What's Your Story?

 The road was blocked off on each end. Just the side street connecting two main streets. Inside the barricades was a makeshift tent offering no protection from the wind, but the ability to cover up electronics and provide shade from the sun that would soon start to bear down with it’s summer heat. It was the Farmer’s Market. The morning chill was still in the air. The street was filled with local farmers, offering their freshest produce. Other merchants offering anything from belt buckles to peanut brittle. Chocolate dipped strawberries. Mushrooms, corn, tomatoes, massive heads of garlic. You could walk down both sides and build a salad from the “fixings”. And maybe buy a hat or walking stick. This is small town Oregon.

It’s a festive environment. Not carnival like, but with tent shades set up to block the sun, yet doing little to block the chill of the morning wind, the sound of chatter and conversation...and music.


She sat at the East end of the street. People walking by and staring. And while she didn’t seem “out of place”, she was just a bit of an odd sight. Not odd looking, but a guitar playing “granny”? And I couldn’t help but wonder. “What’s her story”? I never dreamed I would find out, until one day she walked into my office.

My first thought was of my grandmothers. One called “Granny” and one called “Grandma”. If either one played any kind of instrument, I never knew. I’m not sure either had any interest in music. And that is why this lady garnered my attention. I was about to have my first encounter with “Marge”.

There she sat, old metal chair, a coat for the chill and sunglasses in place. A “blues” lady. Her old flat top showing signs of wear, but held with love. And she coaxed the chords from the strings with ease. Willie Lee Brown. Skip James. Buddy Moss. Like most musicians, she drew from the influences of her youth.

Swaying in the wind she kept time with her whole body. Her lone sidekick, adding harmonica riffs where needed. But Marge didn’t need any help. A lifetime of playing kept her singing and strumming.

Months passed, and then one day, she walked into my office, sans sunglasses, but wearing the same blue coat. Yes, something was familiar. I knew I had seen her before, but where? And as we worked through her purchase, and begin completing her credit information, she revealed that yes, she did indeed have additional income. She was a musician. She played the blues. She said it as matter-of-factually and nonchalantly as if saying, “I cook dinner down at the mission on Sunday”.  I instantly knew. This was the blues lady from the Farmer’s Market. A spinster. Retired teacher. She might have weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. And she’s just doing what she must to survive. Living in a home that belonged to someone else. She had retired, and now earned her extra dollars playing gigs. Soft spoken and quiet, she rattled off the names of favorite musicians and influences. No, she doesn’t care for modern music. Yes, she likes playing with a band. No, she’s not afraid to take the stage alone and play 2-3 hour sets. She has the repertoire. And no, she doesn’t busk, but she does accept any and all tips.

As we finalized our car deal and went out to move her belongings from her trade to her “new” purchase, I found an old Subaru filled with music and the love of it. Music books.  Music dictionaries. Sheet music. Guitar picks.  And cat hair.

Marge is a great lady. She’s not wealthy. And you’d pass her on the street and never see her. But after devoting her life to teaching and kids, she is now working on a different career. And she’s entertaining the best way she knows how. Sitting down, tuning up, breaking out the capo, and laying down the blues.