Never Too Old, Never Too Late

The tortoise shell compact reflected Adele’s crinkled brow. She smoothed the green eyeshadow that highlighted her brown eyes and added a bobby pin to an errant strand of graying hair. Her husband John sat across from her at the small wooden table, drumming his fingers lightly on the edge of his guitar case propped against his leg. She snapped the compact shut.

It was open mike night at the Ridgeline Bar & Grille. The wood walls gave a mellow echo to the music. The beer was cold. The patrons were amiable, maybe even forgiving. God, she hoped they were forgiving. She and John had played here many times. 

But not in thirty-three years.

The lights increased in intensity, highlighting the small stage at the front of the room. The MC leaned into the microphone to announce the first act. Her pulse jumped. 

Maybe I still have time to slink out?

***

Only four weeks ago, as Adele pulled the door open to the local post office, a poster for a local band playing at nearby Stark’s Pub caught her eye. The name jumped out at her–The Explosives, featuring James B. The photo on the poster focused on the lead guitarist who looked just like their old friend, James. But the age was wrong. It must be his son. Same name, same sideburns even. Has to be. James was amazing on piano, organ, accordion, anything with keys. No surprise his son was in a band.

In the time-before-kids, she and John would hunt for live music, often driving miles to hear a band they liked. John would sometimes get asked to play if the band was down a guitarist. She might get asked to jump in on vocals. The two of them made friends with all the local musicians, including James. She loved sitting in the bar after a set, sharing a beer, and talking about music. 

When there was nothing to hear live, she and John would create their own music, blending their voice in harmonies, trying out lyrics to original songs. Rhyming “catamount” to “sad-about.” Silly stuff. 

Three years into the marriage, little Dawn showed up. That was the beginning of the change. They were in love with the little girl, but no more late nights out since her bedtime was a reasonable 8PM. And then River followed, and then Penelope in quick succession. The boisterous bunch made for a mix of fun, work, extra mouths to feed, teeth to straighten, and cleats to buy. John took extra jobs so she could stay home with the kids until they were all in school. Over time, the kids  somehow pulled them together while also pushing them apart. 

John would pull out his guitar once a month when the kids were little, entertaining them with kiddie classics. As they grew, he strummed every so often, a few times a year, but never a full song. He didn’t seem interested in playing anymore. The music that brought them such joy faded away. 

The kids had been gone for years now, the youngest at least five years out of the house, and she and John had yet to regain their groove. During the days, they went to work, he at the electrical contracting company his father started, she at the urgent care clinic. Nights were quiet. John worked in his basement shop. She usually watched something on Netflix after cleaning up after dinner. John didn’t like movies, so she mostly watched alone, surprising herself when she barked out a laugh that echoed off the windows. 

If she was honest, they hadn’t tried very hard. She was waiting for him; he was probably waiting for her. Someone had to make the first move. Maybe she was just too old? Or he was. Maybe she was tired of being the one who had to make things happen.

Then that poster happened. 

***

That night, as they sat in silence over dinner at the kitchen table, she pulled up the photo of the poster on her phone and handed it to John.

“Look what I found today. It just jumped out at me,” she said.

John pulled his reading glasses off his head and peered at the photo. “James Fryer?”

“His son,” she said.

“Hmph.” He pushed the reading glasses back on top of his head and took a bite of shepherd’s pie.

“We should go,” she said. 

“OK,” he said

“Really? You’ll go?” 

He looked up. “It’s James’ son. Why not?” 

Could it really be this easy?

***

The next night, she donned a newish blouse and made an extra effort with her makeup and hair. John looked dapper in a clean flannel shirt. 

Before they even entered the pub, they heard the band tuning up: a guitar, fiddle, keyboard playing Blues and Folk. As her eyes adjusted to the dark room, she picked out their friend James sitting at the table right up front. Surprise exploded on his face. “Adele? John?” He rushed over and pulled them both into a bear hug that lasted for a full minute. “It’s been too long.”

She beamed. It had been too long. But James recognized them, despite all the lost years. John even curved his lips a little and pounded James on the back. The three of them sat together at the front table.

“How is Ginny? Where is she?” Adele asked.

“She’s gone,” James answered.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What happened?” she asked.

James held up his hands. “Oh, it’s not that. She’s just down in Florida for the winter. Gave up on snow a few years ago.”

They all laughed.

The band started and overwhelmed the conversation, so they sat back and listened. She tapped her foot under the table. James’ son was good on guitar. The band backing him was ok, not great, but solid. They played some classic covers: Dylan, Dead, Joplin, Taylor. She and John and James sipped their beers. A night out. It felt good.

During the break, James’s son, James Jr., put his guitar on the stand and folded his tall frame into a seat at their table.

“Thanks for coming, Dad,” he said.

“And, look who else is here. These two are famous musicians from the past. My past,” James Sr. said.

“Not really famous,” Adele said.

“Famous enough to open for some great acts,” James Sr. countered.

“Any suggestions for me?” James Jr. asked.

His simple question was like a spring thaw, rain drops flowing and snow melting, doubling the impact of the water. John sat up straighter in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on the table. “If you played a little behind the beat, it would chill out the chorus,” John said.

Then they all started talking at once: ways to improve the timing, the harmonies, vary the rhythms to add their own stamp, and suggestions for new songs to add. James Jr’s eyes widened. He whipped out his phone and started frantically typing notes.

“I think you should come on up and show us, John,” James Jr. said.

“I haven’t played on stage in years.” John said.

There it was. The opening. The unexpected clearing in the middle of a thick forest. But John shook his head in a defiant “no.” She panicked. She needed to save this. She waved her hand around the room. “It’s not House of Blues, John. Why not?” Her eyes pleaded with his in a secret exchange.

John stopped shaking his head and flexed his hands as a light grew in his eyes. “You know what, Adele. You’re right. Why not indeed?”

James Jr. handed him his guitar and John walked onstage and took a seat on the stool. He strummed a few chords to get the feel of the instrument. She watched from her front-row seat in disbelief, Am I dreaming? A whisper went between the musicians before John nodded to the band mates four decades younger and they launched into the Blues classic, “Stormy Monday.” She silently hummed the words. Her eyes connected to his, and they smiled. The music of their youth came back. 

***

Everything changed after that night. John started playing the guitar every night after dinner. She sang. He started writing songs again. Folk songs, like the ones from the 70s when they were first singing together. Political songs with old harmonies. Maybe people were again ready for protest songs, songs about something beyond heartbreak and gang violence. She was tentative at first, her voice was rusty, but it came back. 

The tipping point came when James Jr. invited them to an open mike night. Nothing fancy, just a local restaurant that liked to support local artists. 

“Should we?” she asked John.

“It’s not House of Blues, Adele,” he countered, with a crinkle in his eye.

***

The open mike night arrived, and they sat together, nervously, near the front of the room, ready for their call. When it came, they ascended the one step to the raised platform. She took a deep breath as she took the mic off its stand. 

“Thanks, everyone,” she said as a short electronic squeal made her pull the mic back a little. “We are the Granville Bowls, playing some folk favorites, and a few original songs, too. Hope you enjoy.”

Sure, the place was small. Sure, the audience was eating as well as watching, but her heart leaped, the performer’s adrenaline surged through her body. They played together. They sounded pretty good. It was frankly astonishing to be here, on stage together. John strumming and leaning forward with his deep bass. This was the man she married. He was back, after a hiatus, but he was back. And so was she.

As she looked out into the audience, a man on the left nodded and then deliberately turned his chair around so his back faced them. How rude.

But at the end of the set he walked over to them and presented a business card labeled Mountain Song Productions.

“I needed to face away to hear you. Really hear you,” he said. “You are unique. The harmonies; no one does it like that anymore. The lyrics are current, awakening. I’d like to record you. We’re a small label, but --”

“Recording?” she asked. 

Never had they imagined that. It’s amazing what life holds. Imagine if I hadn’t seen the poster, if James Sr. wasn’t at the show. If…if…if…Imagine if we hadn’t met, married.

She turned off her inner voice. She didn’t want to imagine. She wanted to enjoy. The here, the now. Enjoy the new life together.

John took the business card and the three of them walked back to the bar to get a beer, allowing the next act to ascend the stage and start their performance.

“Is it too late for us?” she whispered into John’s ear.

“Not yet,” he answered and took her hand and squeezed it. “Not yet at all.” 

***

Note to the reader: 

Although this story is fiction, it is inspired by the couple who form the duo of Granville Haze. They are having a wonderful time with a later life resurgence of interest in their wonderful music. 

Photo credit: Eric Masur