Ferry-man, Sing Me a Song

Somewhere in the salty city of St.Marys, Georgia, there is a tall old black man named Jerome. He has big hands, graying hair, a quick smile, and a good job. He is the deck-man for the Cumberland Queen, making three 45-minute trips each day to the island, wearing his blue hat with the gold rope across the bridge, catching the ropes at the docks with a long metal pole, helping passengers to stow items, and returning to the mainland. He wears the same sensible sweater every day. He brings leftovers from dinner for breakfast and eats them in the engine room. He goes home between trips for lunch in his little red pick-up.

When I lugged my guitar in its big broken guitar case onto the boat, he smiled and asked if we were "going to get a concert?" and I just grinned at him. I took it in and set it on the seat in the inner cabin, and went back to the dock to get more things--when I returned it was stowed away in a safe place that I couldn't see. Jerome came in and told me so. I thanked him, softly regretting that it was gone because I did in fact want to play it. But I went and sat outside on the bow for the beginning of my adventure so that the sea-spray could mist my face, and didn't think twice about it.

Jerome unloaded my guitar for me when we reached our dock, and came to tell me so. "Child, that is a beautiful guitar," he said. "You ought to get a better case for something so nice as that."

I asked him if he plays.

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding his head emphatically, closing his eyes as though remembering a feeling. "Was jamming out last night, as a matter of fact, with a couple of fellas downtown. 'Twas the first time in a looong time. It felt goooood. Oh yeah. " I could tell that he was back in the memory of the night before. "Yes, that is a beautiful guitar you got there. You need to take better care of it and get a good case, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." We went about the business of unloading.

Before the ferry took off I ran back to it, up the long loading dock, and up the steps. I found Jerome eating breakfast. "Hey--if you can get a ride back to the island tonight, you should come jam. We'll be up late. Campsite 11."

"Alright, alright," he said, with a big grin. He stuck out his hand. "Name's Jerome."

"Melissa," I said.

He never came for our jam-out session, which consisted of me playing the seven or eight songs that I know, the three or four songs that I only half know and can remember only half the words to, a lot of acapella by the five of us, and making up a few new songs about the island. Stephen and I made a pretty good duo as he made up ridiculous words and beat on a chair with a stick for some good back-up rythm. It was fun. I had my doubts about bringing my baby to play for the crew, since it's borderline whether I'm ready for such a thing or not. Truthfully, I brought it to play for myself, and I'm just happy that I'm not too shy to play for other people anymore.

On the return trip to the mainland, I brought the guitar on board last, and took it out of its case and started playing around. Jerome came and sat with me, and so did the young girl who runs the snack bar (she gave me some fresh grapes). Jerome sat back and listened and laughed and we goofed around together. He played my guitar and he was good. He showed me some suspended chords and picking styles and he played Jazz and he played the blues. He started playing the guitar when he was 13, he said, after he heard the Beatles. We laughed about the Beatles and how old he was, and then we thanked God for the Beatles. And then we talked about the blues and the strangers who have influenced us musically by bringing us out of our shells, by questioning us and by insisting that we play something for them, by listeing to us fumble around and then showing us a thing or two. And then he started talking about California where he was raised and about his kids and how they never were struck by the music bug even though he had plenty of instuments laying around the house all the time. We talked of a lot of things and we laughed.

He was good. He played and closed his eyes and let his fingers fly back and forth and all around, quick. His fingers were long and black and he had gold rings over two big knuckles, and he spread his fingers all over that guitar, leaning down close to the belly so he could hear over the loud engine.

And he had faith in me. He just kept leaning back and grinning, and telling me that I have discipline, and he knows it, and that if I keep practicing the day will come when my fingers will separate from my body and just start doing a dance that I can't control, and it will be beautiful. And he said "Girl, it is just a feeling , that's all it is. You just get that feeling in your soul and that comes out and that's all it is. Yeaaaah, man."

So, I'm writing a song about Jerome the ferry-man and the feeling that comes from deep down in your soul. The feeling that you can share with other people, the feeling that comes out in music, the feeling that, as Jerome says, just "sets your spirit right."

Before it's all said and done, I'm going to jam out with Jerome one night when my fingers can fly, and it will be out of this world.