Brown Eyed Girl



Days on the farm when I was a young girl often lacked a certain amount of excitement. The winters in South Dakota seemed endless and brutal. We found very little enjoyment in being trapped in the house during blizzards, sometimes after losing electricity because of the winds. We played cards by the light of kerosene lamps and fell asleep under layers of quilts. I did appreciate the arrival of spring and the baby animals that soon followed. I loved stalking the mother cats to discover where they'd stowed their kittens. One of my favorite activities was bottle-feeding my calf, Superstar. Naturally, that story ended badly and I abstained from beef for a period of time. I also had a baby lamb named Frizzy Lizzy. Everywhere I went, she was sure to go. Summertime on the farm found us toiling away for hours in the great outdoors. I did not thrill at the idea of pulling weeds, shucking corn, or shelling peas. When it came time to butcher chickens, our brothers were tasked with helping Dad in the killing. My sister and I were in charge of plucking. We would stand under the trees with the smell of scalding feathers in our noses. After the birds were bare, we would cradle them and pretend they were our babies. Ah, but summers did hold the prospect of a certain surprise visitor. The warm breezes often blew in a young man named Harold. A friend of the family, he would often hitchhike from Tennessee and spend many weeks with us. We never knew when he might show up, and since he wasn't fond of farewells, he normally just quietly slipped away. I'm sure Harold must have arrived with a suitcase in tow, but I only remember him bringing his guitar. Even at this young age, he was an amazing musician. We never tired of hearing him play for us. He helped feed pigs and pick green beans during the day, but spent the evenings singing John Denver and Bob Dylan. While I'm certain he liked my siblings and me equally, at the time I was convinced he was singing Brown Eyed Girl solely for my benefit. Harold slept in one of our outbuildings we called the office since it stored many of our dad's Bible commentary books. Although we had strict instructions to let him have this personal space, we continually encroached upon it. One day when the office was empty, I picked up his guitar to sing Amazing Grace. I knew Harold would be quite impressed with my musical talents, so coerced my brothers into sneaking him out there, so he might “accidentally”overhear me. Harold also made cassettes of his music so we could listen to him when he was away. Surprisingly, they are still intact and not worn out from overuse. The last time Harold visited our farm was in the mid 90's. I was living at home after college during what I call my "flailing period,” when I was unsure of my future paths. After another great visit, he once again left without saying goodbye. Harold pursued his love of music, and earned a Master's in guitar performance. He's now a college professor, and teaches his guitar skills to others. He also performs with Jazz bands in the Knoxville area. I recently emailed him to ask if he might put something together for our mom. He has such a crazy schedule, but managed to squeeze in some studio time. He sent five songs to my computer this week, in time for me to mail a cd to Mom for her birthday. I could hardly contain my excitement waiting for it to arrive. I was on the phone with her when she opened it, and ordered her to play it immediately. I was overjoyed to listen with Mom to his rendition of City of New Orleans again after all these years. This was one of the songs he regularly sang during those summer visits. In our minds, we were instantly transported back to those simpler days.