[I have found that with some browsers the photos are not showing up in this post. Please let me know if you see them or not. There are quite a few in this one.]
I generally am not one to mourn excessively over the death of celebrities, especially when they're old and have lived what I see as good, full lives. I guess I don't see the reason we seem to think it somehow more sad or more of a loss, just because someone was famous. However, when I heard about the death of Mary Travers (as in Peter, Paul and...), I was indeed affected. I can't even articulate exactly how much. Mary was 72 years old, and certainly had lived a long, full, even privileged, and certainly productive and meaningful life. So why did I feel the way I did?
I began to think about what she had meant to me. On giving it some thought, I realized that I did not feel extraordinarily sad at her passing, per se, as I might have for someone much younger or who died under tragic circumstances, because of the things I said before--she certainly did not lack for good things in her long, abundant life. What hit me were waves of nostalgia. I remember absolutely loving the music she made with her partners Peter Yarrow and Noel Paul Stookey, as part of Peter, Paul & Mary in the 1960's and 70s. I was hooked in 1962, with their first album and the hit Pete Seeger song "If I Had A Hammer." The complex harmonies of their songs are the background to my early life. As a teenager, I was informed about the injustices in our nation and world by that song, as well as others, such as their version of Dylan's "Blowin' In The Wind." I took the lyrics of those songs to heart, and have been forever grateful that I was, early on, appreciative of efforts to make things right.
When I was in high school, I joined a volunteer club with a group of my friends; once a month or so, we went with a couple of teachers to various children's hospitals and sang songs and played with the kids. What songs did we sing? The only ones I remember were PP&M songs. I'm sure there were others, but those are the ones I remember--"Puff," "Hammer," and "Blowin In The Wind" mostly. The young children loved them, and so did we. We believed those words. They rang true to me, resonated. They fit with my (admittedly limited, at the time) experience in the world.
I have played their songs forever, first on vinyl LPs, then on CD's, and now on my iPod or computer. I never tire of them. My children grew up listening to them, whether they wanted to or not. I'm happy to say that my grandchildren now know some of them too.
PP&M introduced me to folk music, which has been a lifelong favorite. I learned about Pete Seeger, The Weavers, and others; folk music tells the stories of real people, and often includes a message of hope, a lesson, a call to action. I love it, and always have.
Mary was the one I remember the most, for whatever reason. Maybe just because I was a girl and so was she. Maybe it was that she stood in the middle, and was so noticeable with her trademark blonde hair and bangs and her rich, soaring voice, her amazing harmonies with her partners. For whatever reason, she just stood out to me. For years I don't think I knew for sure who was Peter and who was Paul; there was no doubt, however, about who Mary was.
At 15, in the summer of 1963, I watched on our little 12-inch black & white TV as Martin Luther King spoke at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington about his dream for his children, and for the country and the world. I heard family members and neighbors rave about Dr. King being anti-American, being such a danger for inciting those people. I see it as fortunate for me that my mother, despite her many parenting flaws, was not among them. She was a liberal thinker who did not forbid me, as so many of my friends' parents did, to watch and listen to the speech, and to be aware of what was happening in the South at the time.
Also at the March that August were Peter, Paul & Mary, singing "If I Had A Hammer" on the steps of the Memorial, and I know they, through their music, really helped me to believe in the possibility that day that things could some day be better.
When I watch the iconic video of them singing that song, that day, it all comes back, in waves of nostalgia and along with some pretty mixed feelings. Partly, I know, it's just realizing how darn OLD I am now, because the evidence is there before me--those people who were there that day are now all truly old, and a good many of them are gone. Also, though, there is sadness for lost youthful, naive hope about how easily things might change. I think I just thought that if people really understood, things would indeed change. I never considered, then, how entrenched people were in their beliefs, and that they might not want change, and that they would indeed fight hard--HARD--to keep it from happening.
This is PP&M when they were obviously very young (above--older than me at the time, but still YOUNG when I look at them now). Below is a more recent picture of them, proving to me, if I had any questions, how many years have gone by and how OLD all of us Boomers, and the generation right before us, are rapidly becoming.
We have all aged, haven't we? As it should be, though, I guess. I was saddened a few years ago to hear of Mary's diagnosis of leukemia, and to see over the years the ravaging effects on her of the chemotherapy she underwent. But I believe what her friend and partner Peter Yarrow wrote about her on their website after her death:
"In her final months, Mary handled her declining health in the bravest, most generous way imaginable. She never complained. She avoided expressing her emotional and physical distress, trying not to burden those of us who loved her, especially her wonderfully caring and attentive husband, Ethan. Mary hid whatever pain or fear she might have felt from everyone, clearly so as not to be a burden. Her love for me and Noel Paul, and for Ethan, poured out with great dignity and without restraint. It was, as Mary always was, honest and completely authentic. That's the way she sang, too; honestly and with complete authenticity. I believe that, in the most profound of ways, Mary was incapable of lying, as a person, and as an artist. That took great courage, and Mary was always equal to the task."
I think I always recognized the honesty and courage he refers to; I loved their message then and always. Peter Paul & Mary introduced me to folk music, and to so much more. I'll always feel grateful to have experienced the phenomenon that they were; I'm proud to acknowledge their influence in my life. I continue to hope that people will want to recognize and change injustice, although I no longer naively expect it to happen easily or without, sometimes, great sacrifice.
So, goodbye Mary. And thank you--for the memories, the lessons, and most of all, the music.
Just some random pics from this Christmas time. 
