Brown Eyed Girl



My days on the farm as 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 a blizzard without electricity for days on end.
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, this story ends badly...and we won't dwell on the reason I shied away from beef for awhile).
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. I fairly loathed the task of plucking feathers from freshly butchered chickens.
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 hitch hike 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. Sigh.
Harold slept in one of our outbuildings we called the office since it stored many of my dad's books. Although we had instructions to let him have this personal space, we continually encroached upon it. One day when the office was empty, I decided to strum the guitar and 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 now has a Master's in guitar performance.  He's a college professor, and teaches his mad guitar skills to others. He also performs with Jazz bands in the area.
I recently asked Harold if he could put something together for my 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 my mom to his rendition of City of New Orleans again after all these years.  In our minds, we were instantly transported back to those simpler summer days.
(I've included a video of Steve Goodman singing City of New Orleans, which he wrote.  Of course, in my [unbiased] opinion, Harold's version is far better)