Rocky Mountain High

Sherry’s father wanted us to play “Rocky Mountain High.” I’d never heard John Denver before so R and I spent Friday listening to youtube and working out some harmonies.

The next morning, Chiefland was four hours on US-19 - over the Suwannee, past the derelict gas stations, the closed down Dairy King, on to the funeral home.

The hall was well lit for lacking windows, much wider than it was deep, with a tasteful density of oak pews. The ceiling was too low. I put my guitar to the right of the podium and sat in the front row, off to the side. I think Sherry’s kids were nearby.

My uncle B opened with a Winnie the Pooh song. Her father said a few words.

Then a main claiming to be a preacher stood up. He told us about our potential for redemption in the face of damnation, but mostly he told us about our damnation. He seemed quite concerned. “If you don’t go to heaven, you’re going to hell.” He said it at least three times. I don’t remember if he mentioned Sherry.

R and I stood up and played “Rocky Mountain High.” I got most of the words right; R really nailed her harmonies. God, could she blend. As we packed up, four separate strangers came up to me and told me I did a great John Denver impression.

My aunt M treated some of us at the pizza parlor next door. Plastic straws in plastic cups in a dingy Chiefland restaurant, surrounded by loved ones, neither redemption nor damnation in sight.