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Laid back spirals of guitar and Native flute recall long days and star-bright evenings of youth. |
CD: The Hermit
Credits: Zak Kramer: Native American flute, guitar & programming |
Story Behind the Song
For a few years in the mid-90s, my wife and I lived in a ramshackle house on around ten acres of fields and forest in rural Southeastern Ohio. The rent was cheap, probably because the house was, for all practical purposes, falling down the hillside on which it balanced. An ancient maple tree just behind the house had spread her roots beneath the structure, causing every floor to roll and twist. The bathroom, a later addition to the house, was literally splitting from the rest of the building. We didn't have any TV reception, and cable was a distant dream.
We loved it.
It was a magical place, literally. More than one night we were awakened by lights dancing through the house, or the sound of phantom hoofbeats passing through the front yard.
I would never again live in such a pathetic hovel, but I will never forget the numinous rewards we got for it.
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