The Country Lane
“Darn
it!” I mumbled irritably as bright sunlight pierced through thick glass onto my
face, ending an uncomfortable nap.
“Are we there yet?”
There came no reply.
“Momma?” I persisted,
still without an answer, “where you at?”
All I could hear was an
incessant chu-chugga-chugga-chug and occasional whispers of nearby
passengers. When I opened my eyes I found that I was alone. The shock of the
situation was enough to set me alert like a cup of Starbucks. It took just
seconds for me to notice a note left on my lap. If I’d struggled any longer, it
might have fallen under the seat and Lord knows what I’d have done. I was just
a fifteen-year-old kid out for an adventure but going at it alone on the
Tennessee Line was not what I had in mind.
The note read: “Got off at Raleigh. The next stop will be Garner.
Enjoy your day! Remember to came back this way and we’ll meet you at Raleigh station
tonight at nine. Love you Darlin’! Love Momma xxx.”
My face grew pale and I
began to sweat. I near 'bout went off with my pistol half cocked. I was
instantly relieved when I stared out the window and identified a fresh timber
structure painted over in white with turquoise window frames and a green roof.
I shot up from my seat and raced out onto the platform, burying the note deep
in a pocket of my worn brown corduroys. With my feet firmly on the ground I
turned back to face the long black train gleaming under the sun, crawling along
the track. The steel titan lingered for painfully long minutes as one carriage
followed another. Soon all that was left was a thick trail of smoke. Rusty
fumes forced their way into my lungs, rendering me cold and motionless. I
became fixed on this black dot disappearing into the distance.
A frustrated summer breeze
carried a balloon into my gaze. It was covered in red, save for a triangular
formation of three innocent white stars enclosed in a blue circle. It drifted
past me like I wasn’t even there and a passion inside my heart began to air-up,
egging on that train out of my mind. Looking up as the balloon was pulled into
the sky, I noticed a long, shiny banner nailed along the station roof reminding
me of my reason for this journey. I had travelled from Tennessee, to the town
of Garner in North Carolina, to enjoy some true home-grown talent in the
up-and-coming country singer Scott McCreery.
Scott was seventeen; two
years older than me. I was darn tootin, his
remarkable baritone voice that could bring tears to eyes faster than greased lightning. An ‘All
American Kid’, I’d read online that he was a role model and inspiration on the
baseball field as well as on the stage. I wanted to meet this fellow high
school student before he would captivate the entire town.
Garner and its mistress
came together at Lake Benson Park. I froze dead in my tracks at the sight of
the enormous water reservoir and a tranquil forest made up of pine trees, which
were some of the tallest I ever did see. Acres of freshly cut lime grass, from
which an abundant smell of joy spread, allowed for the space to set up a host
of celebrations.
I entered the crowd
observing stands left, right and centre. In one direction lay the soothing
meaty scent of a barbecue, while in the other there were tents draped in red,
white and blue surrounded by fun-hungry folk. I stuck to the clear gravel
footpath for navigating this maze until I came in sight of a huge open-air
stage. For now nothing but a golden microphone occupied that space.
Hung across the stage was
a huge sparkling banner listing the scheduled events and I figured that Scott
had just five minutes before his music would touch the hearts of his community.
I dashed forward and headed around the back of the tent.
I nervously pushed aside
the opening in the tent to find Scott alone backstage, deep in preparation for
his performance, tuning his acoustic guitar as it glistened even under the
shade the ceiling. As I came closer, Scott turned to me and smiled. I think he
could tell I was afraid. He was much taller than me and with his short-cut hair
was all military-like. He looked truly authentic as a cowboy, dressed in a
thick brown jacket covered with fringe tassels over a white-striped shirt
tucked into navy blue jeans. At the heart of it all was a black cross with a
silver outline hung across his neck. Scott was clearly on the country lane. I
was speechless. After a brief silence
Scott kicked off the conversation.
“Don’t
you make eyes at me, boy!” he burst out jokingly, looking all bowed up at me
right in the eyes.
“Yes, sir”, was all I could spit out. My sensitive soul couldn’t help but feel bruised but I guess I had it coming after just staring at the guy.
“Don’t worry, buddy,” he quickly re-assured me, “I’m just messin’ with ya. Have you come to see the show?”
“Definitely! Ever since I’d heard your singing you’ve been… well I’ve always wanted to see what you were like live is all.”
“My name’s Scott”, he said. He laughed as if he was just as nervous as I was. “I guess you knew that though right? What’s yours, buddy?”
“My name’s Ethan. Ethan Williams.”
“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand over his instrument to
shake mine, disrupting the fine tuning of his guitar. I responded in kind and
we shook hands firmly.
“What kind of music do you like?” Scott asked.
“Oh! I love country! It’s my favourite!”
“Same here! Right now, it ain't nowhere to be found in the charts, but there’s always gonna be a market for it.”
“I sure do hope so.”
“Do
you play an instrument, Ethan?”
“I’ve had my fair share of lessons with a guitar I guess. I had always wanted to be a musician but never had the guts to go for it. I just ain’t so sure of where I fit in.”
"The only person who can figure that out is you, buddy," he said assertively. "I'd start with what you love. If its county, like me, then do country."
“I… I appreciate that, Scott.” I didn't expect Scott, who clearly knew that he had me hooked on his every word, to be so friendly.
“Tell you what,” he began. “I like you, so I’ll share my opening number with you – I’m so Lonesome I Could Cry by Jamey Johnson.” Scott eagerly awaited my reaction, for as confident as he was, he was still a musician out to please his fans.
“I love that song!” I burst out. That record certainly played a minor note in my heart. "Thanks for sharing that with me, Soctt."
“Call me Scotty,” he replied.
“Okay, Scotty. I won’t bother you no
more but I'm glad to have met you. I kinda hope to pursue a music career one day, just
like you.” A tear dropped from my eye.
“Don’t worry about it,” he reassured
me. “Tell me more about yourself, Ethan. Where have you come from?”
“I’m from over in Tennessee.”
“Cool, man! After the show I’ll-” Scotty was cut off by a voice coming from the entrance onto the stage. “I’d better get on the stick, Ethan. Maybe I’ll catch ya later.” He turned towards the stage, leaving me no time to say goodbye. As Scotty rushed for the spotlight, I moved to join the crowd out in front, settling for a cold, deformed patch of dirt at the back.
The
crowd began to cheer as I shook wildly. Scotty smiled and waved as he shouted, “How y’all doin’!?” All went silent with shock as Scotty collapsed before he
could strum a single note. As he fell his guitar came down on top of him and a
disjointed chord burst out, breaking the silence. Stage crew ran to his aid,
only to crash into an invisible wall of relief and hold their breath. Scotty
quickly sat up and hoisted himself to his feet once again.
He grinned like nothing
had happened; simply putting the audience at ease by declaring that he was okay
and waving back the stage crew. The guitar was more shaken up than he was.
Silence remained prevalent over the crowd. I could now hear delicate,
repetitious but melodic chirps all around in the forest. I looked upward to
observe cardinals gathering atop tree branches and stands, as if they had come
to relish this deep but equally gentle country tone. Scotty began strumming a
harmony to their rhythm. There were no clouds out to block the cyan sky
blessing the afternoon as the sun became his spotlight.
By the time Scott had
finished it was time for me to leave. Still, I had no unanswered prayers that
day. I had met my idol and, better still, I had done it all alone. Even though
the evening was coming along, it was still pretty light and I simply followed
stragglers from the dispersing crowds back to the train station. As I came
closer, I noticed a light becoming increasingly larger and brighter in front of
a frightening silhouette following close behind. The chill which had made me
nervous as a gator in a cage earlier that day bit back at my spine. That same
long black train crept up the railroad past me and once again seemed to stretch
for miles.
This time I chuckled,
simply turning back in the direction that this train was moving and sitting on
the grass amidst dogwood flowers, white gems swaying in the light breeze.
Squeezing my hand into a pocket of my pants, I dug out the now creased up note that
my momma had left me and gripped it tightly.
Gad night a livin', I thought, she ain’t gonna be happy.
I gazed and wondered what
to do next, soon becoming distracted by the smooth acoustic melody of Scott
McCreery playing and echoing over and over in the hall of my mind, while the
train continued forward into the sunset.
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| "What makes me unique is that I'm normal." - Scotty McCreery |
Word Count: 1724
©Dean Pettipher
©Dean Pettipher
deanpettipher@googlemail.com
