The very first time Ruth Campbell laid hands on his daddy's beat-up old six-string Stella, he could feel the music leap right up off the strings and go straight to his heart. It stayed in there and kept right on vibrating until he began letting it out to where others could hear it. He sang, hummed, whistled, yodeled, banged on pots, blew into jugs, dragged a stick across a picket fence, anything at all that his hands or mouth could do to produce melody and rhythm.Sad thing was, by the time Ruth got old and capable enough to make something that a body could really call music, his daddy had taken that Stella and anything else he could carry out the door, down the road, and clean out of East Woodward forever. His mama had fallen ill and taken to her bedroom, with a stack of books, a little old Zenith black and white, and a big old dependency on Ruth for anything she needed to survive. That boy loved music, but when it come right down to it, he loved his mama more. Every day after school, while other boys would go to the ball field or ride their bikes or go tramping along the railroad tracks, he would march straight home to make sure she was okay and to wait on her every need. Naturally, the other boys would tease and taunt, call him a mama's boy, push him around, make fun of his name, and all the other mean things young boys did to others to make themselves feel bigger. But Ruth, that skinny, scrawny scarecrow of a boy, just acted like they was plumb invisible. And while them other boys was out doing the usual things boys did, Ruth was buying groceries, cooking meals, doing laundry, cleaning house, caring for his mama, and becoming the kind of man that was, in the time and place where he lived, just out and out unique.
"You were named after one of our greatest Presidents," his mama told him. "And you need to follow his example and pay no attention to fools who aren't fit to lace up your shoes. Why, President Hayes got wounded four times when he was in the army, then he went and became President, and after that he became a governor. He was a big believer in education and in treating all people with equality, no matter the color of their skin. When he was President, not a drop of alcohol was served in the White House, and when his poor wife Lucy died that man's heart broke right to pieces. You know what his last words were when he was dying?"
"No'm," Ruth replied.
"He said 'I know that I'm going where Lucy is'. Now ain't that a man to admire? You think anyone made fun of his name?"
"No'm," Ruth replied.
Even laid low with sickness, Ruth's mama was uncanny smart. All day long she sat reading from the stacks of books she had Ruth haul home from the library, and in the evenings she turned on that Zenith just to give her brain a rest. Sometimes Ruth sat with her and they laughed together at Uncle Miltie and some of the other silly shows, but most of the time he was in a different room singing, tapping his hands, and figuring ways to make music out of ordinary household items. He made a guitar out of a cigar box and a length of post. He made a set of drums out of some old Maxwell House coffee cans. He made a kazoo out of the inside of a roll of toilet tissue. And when he was old enough to get a job outside of the home, clerking at the local Piggly Wiggly, he began saving his wages for the day he could buy himself a real instrument. He dreamed of one day moving to the big city and playing music in front of crowds of folks, making them hum and tap their feet. After all, Enid was less than a hundred miles away. He knew that his ultimate destiny, whatever else may happen to him, would be bound up in music. But until then, he would stay in East Woodward and care for his mama and let the music keep right on playing in his pure and good natured heart.
* * * * *
Spunky Webb lived in the westernmost house in West Woodward. Spunky may not seem like a proper name for a little girl, but that was what everyone called her on account of her brash and uninhibited personality. Her real name was Virginia Elizabeth Webb, but she was a real firecracker—larger than life, you might say—and to her family, friends, neighbors, teachers, and everybody else around town whose attention she attracted (seized and held for ransom was more like it), she was always just plain Spunky.
Spunky was just nine years old but most folks said she was nine going on twenty-nine. The word precocious was often used and not used amiss. The boys her age couldn't even begin to compete, no way nor no how. You could call her a tomboy but that wouldn't quite capture all she was. Sure, she could throw a ball and hit one as well as the boys, she could out-talk them, out-run them, and have them rolling on the ground with a fast kick to their pocket pals before they knew what hit 'em. But the boys her age, and playing ball and climbing trees and running around, had all become a supreme bore to her by the time she'd turned nine. What Spunky really wanted most now, what she read about and dreamed about and aspired to and even practiced for, was to become a movie star. A singer, a dancer, a glamorous actress! Fame and fortune! The silver screen! Hollywood!
Spunky would lie around in bed for hours mooning over Film Fan magazine, Modern Screen, Motion Picture—why, she collected them all! And what's more, the girl had talent! She could sing a melody right on key, loud and strong and full of feeling, and she could do it while tap dancing, while swiveling her undeveloped hips and throwing her restless hands to the left and to the right, and throwing her fool head around till it was like to drop off and go rolling down the road. And do you think she would drop her eyes to the dirt while performing in front of people? I should say not! Spunky's big bright eyes would open wide and stare down her audience, man for man, so that each would feel like an audience of one, just like Spunky was saying with those fearless eyes: you and I know what's what, don't we? We know there ain't much a body can do to fix this busted-up old world except sing and dance and make the most of what we've got!
And even though she might scare them just a little, and they might pretend to feel otherwise, people appreciated Spunky's lively spirit and even felt a little lucky to be in her presence. Deep inside, most were thinking: that girl's gonna go places and be something, she is! And folks usually can't help admiring people like that, even if they don't say it right out.
Sometimes on a Sunday afternoon, Spunky's mama or papa would invite neighbors or church folk to drop by for sweet tea and some sweet potato pie, and on such occasions one of them would always invite Spunky to perform for their guests. There had been a time when Spunky had embarrassed her folks with her audacious and unpredictable behavior, but they soon got over that. There would always be those who looked down their sharp, judgmental noses at Spunky and declared her too forward or too unladylike, too cheeky or too immodest, but her mama and papa loved her and came to take great pride in the force of nature they called Spunky, this little girl who possessed more energy and more talent, more of a zest for life and just more plain old chutzpah than most people would ever have.
"Spunky!" her mama would call, "Come sing a nice song for our guests!"
And she wouldn't have to ask Spunky twice. Before their guests had even gotten well settled in their folding chairs, in the shade of the big old sycamore in front of the Webb house, Spunky would be dancing as if she was on a Broadway stage, like her feet was on fire, singing the popular Gershwin tune I Got Rhythm until those neighbors were tapping their toes right along with her. But after Spunky performed one or two numbers, her mama or papa would send her a look to let her know showtime was over, just to make sure she didn't monopolize the visit. Then, Spunky would usually whirl away in search of the kind of free open space for her tornado energy that a lawn chair just couldn't contain. And the guests could begin sippin' their sweet tea and makin' polite conversation.
The thing about being Spunky Webb, no matter how cheerful or vivacious or self-assured she might be, was that there was only one Spunky Webb in Woodward, Oklahoma. Only one that she knew of, anyway. And living in a world where there was nobody else even remotely like her could, at times, get awful lonesome. How she loved to sing and dance! But she didn't know anybody else like that. She didn't know anybody who would dare sing anywhere outside of a church choir. She didn't know anyone whose body and spirit were moved by music like hers was, at least nobody that dared let it show! And folks were intimidated by Spunky's self-assurance. When she looked them in the eye, they would look away or down at their feet. When she tried to sing a snatch of melody or show a new dance step, they got uncomfortable and made an excuse to go someplace else. She couldn't understand it, but that's how it was. Somehow, folks were more comfortable and enjoyed her company more when they was in numbers. When there was two or three or more folks standing together, they could look to each other with that herd mentality, smile and chuckle with one another, as if to say: Yep, that Spunky sure is something, ain't she a real character!
* * * * *
Rutherford Campbell walked along the dirt road that led from his home in East Woodward to the town of Woodward proper, the road that in fact turned into the town's main street, cutting through the center of town and continuing on to West Woodward and beyond. He carried the guitar that he'd finally saved enough money to buy and wore on his head the only article his daddy had left behind all those years ago when he'd vanished one morning like a hazy dream vanishes when you awaken: a jaunty wide-brimmed fedora with a thick black ribbon. Ruth's daddy might just as well have been a hazy dream, for all Ruth could remember of him. And now that his mama had passed on, Lord rest her soul, Ruth was about as alone as a body could be. Now it was just him and his music, which was okay by him, though he got to feeling lonesome at times like anybody else. He'd been walking to town on Saturday afternoons for some weeks now, a lanky wind-blown figure swinging his long legs out before him and swinging his guitar case by his side, like a stick figure someone had drawn in charcoal gray on a dry and grainy sheet of parchment and brought to life like the animated cartoons on the TV. Arriving at the center of town, Ruth removed his guitar from its case, leaving the case open on the road for anyone who cared to toss a coin or two his way, and commenced playing and singing the songs he'd learned, the songs he'd made up, the songs that carried the music in his heart out into the world for others to hear and enjoy. Most folks paused a moment and regarded him as they might regard a queer type of bird they'd never seen before, then walk on. Once in a while, someone would stay to hear an entire song or even exchange a few quick pleasantries. But most often, it was just Ruth singing his heart out to the sun and sky and air beneath his nose.
Virginia Elizabeth Webb capered along the road leading east, toward Woodward proper. She didn't just walk but moved in a sort of skipping, hopping, hiccupping dance that, among other things, had earned her the name Spunky. She would sashay to the left, sashay to the right, pirouette, leap forward as if jumping over a puddle, shimmy backward, high-step forward, shake all her limbs like an uncontrolled marionette, then begin all over again. Now and again she would burst into song, any old thing that had been playing in her head and needed to be let out. She would sing it loud and strong until the record player inside her came to a stop, sometimes abruptly, sometimes gradually like the whimper of air escaping from a balloon. Spunky wasn't about to hang around the dull, worn-out hem of Woodward's western sleeve all this endless Saturday afternoon. It was a boring place for anybody, but for Spunky Webb it was nothing short of sheer torture. So she hopped right along like a robin in spring, twitching her head this way and that, her keen eyes open to whatever life might drop in her path, ready to spread her wings and take flight at the slightest provocation.
She heard it before she saw where it come from, the sound of music riding on the air, smooth and light as a knife spreading butter on bread. At first she heard just the sound of an instrument playing, then that of a voice singing, and then the two merged together so that you couldn't separate one from the other. She skipped along faster, eager to locate the source.
Ruth was singing with all his heart and soul, swingin' his strumming hand down and back up in a smooth rhythmic motion to accompany his voice. It was a lively tune he'd written himself, and as he poured all his feeling into the final verse he happened to glance down the road to the west and what he saw nearly caused his voice box to close up in amazement. He saw just her outline in the distance before he could make out any details, but there was no mistaking that she was dancing. It appeared to be a little girl, coming toward him, flouncing her body around like a crazed jitterbug right down the middle of Main Street. And the closer she got, the less doubt there was that she was dancing to his music—to the song he had written his very own self—to the song he himself was a-singin' and a-playin' right there in Woodward, Oklahoma in the broad daylight of a Saturday afternoon. She kept right on a-shakin' and a-shimmyin' as she come down the road, until there she was right in front of Ruth, dancing like people in Woodward just didn't dance, leastways not in the middle of Main Street. Did she stop dancing in front of Ruth? She did not! Did she drop her eyes to the pavement, avoiding eye contact with the performer? She did not! Did Ruth himself stop singing or strumming? I should say not! Spunky kept right on dancing and Ruth kept right on singing and playing until he brought the song to its natural end, and when he did they just looked at each other and grinned from ear to ear, till their faces was like to split wide open. And then Ruth began to play another song, a slower one, a song that Spunky herself knew backwards and forwards.
Moon river, wider than a mile
I'm crossing you in style some day ...
Spunky didn't need a formal invitation. She opened her mouth wide, threw back her head, and a voice bigger than anyone would've thought could fit inside that little body came charging on out to join with Ruth's voice.
Two drifters, off to see the world
There's such a lot of world to see ...
They sang that whole song together, Spunky and Ruth, and the joy they both felt in doing so was a sight to behold. They didn't really have an audience to speak of, but they didn't really need one. What came out of Ruth was like one note and what came out of Spunky was like another note, and when those two notes ran into one another that day, why, they produced a single chord that was nothing short of a miracle of beauty and magic. And when they came to the last line in the song, and Spunky spread out her arms and threw back her head in the pure abandon of her love of performing, and Ruth's face reflected the kind of happiness he hadn't known for, well, that he maybe hadn't ever known, then you could see right off, like reading a message written in the sky by a passing plane, that neither of their lives would ever be the same again.
We're after that same rainbow's end, waitin' 'round the bend
My huckleberry friend, moon river, and me
D.E. Sievers
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