I was at work when I found out Mary Travers had died.
Couldn't cry there -- had to have clear, crisp vision at my job.
In the 10 minutes between leaving work and getting home, I went from having clear, crisp vision to getting out of my work clothes from memory.
I couldn't see.
I can see now, but I still don't know if my socks are where they should be.
Don't much care. The voice of a woman who helped get me through days whose darkness I cannot remember now ... is finite.
Her pain and her life have ended, and her voice is left, a vibrant anthem for change at its loudest, a gentle whisper nudging us toward what is right at its softest.
I was raised on the music of my parents' generation.
By and large, that music was one thing, in rebelling against the Perry Comos and other safe artists of the previous generation:
Loud.
Yes, there was nuance. Yes, there were quiet songs.
But for Peter, Paul and Mary, quiet songs that used loud words were the rule, and thank God. Because whatever I lost by playing a loud song quietly (so as not to get told to turn my radio off), you can't -- or I couldn't -- play a Peter, Paul and Mary song so quietly that it became less. It changed, sure, but it got richer in a certain way, so that what it had when it was loud was different -- but just as important.
It was rallying cry when it was loud. Play along with your guitar, rap out the beat on your desk or just become the unknown fourth in the trio -- and at concerts, the crowd became the fourth member.
And it was lullaby when it was quiet. Rallying cries became tempered, gentle love songs.
And it was in no danger of being vague.
When the trio sang "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" they did not hide what the song means. They did not change the lyrics -- why bother? They were perfect. They knew a hit when they heard one, and two generations later, three generations have recognized what these three people could do with some words and notes:
People die, and the circle of life means they feed the flowers that then adorn the graves of the next generation of people to die.
But in between, the beauty is worth it. Worth the pain.
And it's worth the effort to clear the path to justice. And in this case, the group did rewrite a Pete Seeger tune -- there's a guy I've never seen jealous of others' success, and God bless him for it, because he's a hell of a artist on his own -- and came up with this:
(And see here for a brief story told by none other than Pete Seeger.)
Loud, it's an anthem, a call to action, a requirement that what is right be done.
Soft, it's a justice-laden sweet little song that gives you a very small, but distinctly there, piece of yourself that nobody can take away.
Because you deserve justice.
You deserve freedom.
And Mary Travers was having so much fun singing about it that it took all of a minute and a half for her smile to almost overcome her singing ability.
Loud, a question that must be answered.
Soft, a philosophical question that must be considered.
And you can't do this with every great song.
But you can do it with the songs these three put out.
The louder they get, the more they become calls to action. Almost to a song, they are anthems praising and lifting up the human spirit to do what ought to be done. They demand that what is right be what is.
And as long as what is right is what we want, not what we have, there Peter, Paul and Mary will be, singing for it, singing to raise us up to take up our hammers and our bells, to do whatever needs to be done,
because you cannot almost have justice.
You have it or you do not.
because you cannot almost have freedom.
You are free or you are not.
And how do you get justice? Freedom?
The answer is blowing in the wind, and as it gets louder, the answer changes -- because it takes everything from what the slightest breeze whispers to what the most destructive gale burns into our memories.
It takes what we have.
It has taken what we have.
And it will take what we have.
You are no longer here to sing, Mary, but what you have left us -- and what Peter and Paul joined with you to give us -- has been slipping, welcome, into hearts and minds for more than 40 years.
And those who were infused with you way back when have had that beauty and truth growing for decades.
But even those of us unfortunate enough to not have had those decades of calls for change and action and justice ... there is instant peace. Whatever the worry, there is instant peace because from the inspiring anthems to the pacifying lullabies, where your voice comes through, it is as if a gift, imparting itself unto those listening to it -- even as it saves itself for the next pair or pairs of ears -- to those lucky enough to be graced by it.
And by you.
Goodbye, Mary.