Sons of Korah

Sons of Korah

August 2025

Psalm 42 — Chronicles 20:19 — John 9:3

 

Mike Rathman carried the plates to the table. Mike’s last customers of the day waited for their meals. “Lessee, now, tuna on rye is for you, and yours is the Denver omelet.” Mike set the plates down. “Need a refill on your coffee?”

Tuna-on-rye said, “Not yet, thanks. This looks good. As usual.”

Mike gave the wall clock a check, the friendly thing that looked like a pancake with a melting pat of butter in the center. Fat hands on the clock said it was 2:27.

“Guys, I know this is unusual, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to join you. I mean, I know it’s not customary for the owner to sit down with his customers, but you guys have been coming here often enough to make you regulars. I thought maybe this would be a good time to introduce myself, get to know you.”

Denver hiked his eyebrows and gave Tuna a look. Tuna nodded and took a bite. “Sure. Have a seat.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Glenn. Glenn Butterbaugh. This guy with the wheels is Bruce Vickery.” They shook hands.

Mike, a prototype of coffee shop owners everywhere – middle aged, balding,

tending toward chubby – pulled a chair and sat. “Hi, Mike Rathman. And thanks for coming to my place.”

They shook. Butterbaugh said, “We like your cafe, coffee shop, whatever you call

it, Mike. Cheery. Clean. Good food. Good reason to come back.” He took another bite, sipped some coffee.

Mike draped his towel over his knee. Butterbaugh looked to be the taller of the

two but maybe not, what with Vickery in a wheelchair. Wrinkles and grey hair said they wouldn’t see their fifties again.

“So, guys, new in town?”

“That we are. Come from the valley. At our age and condition, we finally

decided living on the coast was better for us than those hot, hot summers and frostbit winters.”

Bruce said, “That, and there were days the summer heat made the chrome on my wheelchair too hot to touch. Got right tired of that.”

The men small-talked for a while – ‘how long you been here,’ ‘tried early dinners for a while, breakfast and lunch worked out better,’ ‘convenient, easy to get to,’ ‘the knotty pine paneling’s nice,’ and such.

“Okay,” said Mike. “Glenn, I’ve seen you wheeling Bruce in here and around town for a while now, so it’s time for me to ‘fess up. Methinks there’s a story here.”

Glenn took his last bite and set his fork down. “Bruce, what do you say? We got the time?”

“Sure. It’s a great story. B-b-but then, all love stories are great.”

Mike didn’t miss Bruce’s impish smile. “Love story, huh? Intriguing. About the two of you?”

“Well, only kinda-sorta. It’s actually a love story about Jesus.”

Mike sipped the last of his coffee, set the mug down and stretched his legs out. “Okay, guys. Just so you know, I was raised up going to church. Still go every now and then. I know the basics. Anyway, I’m always up for a good story. Shoot.”

“First, a preface: Bruce and I are lifelong friends. We met in kindergarten, been friends ever since. You should know I love this man, and he loves me. I’m also his caregiver. We’ve been together for what, twenty-one years now?”

Bruce said, “Twenty-two.”

“Well, I guess our story begins in 1957 with Tom Dooley. There we were in Fresno, the two of us tooling down Ashlan on a Saturday afternoon, going nowhere in particular. Bruce was driving, we had KMAK on the radio and we hear this new group, the Kingston Trio. Sang about some poor sad guy named Tom Dooley.”

Bruce added, “You know, he kills his woman and has to hang for it, poor b-b-boy, you’re b-b-bound to die-iee. Soon as I heard that song it was like a magic spell came over me, triggered something deep inside. Right then and there, I knew folk music was for me.”

Mike nodded. “I remember the song.”

Glenn continued, “Me, I liked the song okay, thought the lyrics were kind of dumb. But I could tell the song ignited something in Bruce. Anyway, we’re driving along, he sees something off the side of the street, slams on the brakes, turns the key, bails out and runs over to this guy’s front yard.”

Bruce said, “There was this yard sale full of stuff and I saw something I wanted, b-b-bee-lined for this rickety old guitar that looked like it charged up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt. I picked it up and waved it and hollered, how much?”

“By then,” said Glenn, “I’d caught up with him and this white-haired fellow in a brown suit lifts himself out of a lawn chair and shuffles over to us. Eighty-five, he says, then asks, do you know about guitars?

Bruce: “And I said, no, sir, not a thing b-b-but I sure want to learn. Is this one special?

“He says, Sí, es muy especial. Then he pokes his finger at the sound hole and says for me to look inside and read the label.

“I see the name Antonio de Torres and some stuff about Sevilla and all, and the man says how de Torres was one of the finest makers of flamenco guitars in all of Seville, says he personally made that guitar in 1903. Says the guitar belonged to his father who was un maestro del flamenco, and his padre had passed it on to him.

“Then he reaches out and gives the guitar a caress like it’s the most precious thing in the world and tells us how, even with her defects, her voice is still pure and clear. He says es importante to know, jovenes, young men, you must always refer to her as a woman, for she sings of romance and joy, sending her song to enchant the hearts of even the most amargado, the most b-b-bitter of men. B-b-but now, you can see how she has suffered over the years. Although in her great age she no longer has the face of a woman of great b-b-beauty.  B-b-but she still sings with clarity. Con su permiso.

“Well, he takes the guitar from my hands, cradles it like it’s his first-b-b-born child, fans the strings with a run of chords, then gives us a Flamenco riff so b-b-brilliant that for that moment I swear there were fountains and courtyards all around us, and dark-haired señoritas parading around giving us dark-eyed looks from b-b-behind their fans.

“Well, I tell him, That’s amazing! b-b-but I looked at ‘ol Glenn, here, and he’s just standing there with his mouth open.”

“I’d never heard a guitar make such music. A forgivable shortcoming, for I was but a callow youth. But I did tell the man how beautifully the guitar sang.”

Bruce continued. “Me, I told him how I loved the sound, the b-b-bass notes especially, how her voice touched my heart. I asked him, if she was such a wonderful guitar, why did he want to sell her and he held his hands up and said artritis. Anyone could see they were pretty gnarly, twisted up. He says even that little demonstration he’d done hurt his hands, then he says he wants the de Torres go to someone who would truly appreciate it. Perhaps that is you, young señor? And I say, yes, sir, it is most definitely me. Your guitar has captured my heart and I ask, does she have a name. He gives me this big smile and says, ay, treat her with kindness and one day she will whisper her name to you.

“So I say, I only have sixty dollars. Can we agree on sixty dollars for the guitar? The man smiles and nods and I pay him the money, the guitar is mine and my heart is full.”

Glenn said, “That’s when I see Bruce is sort of frozen, but vibrating, like he’s in some kind of trance. I take him by the ear and lead him back to his car. Takes him a while to settle down enough to drive. Anyway, he drops me off at my house and I don’t see him for a week.

“Sunday, Bruce wasn’t at church, which was unusual – he and his family never missed. Neither did mine, matter of fact. Anyway, I call a couple times during the week and Bruce’s mom says he can’t come to the phone. A whole week goes by and come Saturday, Bruce finally calls me and says, c’mon over, pal, you’ve got to hear this!

“When I get there, Bruce’s mom answers the door, points at the den. His mom is usually pretty cheerful but that day she looked sort of weary and she says, just follow the sound of the guitar.

“So there’s Bruce concentrating on a Mel Bay chord chart open in front of him, holding his guitar like an angel had just handed it to him. Me, I’m the Invisible Man. Took a Hey! and a bop on the head to let him know I was there.

“He gives me this glance and a goofy smile and keeps plunking his guitar. I sit and watch him try and make his right hand strum while his left hand hops around like a broke-leg mule as he goes from one chord to another. No nevermind, I like what I hear and realize the old man was right; there’s something special about the de Torres, like it gently intrudes into the soul and speaks magic to it.

“I say, Hey, pal! You’ve made a lot of progress. I mean, what you’re doing there, it actually sounds like you’re playing a guitar.

“He says thanks, but these are just chord sequences, y’know. No real tunes yet. ‘Cept Tom Dooley. Got that wired. Take a listen.”

“Bruce does strums a D chord, changes to A7 and back to D okay, kind of tentative, more plink, plank, plunk than strum, strum, strum, but his voice fills in where the chords don’t. It’s recognizable. Definitely Tom Dooley.”

Bruce said, “I remember telling B-B-Butter how I loved the guitar, said you’ve got to get yourself one! B-b-besides b-b-being ten kinds of fun, it’s got to b-b-be a great way to meet girls! Just think, you and me and two guitars and shmoozy folk songs just gotta reap a harvest of honey!”

Glenn said, “It wasn’t long before the Kingston Trio had a few more songs on the radio and I decided I liked folk music more than rock ‘n roll. I’m not sure if it was Coplas or Scotch and Soda that sold me, but I was hooked, too.

“When the KT’s first album hit, I was at the head of the line to buy it. Couldn’t wait to get home, put it on the stereo. I must have played it fifty times before Dad tactfully suggested I give it a rest. I took pity on my parents and shut myself in my room and learned as many of the songs as I could. Sometime after ten, Dad knocks on my door and says that he and Mom would be pleased to have a quiet night’s sleep.

“That night, I decided if I’m going to get a guitar, I want one like Dave Guard plays … he’s the tall guy in the Kingston Trio. Found out that it was a Martin D-28, the Dreadnought, so I go to Piper’s music store, point to a D-28. It’s $700 bucks, so I set up a time payment plan. Take me a bunch of weeks but I dedicate every spare nickel and dime from my part-time job to that guitar. Before summer’s end, I paid it off, added another $45 for a case. Grinned all the way home, felt like I’d been elected president of the world.

“The clerk gave me some good advice, too. Said for me to stop off at an auto supply store and buy a chamois, spread it over the guitar whenever it’s in the case. Guitars are sensitive to changes in the climate, you know, hot and cold, wet and dry and the chamois will help keep the guitar from swelling or splitting. I still do that. Same guitar, different chamois.“

Bruce said, “Me, I found a fellow who made and repaired guitars. Gasparo Deluca. Called himself a luthier. He took my de Torres, worked some kind of luthier-magic on it, pulled the cracks in face and the b-b-back together and replaced the tuning keys. Deluca said that even though she was an old lady, she was a b-b-beautiful old lady. He even gave her a fresh coat of varnish.”

Glenn again: “That was the year we graduated from Edison High. Bruce and I went on to do two years at Fresno Junior College all the while haunting record stores for folk albums. Besides the Kingston Trio, we got Brothers Four. Joan Baez. Odetta. Tommy Makem. New Lost City Ramblers. Pete Seeger. Gordon Lightfoot. The Weavers. Ian and Sylvia, ever hear of them? Got some obscure ones, can’t remember the names. Still got ‘em at home somewhere.

“The two of us learned darn near every song the Kingston Trio ever recorded, scattered in a few from Brothers Four, Woody Guthrie’s This Land Is Your Land, Pete Seeger’s Reuben James. Then Bruce gets this wild hair about this duo called Bud and Travis, so we learn a couple of their Mexican love songs, Malegueña Salerosa and Claro de Luna, either one guaranteed to make girls say things like “Ooh, Bruce,” and “Ohh, Glenn” in shivery voices, as was once demonstrated at a weekend beach party up at Jasper Creek.”

Bruce snickered. Glenn gave him a mouse-eating-cheese grin and said, “During those years, we practiced every day, refining our techniques, teaching each other new chords, working up new strums and fingering. Bruce had a natural talent for the guitar, like it was an extension of himself. I mean, he hustled his left hand all over the fingerboard and conjured up chords I never knew existed while his right hand galloped over strums and picks I could never match. He had this one hard-driving strum he did for Terry Gilkyson’s Fast Freight that flat out made you think a train was about to come right ‘round the corner.

“Me, I did okay but when it came to the complex stuff, Bruce was a star-touched wonder. Me, I was the singer. Bruce’s Dad said I was a ‘tenor with an Irish lilt,’ said I reminded him of Dennis Day, the fellow who used to sing on the Jack Benny radio show. ‘Ol Bruce there, he sang baritone, which made us a good match.

“We had our were detractors, of course.” Glenn gave Bruce a look, then said, “Remember George Obern? Fresno JC’s self-proclaimed expert-on-everything? We were setting up to play in the student lounge one afternoon when George walks by and gives us this sneer. You guys are pairing a gut-string flamenco guitar with a Martin steel-string? Ridiculous! You’ll sound like tom cats in a gunny sack!

“I give Bruce a wink and say San Miguel? He nods, so we bat out KT’s story-song that has this cool minor-to-major key change right in the middle. He cranks in a cool arpeggio in the middle and when we hit that last note, ‘ol George wanders away, muttering to himself, something about being wrong.

“Mike, you’ve got to understand my de Torres and Glenn’s Martin married unlike nothing either of us ever heard on any of our folk albums. Our guitars loved each other, sang b-b-beautifully together, resonated in ways we never anticipated. Whenever we did a piece with complicated instrumental passages, y’know, like Salerosa, it was so doggone pretty, people just had to stop to listen.”

Glenn picked it up. “That’s what happened one afternoon when Mr. Sherwood walked by. Sherwood taught band and music theory. There we were sitting under a tree working on a tune called Shady Grove – it has some really neat harmonies – when he stops to listen. He says, You two are good. I mean really good. Good enough to go pro.

“Well, I said, really? and Bruce said, really? and Sherwood says, yes, really and then asks us if we ever heard of the Newport Folk Festival.

“We had, of course, and Sherwood says it’s coming up soon, July 11 and 12, then he says, if I was you, I’d hop in my car and head east, see about making some connections. Not only are the big-name folk musicians going to be there, but agents and producers, all sorts of music people.

“I give Bruce a look, he gives me a look and that was it. Three days after finals, I load my suitcase, my guitar, sleeping bag and a bunch of snacks in my VW van and gave Mom and Dad a farewell hug. Mom, she dabs her eyes while Dad rumbles stuff about getting it out of my system and sowing wild oats, then hands me this stack of twenties, says here, you’ll need this, you and Bruce have a good time. Drive safe. We love you.

“I said I’d call when we got to Newport, give ‘em a wave goodbye and I was off to pick up Bruce.”

“Yeah, I was wearing a path pacing up and down on the driveway when Glenn pulls up. I gave Mom a hug and a kiss, hugged my old man, tossed my stuff in the van and we hit Highway 99 like we’d swallowed a gallon of b-b-bumbleb-b-bees. Got to the Santa Monica Pier about one in the afternoon and as soon as we saw the sign for Route 66, I swear the sky b-b-brightened, our heartb-b-beats steadied, b-b-breathing came easier and our grins shone b-b-brighter than the sun. I remem’er saying, ‘Can’t hardly b-b-believe it, Glenn, b-b-but Newport, here we come!”

Glenn said, “On our way to Barstow, we talked about having a name. Dos Bardos sounded pretty lame. Jam and Butter was a possible, you know, music jam sessions and Bruce’s name, but that was worse. Decided to keep it simple, Glenn and Bruce.”

“Yeah, b-b-but I said, ‘B-B-Bruce and Glenn sounded b-b-better.”

“And I said, yeah, you would think that. Anyway, we flipped for it. Bruce won and it was Bruce and Glenn.

“Back then, there was this TV show, Route 66 and there we were on Route 66, heading for Barstow feeling felt like the two stars, Tod and Buzz, rambling across the country ‘cept they drove this cool Corvette and there we were chugging along in a ’58 VW van. Anyway, Bruce says do you remember Nat King Cole’s song, Get Your Kicks on Route 66 and I say sure and sing it. Still remember the words, Winds from Chicago to L.A., more’n two thousand miles all the way, get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six. Now you go through Saint Looey, Joplin Missouri, and Oklahoma City is mighty pretty. You see Amarillo, Gallup New Mex-i-co, Flagstaff Arizona, don’t f’rget Winona, Kingman, Barstow, San Bernardino. ‘Cept we’re going in the reverse order.”

“Well, we were tired b-b-by the time we get to B-B-Barstow, we stop at this b-b-burger joint for dinner. Asked ‘em if it was okay to park in the lot for the night.

“B-b-bright and early, we’re on our way again. Took us all day to get to Flagstaff so I say, B-b-butter, we’re close to the Grand Canyon, how ‘b-b-bout tomorrow, we take a day, go see it? Got plenty of time.”

“I said sure, so we spent the next day there roaming around the Grand Canyon, just taking it all in. Spectacular place. Anyway, we’re talking to this park ranger who says while we’re in that neck of the woods, we ought to run down ‘n see Sedona and Montezuma’s Castle, the old Indian ruins. Says there was a state park near there where we could camp, Oak Creek Canyon. Sounded good, so the next day, we’re off for Sedona.”

Mike noticed a change in Bruce, not unlike a dark cloud coming across his eyes.

“Yep. Never made it, though. Well, kinda-sorta. B-b-but not really. See, that was the day everything changed. No more Route 66. Never got close to Newport.”

“See, right at the south end of Oak Creek Canyon is this place called Slide Rock. Oak Creek comes down out of the mountains full tilt, necks down into this narrow chute, channel, whatever you call it, runs through it like ninety miles an hour. There’s a kind of algae that grows on the rocks there, makes the channel slick, so’s when you jump into the flow, you shoot down the channel. Kind of like body surfing through a sluice. There were a lot of people there, most of ‘em our age, all lined up and waiting for their turn to shoot the chute. We watched a while and Bruce, he says, hey, that looks like fun. Let’s do it.”

“B-B-Butter, he was more than agreeable, mostly ‘cause he saw some cute girls in b-b-bikinis. Anyhow, we take off our shoes and make our way up to the top of the chute to wait our turn. I’m lookin’ around an up ahead I see this guy who looks like he spends all his daytime hours in the gym.”

Glenn said, “Remember that muscleman-actor, Steve Reeves? Think Arnold before anyone ever knew about Arnold. Well, here goes Mr. Muscles down the chute ‘cept he’s not on his belly like everybody else. Nope, he’s standing up, sliding down the channel all the way on his bare feet!”

“That’s when I get the idea,” said Bruce. “If he can do that, then I can too. I mean, I was in good shape. Well, I thought I was. Ha. Not my best decision.”

Bruce took a moment to bob his head, which Mike took as a load of regret. Except Bruce laughed and said, “Pretty decent outcome, though.”

Rathman gave the back of his neck a rub and for a moment, he thought he’d gone cross-eyed. Bruce’s comment didn’t click, didn’t make sense.

Bruce continued. “What happened next changed everything. I started out okay, reasonable for a first-timer b-b-but got to where the channel necks down and gets uneven, kind of choppy. Anyway, I wasn’t ready for it.

“Mike, you remember seeing a cartoon of Pegleg Pete getting’ after Mickey, how he slips on a banana peel, flies up in the air, all arms and legs, lands on his back? Well, that was me. Felt my feet go out from under me, shot my arms over my head, legs flew out like a wishbone and there I am gollywampus nose-over-teakettle. Wham! Flat on my b-b-back. Knocks the wind clean out of me. Next thing I know, B-B-Butter’s dragging me out of the water. I tried to stand, couldn’t do it. Couldn’t see right, either. Dizzy as all get-out. Stayed awake long enough to throw up. Then I passed out.”

Glenn said, “Someone – never got the guy’s name – drove to Sedona, called for an ambulance. Got us to a doctor’s office there, four hours later we were in a hospital in Flagstaff. Long story short, Bruce and a spinal cord injury and a closed head injury. Been paraplegic ever since.”

Mike gave them the hold-it sign. “Okay, okay. First, let me say, Bruce, I’m really sorry this happened to you. But there’s something I’m not getting here. You had this terrible injury what, more than forty years ago that’s affected your life, and here you are talking about it like it was a walk in the park.”

Bruce’s laugh was loud and long. Made Mike smile. Glenn grinned.

Bruce said, “Mike, you’re right, you’re right. You don’t get it. B-b-but what we’re telling you isn’t about the accident. That’s just the b-b-beginning. We haven’t gotten to the good part yet.”

Mike gave Bruce a sideways look, then shifted it to Glenn. “Gentlemen, I must say I’m in the dark. Help me out here.”

Bruce said, “Let me finish the story, tell you what Jesus did.”

Mike gave Bruce a go-ahead nod.

“Early days after the accident were grim. Terrible. Awful. The doctors in Flagstaff got me stabilized enough to get b-b-back home in Fresno. Saw more doctors there, went the rounds of ten different kinds of therapy, one treatment here, another there. Lots of hope in the b-b-beginning, nothing helped. Nothing worked. Final diagnosis: the T-11 was severed, wasn’t going to grow back and I was paralyzed from the waist down. Paraplegia. If that wasn’t enough, the closed head injury meant permanent short-term memory loss and situational confusion. I’m sure you’ve noticed my stutter on B-B-Bs.

“No more hiking, no running, no walking, nosirree, not for me. I dove into a depression so deep it made the Grand Canyon look like a drainage ditch. The wheelchair became my enemy. I fought it, hated it. Mom and Dad had to care for me, put me to bed, get me up, dress me, bathe me, put me on the toilet, whatever required feet and legs. Every day, no matter what they did for me, they were the target for my resentment. Whatever they did was never right, never enough. I flailed my anger and bitterness around like a war hammer, didn’t care who I hit or hurt. I was miserable, made everyone around me miserable. B-B-Butter tried to visit a few times, I wouldn’t see him, told him to get lost. He was a b-b-bad reminder of Slide Rock and Route 66 and Newport and all the plans we had, all my hopes and dreams that would never come true. For a time, I hated him too. Absolutely hated him. My guitar? Couldn’t even look at the de Torres. Can’t remember how many times I wanted to smash it. B-b-but I didn’t.”

Mike said, “Obviously something changed. That where Jesus came in?”

Bruce nodded. Mike noticed how his whole demeanor, smile included, was one of peace. His “Yes. That was when Jesus showed up. Turned my life around, he did.

“You see, Dad gave me an ultimatum. Said the way I was treating him and my mother was intolerable, that I had two choices: see a counselor or go to live in a care home. Dad found this pastoral therapist, Niall MacKinnon. Big guy. Scotsman. His counseling style was to walk by my side through the Bible, to have me deal with a set of passages that would give me a new take on my lousy attitude, to let the Bible – God’s own word – be the authority for my life instead of Niall or Dad or Mom or anyone else.

The flash of Bruce’s excitement – the grin, the clapping hands – was almost child-like. “Mike, you know what my life verses are? Nehemiah 8:10, the joy of the Lord is my strength! Isaiah 40:31, those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength, they will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint! I’m especially fond of that one. And Mark 10:27, all things are possible with God.

“MacKinnon walked me face to face with God and his word. The very presence of Jesus himself changed my perspective. Turned it around. Corrected it. Healed it. Took a while. I met with MacKinnon off and on for years. Learning to actually depend on Jesus went from once-in-a-while to day-to-day then moment to moment. Made all the difference. You know that verse in Ezekiel where God says I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh, I will put my Spirit in you? He did that for me! And you know what? He’ll do that for anyone who asks!”

There was a joyousness at the table that seemed to travel from man to man to man. Mike thought to offer more coffee, didn’t, this moment was too … what? Pure? Powerful? Light-filled.

Bruce was hardly done. “Mike, the turning point, I think, was John 6:63. When I read those words, how the Spirit gives life, how the flesh counts for nothing, well they gave my heart, my soul, whatever you want to call it, a wallop. Anyway, here I am.”

Glenn said, “Mm, no, here we are. It’s been twenty-two years now, Mike, since Bruce’s father passed. His mother didn’t linger and went a few months later. Somewhere in that time span, Bruce called me, said it was safe to come over. Didn’t take long for us to patch things up.

“By then, I was well established in my career. I talked to Betsy, my wife, asked what she thought about having Bruce come live with us. Becoming empty-nesters wasn’t far off. Our oldest son was in college, the second was in the Marine Corps. We had this good sized house, four bedrooms, single level. With some adjustments for the wheelchair, we could make it work. Betsy was agreeable, we made the offer and that was that. I’ve been Bruce’s caregiver ever since.”

With a smile that could only be described as wry, Mike looked at Glenn, then at Bruce. He said, “Amazing. Just flat-out amazing. Isn’t there a verse in the Bible where Jesus says something like greater love has no one than to lay down his life for his friend? That’s quite a story, guys. Thank you. But I’ve got a question. Do you still play your guitars and sing together?”

“Hah! Matter of fact, we do. Now that Glenn’s retired, we’re still collecting folk music, got dozens of albums, CDs, tapes. Even have a sizeable collection of stringed instruments, you know, couple of dulcimers, a b-b-banjo or two, a mandolin, a really nice Do-bro by Gretsch, b-b-beauty of an Alvarez twelve-string. We still do small venue concerts, high schools, junior colleges, retirement homes. Like that. We get a small b-b-but steady revenue stream from some recordings we’ve done. Published a couple compilation folk song b-b-books, seem to be popular with a handful of universities and such. B-b-been doing that for quite a few years now. Still discover a new song every now and then. Lately, b-b-been traveling up to the northwest, learning about the Inuits.”

Glenn said, “They’ve got some wonderful songs, they’re sort of haunting, sing about nature mostly. Lovely stuff.”

Mike said, “How about a mini-concert, guys? I mean, if you’ve got your guitars handy.”

Bruce said, “Gee, thought you’d never ask. Sure.”

It took a few minutes for Glenn to retrieve the guitars. He handed Bruce his de Torres, then unlimbered the Martin. Bruce said, “B-B-Butter, let’s play our favorite song first.”

“Sure thing, pal. By the way, Mike, whenever we do a concert, we always end with this song. This time, we’ll begin with it.”

With a few plinks and plunks to make sure their guitars were tuned together, the men strummed and the full and rich sound of the two guitars and the men’s baritones thrilled their audience of one.

Mike knew the song as soon as the men began to sing and could not help but to join in.

Jesus loves me! This I know,
For the Bible tells me so;
Little ones to Him belong;
They are weak, but He is strong.

Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me!
Yes, Jesus loves me!
The Bible tells me so.

Sons of Korah © copyright 2022 Peter K. Schipper

Blowin’ in the Wind, Bob Dylan. Copyright © 1962 Warner Brothers Inc;

renewed by Special Rider Music

Jesus Loves Me, William B. Bradbury, 1862: public domain.