On Saturday I drove myself down into the Delta, straight down Highway 61. But first I had to pay my respects and headed for the Hollywood Cemetery out by the Freeway. The grave of Furry Lewis lay toward the back. Not knowing exactly where, I looked for some landmark from memory (I had been there once before, when he was laid to rest in 1981). Many of the headstones were hand-carved and the names that stood on them were classic. Lots of Jackson's and Washington's, Willie's and Burtie Mae's. The ground was uneven, with definite depressions outlining the wooden boxes that had decayed, six feet deeper in the earth. There were few concrete sarcophagi, as found in the white folks' graveyards. When nature consumed what was left in it, the ground above sank. I parked near the back of the cemetery and slowing walked toward the gate. It had started to rain a bit and my pant legs began to darken as I walked among the graves.
And finally, there it was. Walter "Furry" Lewis, Blues Man. My pal. Wise and funny. A songster and storyteller. I stood there for a while - surrounded by ghosts - reliving an incident that occurred many, many years ago.
Furry was playing a solo date at a college. I was in the dressing room during part of his last set that night. Suddenly, I heard my name being called from the stage. I stumbled out of the dressing room and ran to the lip of the wing. Furry sat with one arm draped across his guitar; he had a gleam in his eye. "Arne," he said, "seeee that my grave is kept clean." And then went into the Blind Lemon Jefferson tune. The audience howled.
I placed a small stone on top of the marker. Then I walked back to the car.
No comments:
Post a Comment