Two weeks ago, I received in the mail from Amazon the latest in a long string of Peter,Paul and Mary collections I have owned. This one was the 40 Years Together disc, with remastered versions of the classic songs that I grew up knowing. With their crude stereo recording, the voices were clear in each ear on a long plane flight — not Auto-Tuned, not perfect. Some songs, like “Cruel War,” were a revelation.
I had a cassette of Ten Years Together, the best of from 1970, the year before I was born. “Lemon Tree” was sung to me as a child, and I memorized “Where Have All the Flowers Gone” as a kid as well. I saw them in concert a few times. Mary was really beautiful.
Years later, living in Jacksonville FL, I convinced some of my friends from high school to come to a PP&M concert with me. They laughed, they refused, they caved, thinking it would be ironic fun. As the songs started, I began to sing half-remembered words along with the music, and one of my friends shushed me. Repeatedly. She was getting quite embarrassed. But as the concert went on, I was not the only one singing under my breath. Eventually, Mary stopped between songs and told the audience, “Stop shushing people! This is folk music, it is meant to be sung. If you know the words, please join in!” I sang in full voice after that, and eventually so did my friends as they dimly remembered the story of Stewball the racehorse. At the end of the show, the band stayed on stage, and we were able to walk up and greet them. My friends had tears in their eyes, pulled along by the utter sincerity and commitment that Peter, Paul and Mary had.
I remember convulsing in laughter with their version of the old lady who swallowed a fly.
I saw Peter Yarrow perform once more, at the Kerrville Folk Festival, a giant gathering of people who mostly just share music, a festival where a sign at the entrance to the ranch reads “welcome home.” He gave years to the festival, serving on its advisory board, helping new songwriters get a chance to share their voices.
Once, I was startled to see a familiar face in one of the offices at Origin. It was Peter again, visiting a teammate, the artist Micael Priest. I stuck my head in, didn’t come in to say hello. Micael said I should have.
I put the new CD on my iPod and had my daughter listen. Oh, she said, they did “Puff”? Yes, they did. And they did “If I Had A Hammer,” which I learned in grade school as a class singalong. And as she sang along to “This Land Is Your Land” and “Blowin’ In The Wind,” songs she learned in grade school herself, I thought about all the songs they did that I have not yet learned to play on guitar, songs that are old old friends.
Mary Travers is dead today. Where have all the flowers gone? Picked by young girls, every one.
