The Pete Seeger I knew

It was an embarrassing moment. My wife and I had run a rather openly ‘folkie’ household, with many a kitchen music hootenanny session. Our children were encouraged to participate but always seemed to have something else to do.

So when Pete Seeger died recently at age 94, my wife and I shed a tear or two and remembered the unstoppable troubadour fondly. And the next time we met up with our son, we made sure that we commiserated with him.

“Too bad about good old Pete Seeger,” we said.

“Pete who?” was the reply.

“You know, Pete Seeger; the guy who played the banjo at Obama’s inauguration event.”

“Do you mean Bob Seger?”“No, Pete; remember Bruce Springsteen did a tribute album to him?”“Frankly, no.”

“If I had a hammer? House Un-American Activities Committee? The Smothers Brothers?” Nothing registered—for which I take full personal responsibility. Success in parenting has to be measured not from the output given, but by the input received.

To remedy my default in part, and to pique my son’s interest, I am going to place on the record, now, the hitherto untold story of my friendship with Pete. I was saving this material for a book, so just remember— you read it here first. So here goes.

Our relationship began at the Mariposa Folk Festival held in the mid-1970s on Toronto Island. He was there to perform; I was there as part of the audience. The complementary nature of that relationship has always struck me as significant.

I had finished listening to Pete play, and drifted over to the edge of another stage to catch the next performer. I couldn’t tell who they were, but they sounded pretty good. A minute or two later, I felt a presence by my side—and I’ll be gobsmacked if it wasn’t Pete Seeger himself, standing with both legs on the ground like us ordinary folks. He seemed to be enjoying the music as well.

And so my big moment came. I turned to Pete, and said as casually as I could in the circumstances: “Say, can you tell me who those ladies onstage are?” And then he turned to me and said, equally casually, “why, that’s Kate and Anna McGarrigle”—almost as if he were imparting some routine information during a routine conversation. Of course, I couldn’t let the exchange end on that note. “Thank you,” I added in reply.

Neither one of us felt it necessary to resort to the stuffy formalities of introduction: I knew who he was, and he knew as much about me as he cared to. Nor did either of us consider it necessary or appropriate to exchange addresses: we knew we could find one another if we wanted to.

And so, with that quite humble beginning that so typified Pete’s lack of pretentiousness, began a friendship that spanned the next 40 or so years. I would characterize it more as a passive friendship than an active one: I was not one for initiating contact with Pete, or for sending Christmas cards or phoning on birthdays; and I can’t honestly say that he initiated any contact with me. But I would like to think that he knew I would be there for him if he ever forgot the words to a song or needed someone to join in the chorus after he shouted “Everybody!”; just as I knew he would continue to be there for me if it ever slipped my mind just who we had watched together that day. And while it sounds trite, I don’t recall that either of us raised a voice in anger, or spoke of the other in disparaging terms.

So that’s the story—simple, it’s true, but profound nonetheless. I like to think that each of us was the better for the relationship.

Come to think of it, I could tell a whole series of similar stories about my friendships with famous people. Like the one about the day I said hello to Robert Stanfield on the steps of Parliament Hill. Or the time I rode in the same elevator as Fats Domino. But I think that’s enough excitement for one week.

Farewell, Pete. You were one of a kind. Keep on hammering. And we’ll try to do a better job to make sure our children remember you.

dsimmonds@wellingtontimes.ca