"Meet you at the end," he whispered, grinning.
First one, then two and finally four acoustic guitars strummed the opening strains, throttling back as the vocals began.
She came to me, said she knew meThe timbre of 36 steel strings and a quartet of young men's voices filled the room. Summoning my best falsetto, I added the high, descant-like harmony.
Said she'd known me a long time;
And she spoke of being in love
With every mountain she had climbed...
And she talked of trails she'd walked upThirty-three years ago we were just four guys who led songs at a summer camp and played a few coffee houses each year. The passage of time hasn't convinced me that we were great but we were pretty damned good, and despite having a short play list we developed quite a following.
Far above the timberline.
From that night on I knew I'd write songs
For Carolina in the pines...
"Carolina in the Pines," the Michael Martin Murphey standard, was our signature. We always saved it for last.
There's no guesswork in the clockworkOur particular rendition of "Carolina" was breathless, not at all like Murphey's original but equaling its joy and vigor. The hard-driving performance usually had the knuckles of my pick hand bleeding, adrenaline often overtaking rhythm and common sense.
Of the world's heart or mine.
There are nights I only feel right
With Carolina in the pines...
And we'll talk of trails we walked upAs we struck the last chord the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered. My bandmate leaned over and reminded me that we "always finish on time."
Far above the timberline.
There are nights I only feel right
With Carolina in the pines.
And we always did. Everyone ought to have a memory like that.
