Sometimes a chance event turns into a lifetime experience.
Knowing I am at the edge of my assigned life pages, I will take all I can get.
This past Sunday, I went to Society Hall to “Give it up for Robear.”
Robear is Rob Bosdorf, a man I have known since my oldest son got his feet wet as a professional musician, and I felt he needed my support since he is recovering well from open-heart surgery, but not from the extra expenses involved with medical treatment.
My son Rich has known him longer and made the trip from Pueblo to honor him
Musicians are that way, I think. It’s a cosmic kinship created from pure beauty.
Looking around the hall, I saw faces from the past, musicians who have made the air wonderful over the years and still can.
Each one is part of the tapestry that is my memory.
Music, in its beauty, is an ever-growing story with many characters and numerous tones.
Some of the musicians have grown grey hair over time, along with wrinkles of joy and sorrow accented by laughter that remains young.
I thought of the musicians who have joined the great jam session on high.
When Jimmy Lamb died accidentally, the Valley music world changed. I felt the sounds in the air were subdued a bit.
Rich had been playing with OMI Express, based in the Old Miner’s Inn at Creede and led by Jimmy, a fellow my mind sees as Boss Hawg.
After a time with a band named Tommyknockers, Rich left the Valley and has played wherever he has been.
They do that, the musicians. They “sit in” and join bands around the land.
There was a time when Jimmy and Rich went on the road, calling themselves “Rich and Famous,” which Jimmy changed to “Rich and Shameless.”
He would say, “Mom told me to get Rich and here he is.” His laugh was incomparable.
Jimmy’s look-alike brother was at Sunday’s event and I was told he might play. He didn’t, but it would have required some tissues on my part.
When the bands played, the tunes were oldies, goodies and a new cover now and then.
Tumbleweed reunited for the event and played the sounds that filled the air those memory-shrined days in the 1970s and ‘80s when Alamosa — yea, the entire San Luis Valley — had a beautiful night scene.
I cried a little when I heard some of the oldies and I laughed as they found joy on the stage.
Introduced as “Little Rich,” my son also smiled at the memories.
As I was leaving, someone asked me what instrument I played, knowing all three of my sons made music and so do my grandkids.
“Well, I can play the radio if I get it tuned right, but I’m the most important person a band has,” I replied. “I’m the one who pays the door, sits on a straw bale in the rain to hear the sounds and then buys the CDs.”
More experiences as life’s pages turn.