Last night we practiced at the Hope market. Actually I’m not sure if that’s the right name now or not. It used to be called the “Hi Hopes Market”, but that was a zillion years ago. I remember when the big excitement there was the addition of a video rental room (videos, not dvd’s). That meant we didn’t have to drive to town to rent movies from the auto parts supply store (for a special weekend rate, we could take home a vcr and 3 movies–what a deal).

Now it’s a beautiful art gallery and cafe.  The owner lets us practice here.  Boy, are we lucky.

Here’s our brass section getting ready to jam:

And here is Retired Mountain Lady behind the keyboard.

Neil & recorder, RML and Bruce on bass.

Linda (accordion), Julie (drum), Anne (mandolin–she’s playing so fast she’s a blur!).  We had such a good time.

I missed taking a picture of our Dancing Mandolin Player, but here’s one of the tayberry cobbler she brought for us. It was so good.

People ask me all the time about our songs. What kind of songs we do. How we decide what to play. Do we have special songs for the dump concerts (notice I said concerts).

Last night Mark (blues harmonica, jazz cornet, vocals, guitar) suggested we each come up with a song we wanted to play and then just jam. That worked! We tried some new things and revisited old songs. I’m going to try to list what I remember:

Jambalaya
Hey, Good Lookin’
Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys (we decided we definitely needed alcohol to try this one again)
Tear My Stillhouse Down (I got to pretend to be Gillian Welch…or her mother…or her grandmother? and sing)
I’ll Fly Away Medley
Mercy, Mercy (a cool instrumental)
The Midnight Hour (Motown? I sang Motown?  Can I buy sequined bell bottoms now?)
My Bucket’s Got A Hole In It

If I think of the others, I’ll add them to the list.

It was an odd feeling standing there in the remodeled market. My music stand was approximately where the dairy section used to be. One of my very best friends, Barbara, worked in the store for years and treated my children as a grandmother would. The kids and I would go to the store, pick up milk or a movie and visit with her. One day I discovered my four year old daughter had stolen gum from the penny candy display, so I drove her back to the store and made her give it back, apologize, pay for it and grovel.

My daughter cried, but Barbara cried harder. As a mom trying very seriously to teach a lesson about shoplifting, I had no patience for tears and scolded both of them. Barbara fussed about that afternoon for days, alternating between being amused and telling me I had been too strict.

I don’t think my grown-up children would have recognized their strict mother last night. The fiddle strikes them as a bit eccentric, but the singing would freak them out.

Which is a good thing.

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