September 25, 2003
Hard Times’ first gig since they had left Oregon was in a small town on the border between Texas and Mexico, not far from the Gulf. It was a hot, humid night when they performed there in a small, grungy nightclub. But it was a gig, and they were glad to get it.
Rose had become one of the band’s lead singers, along with Tim. Jim and Angel played the guitar and the drum, Rose played the piano if one was available, and Daffodil sang in the background when they couldn’t talk her out of it and did a comedy routine. Both Daffodil and Rose were good dancers, better than any of the guys in the band, so they added that to their shows.
Rose had taken a great deal of interest in music since she had joined the band, and had been taking guitar lessons from Angel, though she was not yet skilled enough to play one onstage. Nevertheless, her natural talent, combined with her unquenchable interest, allowed her to learn quickly, and it wouldn’t be long before she could join the other two musicians on the stage.
It was unpleasantly hot the night they first performed in the nightclub, and the air conditioning had gone out, making it worse. People packed the small nightclub for lack of anything more interesting to do, both to socialize and to drink, and the din of voices made the band hard to hear.
Nevertheless, they persisted. A few people stood close to the small stage, listening, and others danced. It wasn’t the easiest place to perform in, but it was something, and they did their best to make themselves heard.
Surprisingly, Rose attracted more attention than anyone else, in spite of her inexperience, and people gathered around to listen when she came forward to do a few solos. She sang two of the more conventional songs, one that the band had written, and then launched into what had become her signature song, the traditional ballad The Wayfaring Stranger.
I am a poor, wayfaring stranger
Wandering through this world of woe
But there’s no sickness
No toil or danger
In that bright land
To which I go.
I’m going there to meet my mother
She said she’d meet me when I come
I’m only going over Jordan
I’m only going over home.
I’ll soon be free from every trial
My body asleep in the old graveyard
I’ll drop the cross
Of self-denial
And enter on my great reward.
I’m going there to meet my father
I’m going there no more to roam
I’m only going over Jordan
I’m only going over home.
I’m only going over home.
There was a burst of applause when she finished the song. It had been one of the first she had learned, listening to Daffodil sing to herself as she worked around that first camp in the California mountains, and it meant the most to her.
It fit her perfectly, with the life she had chosen, for she was indeed a wayfaring stranger, and for the time being, she intended to stay that way.
*****
Tim came up to her after the show, complimenting her on a job well done.
"You sang that last solo really well," he told her. "You sounded like you meant it."
"I did," Rose told him, not wanting to discuss it. She expressed herself in song, but that didn’t mean that she wanted to discuss her feelings with anyone else.
"What is it with you, Rose? What makes you tick?"
"My cardiovascular system makes me tick," she replied lightly, trying to make a joke of it.
"No, really. Why are you the way you are? You always having this sad look about you, like you’re remembering something painful."
"Maybe I am."
"What are you remembering?"
"Maybe nothing. Tim, I really don’t want to discuss it."
He sighed. "You just seem so sad sometimes."
"I know, but that’s personal. I’d rather keep it to myself."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, if you ever want to talk about it…"
"Maybe someday. We’ll see. Just…don’t pressure me, okay? That’s the quickest way to get me to clam up. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s late and I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow."
She turned and left, heading for the motel. Tim watched her go, brow furrowed. Rose DeWitt-Bukater was one of the most interesting women he’d ever met, and her reticence just made her more intriguing.