Readers' Campfire Stories: Farewell to a Friend
[I meant to publish this letter from a reader much sooner, but got swamped by life and work. Anyway, this one's timeless. It's a reply to my article "The Last Campfire," sent to me by Scott Cooper in Ontario, Canada (lightly edited, used with permission). Thanks, Scott. -HB]
For several years I have been involved with a family camp run under the auspices of the Presbyterian Church in Canada: Presbyterian Music Camp. The facility we use is near Bracebridge, Ontario, in the beautiful Muskoka area. Our week-long camp ends with a ceremony much as the one you described in your article, although this one is held inside the theatre building. This is a time of sharing, in music or word, something significant about the week's experience. This is followed by a candle-lighting. There is a strong feeling of communion at this point, with 125 or more voices singing in multiple harmonies in a darkened space lit only by the many candles. After the closing ceremony there is traditionally a teen/youth dance and a campfire for anyone who might be interested.
Our final campfire was special this year; I held a wake and funeral for my old guitar. My old twelve-string was on its last legs. Over 28 years the unrelenting pressure on the tailpiece had deformed the end of the body and the neck was being drawn towards the sound hole, creating a slight hump in the top. There was enough difference in the overall length between the bridge and the nut that the instrument could no longer be accurately tuned. It was slowly self-destructing. It occurred to me last winter that music camp would be the ideal place to say farewell to a well-loved old instrument.
Over a few months I settled on the method of my old friend's passing. During the week of music camp I spoke quietly to a number of friends about this plan and invited them to think of a song that they could contribute to a wake. After they understood the reasons for this seeming desecration of a musical instrument they all agreed. After the closing ceremony a campfire was started, and finally, late in the evening, we began. My friend David gently picked up my guitar and led off: "The water is wide, I cannot cross over, and neither have I wings to fly..." He was followed by Steve with Tequila Sunrise and Margaret gave us Java Jive. There was Harry Chapin's Cat's In The Cradle, Ruth Anne offered The Rose ("It's the only one I can play without looking," she said,) and others. My wife Alison sang the first song I ever taught her, something we heard on our first date, Tommy Makem's Four Green Fields.
Finally, it was my turn. I had known for weeks what I was going to sing, and I had anticipated that it would be difficult, but I hadn't had any idea just how tough it was to be. I sang John Denver's This Old Guitar: "This old guitar taught me to sing a love song, It taught me how to laugh and how to cry..." It's awfully difficult to sing and cry at the same time. The dance was long over and we had been joined by about 25 of the youth and teens, most of whom had no idea what was going on. When I was finished, I slacked off the strings. My friend Hugh had learned a new song for this occassion and he gave me a copy to place inside the body. He felt it was appropriate for a new song to accompany an old instrument on its last journey, and I thought so too.
I stood with my guitar and said simply, "Ashes to ashes," and placed my guitar on the now burned-low campfire. The area was darkened briefly by the bulk of the instrument over the coals, and then there was a brilliant flare of yellow flame as the varnish caught fire. Almost instantly the entire body was engulfed in flame, but the varnish was quickly consumed, and for a moment the blackened hulk sat over the coals. The wood,well-seasoned after so many years caught quickly and burned fiercely for only a few minutes. The neck, so much more solid, burned quietly for a time after. Amazingly, for so many people gathered around the fire, no one spoke. We were all caught up in the mystery of the moment, an almost sacred time. When the guitar had been consumed beyond recognition, we quietly went to bed.
The next morning, early, I went to the fire-pit. After a little sifting through the ashes I came away with twelve frets. Over the next few weeks I plan to send one of the frets with a note to each of my friends who helped me say goodbye to my old guitar, as a remembrance. As one friend put it, "It seemed so right." Often, after a worship service, the Christ candle is blown out and someone might say, "The flame is gone, but the light is within." Over the coming years I will be able to look back on this special campfire and say, "The fire is gone, but the music is within."
Scott Cooper
Hugh Blumenfeld, Editor
hugh@balladtree.com
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