Blue Umbrella

In early June 2009, Frank and I went to see John Prine and Steve Earle at the Filene Center at Wolf Trap, the only national park dedicated to the performing arts. It is one of our favorite music venues in America, so it is nice to have it in our backyard.  If you haven’t been, it is worth the effort to make it happen.

This show meant a lot to Frank. He bought the tickets months in advance and had been waiting patiently for the evening to arrive. Thankfully, we had good seats in the covered amphitheater so regardless of ominous skies, we were going.  As insurance against the weather, we took Frank’s prized golf umbrella from Pebble Beach.

In early June, it is not yet hot in Virginia, but this night was muggy, the kind that feels like nature gleefully dropped a wet, wool blanket upon you. When the rain started, it cooled things down into a pleasant evening where memories can be made. I am sure that even now, Frank could recite the songs each artist played and in what order. He has a mind for things like that.  

While I was delighted to see two American music legends, I was equally happy for the rare evening out with my husband. However, we had left the kids at home alone on a stormy night so towards the end of the show I was getting antsy. Plus, our dogs did not like to outside in the rain and I knew neither of the kids would force the issue, so I did not want to get home to a surprise of the stubborn yellow kind.

When Earle and Prine had finished their sets and were starting the encores, I begged Frank to leave. I think we made it through one song – maybe not, but I was determined to get ahead of the traffic so Frank agreed to leave. I grabbed the umbrella and we slid out of our row.     

We were well away from our seats when Frank stopped dead in his tracks. His face was crestfallen. They were playing his favorite Prine song, Paradise, and he was missing it.  We stood to listened, but it was not the same thing as seeing it, so Frank said, ‘let’s go,’ and we walked away. He kept saying, “I can’t believe I missed it. I can’t believe I missed it.” He muttered things like ‘they never play together; it was my one chance.”

Talk about feeling bad. Nothing I could do would make this right. It was going to be a long, long, long walk to the parking lot to say nothing of sitting in the long, long line of cars waiting to exit through a solitary exit.

About that time, the rain picked up again. I handed the umbrella to Frank who was still in disbelief that he was missing the one song that he had come to hear.  Suddenly, he looked at me and said, “what is this?”  Over our heads was not his beautiful Pebble Beach souvenir but a ratty-sad, rust-stained, worn-out umbrella, the kind of thing I would have put in the trash long ago. 

In my haste to leave, I had grabbed the first thing my hands located under our seats. I never even looked to see if it was ours. What are the chances that there would be two gigantic golf umbrellas next to each other? As my mom would have said, “egads and little fishes.”

Frank’s sad face had morphed into something half-way between horror and frustration. Being the gentleman that he is, he said nothing, but I knew I had accidentally poured a copious amount of salt into a fresh wound.  We finally made it to car and drove home, both of us quiet except for the occasional, mournful statement, “I can’t believe I missed it.”

I was starting to feel like I was in a country music song, one without a happy ending.

Coupled with the broke down umbrella that took us years to throw away, the lost opportunity for Frank to see John Prine sing his favorite song has become a part of our family lore. It is a story he recalls from time-to-time, and now it is something I can never amend.  We had tickets to see him and Emmy Lou Harris at Wolf Trap this June 26th, and while we thought that it might be postponed due to COVID-19, we never imagined that he would die from it.

John Prine said, “writing is about a blank piece of paper and leaving out what’s not supposed to be there.” He was a brilliant singer-songwriter, beyond the best. In our lifetimes, there will never be another.  I hope his wish to be made an angel has been fulfilled, and that he has found his Paradise in that great heavenly band.   

“When I die let my ashes float down the Green River

Let my soul roll on up to the Rochester dam

I’ll be halfway to Heaven with Paradise waitin’

Just five miles away from wherever I am.”