Welcome to my first installment of "Really Cool Old People I've Been Super Fortunate to Know."
It was a few years ago that I was introduced to a man named "Henry" (name changed). A music playing friend of mine insisted that I meet this "really cool old guy" who lived south of me near what she calls "Rattlesnake Butte." When my schedule finally allowed I took a short trip (only about ten miles from our house) to meet the renowned Henry. She had written a song about him, in fact, entitled "Cowboy Romance."
Now Vernon is an old man, but he's coiled like a wire
Focused like a serpent when the guitars come out
His hair is still curly underneath the felt hat
That he spraypainted black to keep the rain out.
(excerpt from Cowboy Romance by Erin Espeland)
Upon entering his place I had a feeling of stepping back in time; both time in general and, specifically to me, visiting my great uncle Art, who lived without running water in an old shack. A gentle man of precise routine (he came to our farm every day at precisely 5 o'clock), he was more fond of playing music and caring for his animals than he was cleanliness.
Aside from the lack of cleanliness I could have been visiting Uncle Art again. Henry lived in a trailer with no running water or telephone, although he did have the luxury of electricity. Dogs and horses greeted us as we set down our instruments around the fire pit. Henry was in his mid-seventies, wiry and strong, neatly dressed in a button up shirt, blue jeans and a well-worn hat. A man of very few words, he offered a beer and promised us that some steaks that were cooking in a cast iron pan over the fire would soon be ready to eat.
We played music that night until it was too dark to see the strings. Henry brought out his favorite piece of technology, a Tascam recorder, and recorded our music. Now and then he would bring one of his own instruments, a viola or an accordion, for me to play. I felt at home enough to plunk out some tunes, and he seemed satisfied.
Fast forward a few years and two children later, I once again got the chance to visit Henry again at his home. This time it was in the dead of summer and we played in the trailer to avoid mosquitoes.
We play in the summer house
With windows blown broken
A house that's too cold for eight months of the year.
With a Tascam recorder and video camera
He'll watch me sing songs and we'll both drink cheap beer.
It was a moving experience for me, for some reason I couldn't place. My music friend had just been diagnosed with ALS and we hadn't been able to get together. Henry was approaching his eightieth birthday. I knew this time was special. This time he got out his record player and played a few fiddle tunes he knew I'd enjoy. Coincidentally many of the albums were the same ones that Uncle Art (a fiddle player) had given my dad. He asked if I might want some of the records, and I declined as I don't own a working record player. I drove home in a dream that evening, singing my friend's song to myself and counting myself lucky for having such wonderful, unique people in my life.
About a week later I got a text from Erin. A tornado had ripped through Henry's place, completely razing his trailer and outbuildings. Henry was in the hospital in Billings, and she would update me as she got word. My stomach sank, and I asked everyone I knew from the area if they'd heard anything. Not many people were even aware of who he was.
Luckily he made a full recovery. The community pulled together and opened a benefit account for him to rebuild, or something. Everything he owned had been scattered to the wind that night. I visited him at his homesite for his birthday, playing music and sharing a pie. He was now living in a borrowed SUV with his dogs, who had also miraculously survived. Henry was in good spirits, but there wasn't much talk of what his plans were. I didn't feel it was my place to ask.
I got another text a couple months later. Erin and Henry were coming by for a visit and would by by in a few minutes. Usually that means that I sweep the floor, hide the dishes in the dishwasher, etc., but I knew no such pretenses were necessary, which is pretty unusual for me.
Henry came walking spryly up the stairs carrying an armful of 33s. "I found these in the crick bottom," he said. "I will go get another load." Pretty soon the remnants of Henry's record collection graced my kitchen table. He had one more trip to make to the pickup, though.
"I don't know what my plans are for the winter or when I'll see you again," he explained to me as he handed me his fiddle. "You can have this." Like the records, the fiddle had survived the trip through the tornado and was still playable. He gave me a long hug, and I could sense more emotion than an old cowboy will generally admit.
I was in a bit of shock after they left, realizing that my friend had just given me most of his remaining possessions. Without a phone or address to contact him, I was afraid it might indeed be a long time until I could properly thank him.
Luckily he was able to relocate to a relative's yard and built himself a shack. At about 8 by 16 feet, a wood stove keeps it toasty warm and there is just enough room for him and his dogs. We are neighbors now by about two or three miles, and he can see my house from his lone window. I wanted to add money to his benefit account, but he had closed it. Apparently he felt he had enough.
I share this mostly because I think Henry is an awesome person, because I am thankful to have such a friend. I also share it because of the parable Jesus told of the widow giving her last penny. You know the one I'm talking about. The parable points us to our own sin, like many others; we worry about having "enough" and it often gets in the way of helping others, giving to the church or just being content with what we've got. My prayer is that Jesus offers grace to help me with my own greed, and forgives me when I fail.
