Plympton Bells

I was in the park with the dogs the other day and I heard bells chiming the hour. The wind was blowing from the northeast and brought the sound of a church or clock tower chiming Westminster. There is something very calming to me about hearing bells in the distance.

When I was a child, my family went to the small white church in the center of our town. The church was established in 1695 with the current building being constructed sometime in the early 1900’s. The church sits amidst 30 acres of land within which are the cemetery, the library, ball fields, the fire and police departments, town hall, and the town commons. The church bore a similar smell to the other older buildings in Plympton. This smell is hard to describe but unique to this area. Relatives of the Pilgrims and those who immediately followed early English settlers built this area. These are my people.

Our church has a steeple within which is a bell. I remember each morning that a few minutes prior to and at the conclusion of the service someone would ring the bell. At the conclusion of the Christmas Eve service the bell would be rung with great enthusiasm to celebrate that the birth of our lord was near (which as child meant that I needed to get to bed so I could awake to new sets of Legos in the morning).

By age 12 or 13, I was tapped to be the bell ringer for the Sunday morning services. I was excited and remember my mom driving us there early so that I could start ringing the bell as a welcome for the first parishioners who were arriving (usually the older married couples). As I rung the bell I felt like the most powerful person in the whole church… I was able to make loud beautiful ringing sounds that all would hear. I had the power. I pulled the rope that would determine how loudly the bell would ring. I watched the pastor for the subtle cue that the service was about to end and stood poised ready to do my duty. When it was time, I rang it with enthusiam and vigor. I was a god.

I sometimes make it back to Massachusetts for Christmas. A few years back my sister, her 2 kids, my dad and I made the Christmas Eve service in the old church. The church is as I remember it except for vinyl siding instead of the old painted and repainted decaying clapboards. The old smell comforted me and made me feel some forgotten sense of home and belonging. Seeing old faces, though a little older, was warming. At some point during the service I felt tingly and tears came to my eyes. I felt a connection to something greater than myself. I never felt this as a kid. I guess most kids don't. I guess I never much cared for church until I was tapped with my mighty position.
Snow fell and the bell rang as we left that night. As snow falls, it seems to make the world quiet. I had forgotten that as it doesn't snow where I live now. I felt peaceful and happy as the bells faded off in the distance as we drove away.

It seems that most churches in Florida don’t have bells. A church just doesn’t seem quite like a church to me without a bell (and a steeple for that matter). A lot of churches in Florida have rock bands. A lot of times, these churches have rock bands AND are in strip malls. Near my home, there’s a church in a 5 unit strip mall next to a Carvel ice cream shop and a pizza place... not sure about the band but I wouldn't be surprised. I don’t know that I could concentrate on a sermon much with bastardized rock and rool, the thoughts of cookie puss ice cream cakes, and the smell of pizza wafting in.
People find God in the strangest of places.
   

JS

love of the guitar

I remember the first time that I saw a guitar. I was helping my dad’s friends Joey and Teddy to clean out their yard and do some miscellaneous chores. One of the things they had me do was to move a bunch of boxes from their daughter’s room of their third story house into the attic. Their house was made of country cut lumber and stood for more than 100 years as had many of the homes in the area.

I carefully walked up the stairs into the attic and slid the back against the wall from my awkward standing position on the top of the staircase. To my left I saw a guitar leaning against the far wall. It was standing in a part of the attic that had no floor and was open insulation. It looked lonely.

I went back downstairs and got another stack of boxes and made my way back up. Joey went downstairs and upon my third trip into the attic I creepy across the beams and reached for the guitar. It made a slight ringing sound as I picked it up, almost as if coming alive to touch of a person. I set it against me and strummed it a few times. It rang out though upon pushing on the strings I found that I could make no intelligible and pleasing sounds. I caressed its curved form and dusted it off a little. I longed to have it.

I set it back in its place, being careful to position it exactly as it was. I crept back across the beams and made my way back downstairs pausing to look at it once more before stepping out of sight.

I finish my trips up and down the stairs moving the boxes. When I finished, I went back to the top of the stairs and looked once more. I wanted it. I made my way back downstairs and into the yard where Joey was cutting wood. I helped stack the wood in the neat pile which extended around the back of the barn and alongside the foundation from a building which stood many years before. I asked if I might have the guitar. He said that it was Teddy’s father’s and that I’d have to talk to her though she’d probably not want to part with it.

I finished my work that day and found Teddy. I asked her if I could have the guitar to which she replied no. I offered to trade my work for it. She said that she wouldn’t part with it. I thought about stealing it. I thought it such a shame to have such a thing of beauty stuck in the back of an attic for no one. I knew that stealing was wrong and figured I’d find a way to get it eventually.

I can’t remember if I asked my mom about getting a guitar or not. Objects didn’t come easily to us. We weren’t dirt poor, but lived pretty humbly.

In the 4^th grade, I got a saxophone which was much more ‘acceptable’ to play than the guitar. I was good though got bored with it before too long. Our band teacher, God rest his soul, was a frustrated musician. He was an amazing trumpeter and an alcoholic. He would stammer, all red-faced, as a bunch of 10 year old kids would struggle through “Hot Cross Buns” which bears a striking resemblance to the tune of “Three Blind Mice.”

In the 7^th and 8^th grade, I made the jazz band and was one of the better players. I still avoided practice. In the 9^th grade I was kicked out of my band class. I was caught chewing tobacco in the back of the class with another boy, Steve Hadley. I didn’t like him much but yet I felt some need to impress him. He had a black leather jacket. I liked the music they were playing at that time but kept forgetting to bring my instrument to school. I told myself something like: “I never really liked that stuff anyways.” My mom, I’m sure, was heartbroken.

In the Navy I had an opportunity during a six-month deployment to take lessons with another fellow in my shop. I worked on electronics from the F-18’s (the same type of plane as the Blue Angels). I had lots of free time when not working and practiced a lot. He would show me a chord or two and then give me some music to listen to that had those chords. I would pick out where the chords were and try to jam along. I sometimes played 12 hours a day. Within 6 weeks I was sitting in circles with other guitar players on the ship. I loved the power I could create with the guitar. I frustrated other guys that had been playing for years and I liked it.

After my discharge I found myself spending a lot time in bars. I gravitated toward bars that had live music. I loved listening to acoustic guitar players/ singers. I loved soul music. Gimme the beat boys…

I performed my first time at My Place Bar & Grille. I was pretty lit. I played something and messed it up pretty good. Perhaps it was "Blackbird" by the Beatles. I got up embarrassed to leave the stage and the host encouraged me to try again. He told me to do my favorite song. I chose a song which was featured in the film Desperado called “Cancion del Mariache.” I sang in Spanish and the song had some solid rhythmic parts to it. When I finished everyone applauded. The host clapped and said “hell yeah!” I was hooked.

I have played more than 2,000 shows now. I have supported myself for almost 8 years with my music and have made approximately $250,000. Not bad. When I decided to quit my job to play guitar my dad said “a man has to work… not a good idea son.” Heh. Dad, you were wrong about this one.

It is work, don’t get me wrong. I show up and play. I have missed 3 gigs in these last 8 years. I've been in fights and a part of all that goes along with the bar scene. It is however the best work I have ever done and my longest lasting and most consistent job. Who'd a thunk.

Today I get to share a piece of my soul each time I perform. Been loving some "Halleluiah" by Leonard Cohen here recently. mmm.
So thanks to you all for making my love and passion a reality and something I can live off of. Pretty cool.

JS