A few notes in “Between An Old Memory and Me.” A few clear notes that catch my ear and draw me further into the song. Notes that resonate with my spirit for reasons that are unknown to me. Notes that often bring tears to accompany the memories that are always there.
The squeak of guitar strings in other songs. A riff that sounds as if there are multiple guitars at work, but I know this is a solo acoustic recording, with only one instrument, one extremely talented musician bringing the music to life. Simple melodies woven through a song, easy to remember and sing.
Notes in the music I listen to daily. Notes weaving rhythms delicate and complex. Notes of a guitar wound among notes of a violin and steel guitar, interspersed with a drumbeat setting the pace.
Notes connecting everything Greg was and everything we were together to my life today.
A life without Greg and his music. His singing. His guitar playing. His love of concerts. His talk of music. Music interwoven in Greg’s heart so deeply that memories of Greg nearly always contain music.
He sang throughout a day. While running the press. While driving. While playing his guitar. While listening to Travis or Merle or Bocephus or Waylon or Clint.
Perhaps the only times Greg didn’t sing were when he was deer hunting. He noticed God’s music though; he would tell me of a bird singing nearby while he was waiting for that trophy buck.
He played, he sang, he wrote songs. He entertained me.
He occasionally recorded himself, and a friend transferred the songs from cassette tapes to a CD so I can listen to Greg sing at any time. Yes, I often cry, but I can hear Greg doing what he loved. Something that I loved to hear him do.
Greg and his notes have been missing from my life since 14 August 2019. Sunday I will listen to his CD and visit places we frequented. I will laugh. I will cry. Sometimes I will do both.
And the notes will dwell in my heart . . .
