led off with a number I remembered hearing him sing with my father long long ago.
    The blues tell of hard times and down times, of lonesome times, of sin and sorrow, of prisons with and without bars; but they also speak of endurance, of outlasting adversity, of good times with good women and good liquor.
    Corrie sang mourning songs of ropes, chain gangs, and cotton fields, but mixed them with soft songs of rocking chairs on Southern summer porches, of bedrooms and barrooms that were warm and friendly, at least for a time. Sometimes we clapped hands as he sang, sometimes we sat and just listened to that voice of his, which he never raised, but that carried to the farthest corners of the hall. It delivered despair and hope without sentimentality or self-pity, and when Corrie put aside his guitar for the last time, the audience was left with emotions of both joy and sorrow, right where the blues usually leave you. As Corrie shook hands with the Crandels and others who surrounded him, the rest of us slowly exited into the night, feeling sad and good and somehow wiser than we had just a couple of hours earlier.
    As we went out the door, we looked back and I saw Corrie embrace Cousin Henry Bayles and kiss Henry’s wife.
    â€œWell,” said Zee, holding my hand as we walked to the truck. “That was mighty fine. I thought I heard some Brownie McGhee and maybe some Gary Davis in there, along with the other stuff.”
    â€œCould be. Reverend Gary worked with a lot of guys. I wouldn’t be surprised if Corrie was one of them.”
    â€œI see that Corrie and Cousin Henry are close.”
    â€œMaybe Corrie spent some time in Philly when Cousin Henry was down there. As I understand it, Cousin Henry owned some clubs or at least took some money out of them before he left town for good. Maybe Corrie worked in some of them. He’s mixed with some tough birds in some tough places, from what he says.”
    â€œI’m glad to learn that Cousin Henry likes the blues. It makes him seem more human.”
    My mouth said, “He’s as human as most of us, I think.”
    But in my mind I wasn’t so sure. The cop’s jungle telegraph, to which I had been hooked while on the Boston PD, had it that Cousin Henry had done some very, very bad things to people while in Philadelphia. Admittedly, the victims were pretty bad themselves, for the most part, and would have done to Henry what he had done to them, had they gotten the chance. Still, if the rumors were even somewhat true, at least part of Cousin Henry was arguably more beast than human.
    But then there are monsters inside of most of us, just waiting to get out.
    We drove home and relieved the twin of her baby-sitting duties.
    â€œHow was the concert? Were Mom and Daddy there?”
    â€œGreat and yes. A good time was had by all.”
    â€œHow long is Mr. Appleyard going to be on the island? I hear that there’s going to be a big party at a house tomorrow night, and that everybody’s going to take something for the kids who got burned out, and that they wanted Mr. Appleyard to sing a couple of songs for the cause, but he’s leaving the island before the party, so he can’t do it.”
    â€œHow did you hear about all that?”
    Only the faintest of blushes touched the twin’s cheeks. “I used your phone a little. I hope you don’t mind.”
    We didn’t mind, so the twin accepted her money, assured us that our offspring had been angels, got into her mother’s car, and left.
    â€œIt would be encouraging to think that these summer kids would actually want to hear the blues,” said Zee. “Maybe I’ve misjudged them. Too bad Corrie can’t be there.”
    â€œI’d like to think some of them have good taste in music,” I said, “but I don’t have any reason to.”
    â€œWe’re becoming old