Today in chapel, folk music was the theme. A fiddle player, pianist/vocalist, and a guitarist combined to bring music that brought back so many memories for me.
I could picture my ancestors walking to church as I listened to Down to the River to Pray. For some reason, I could picture a woman in a calico dress and sunbonnet walking barefoot along a path through the woods toward a white clapboard church. Perhaps that church is Sweethome Church in Montgomery county, Arkansas, where my mom grew up. Several generations of her family, the Hovells, worshipped there.
The music made me think of driving down interstate 540 through the Boston mountains with fog laying like a blanket over the hills. I was remembering driving through the hills to Aunt Kathy's for Christmas with snowflakes swirling through the air and peering through the clouds as we drove the Blue Ridge Parkway as a child.
The service ended with a spiritual called Hush, Somebody's Calling My Name. My mind drifted back to a sweltering afternoon in August of 1997, as my family and I said goodbye to my Mema. I could see the funeral home fans with a picture of Jesus in the garden. I could hear old hymns sung by about one hundred southern souls in a Church of Christ Church in Tuckerman, Arkansas. I could feel the sweat running down my back as I stood under a huge old pecan tree as folks filed past my family telling me how much Sister Pearl was loved.
While my family didn't listen to this kind of music at home, there is a current of this music running through my mind just from living in the beautiful Ozark Hills. A piece of my heart is always there.
