I was 15 years old the day I met Pete Seeger.
4,000 people singing the roof off the Auditorium Theater in Chicago. Mesmerized. This rail thin guy. Sleeves rolled up in his flannel shirt. Singing at the center of a bare stage. Just him and a guitar or banjo.
I have rolled up the sleeves of my flannel shirt ever since.
After the concert; clutching a meaningless piece of paper signed by the advisor to my high school radio club, someone actually let me follow a line of journalists up on to the stage of the emptying theater.
Standing with a crowd of about 20 up on stage. Surrounding Pete Seeger who was politely answering questions. Looking out on to the oceans of empty seats, all the house lights up.
It was finally my turn.
High School Radio Reporter ready for his moment. Sticking out my gangly arm to shake hands with the great man; and drawn in by the kindly eyes of time, he said; “And what can I do for you, young man?”
Open mouth, eyes wide and forgetting every imagined, written out and approved by my radio club teacher; I stammered: “Ah. . .um. . . thank you sir.”
He smiled and said “Why, you’re welcome.” And then here’s what happened. I have never forgotten this sight. And I never will.
Pete Seeger, who had just sang by himself to thousands, and sang about what really mattered, picked up his guitar case in one hand, his banjo case in another, hopped down the steps on the side of the stage, came back to he center aisle; and proceeded to walk up the center aisle towards the back of the theater.
Then, all of us real and would be reporters following him; watched him walk out the front door of the Auditorium Theater, out into the horns blaring, bright light Chicago night, hold up his guitar case to hail a cab; get in to the first one that stopped and drive away into the darkness.
Years later, I saw him again at The Peoples Church on Lawrence Avenue. The man could appear anywhere he wanted. In the world. Yet here he was. On another Chicago night across the street from the faded Aragon Theater singing in a struggling church.
And here’s the part that lifts him up into the realm of being one of the great souls to ever walk the earth. Here’s what astounds. That night at Peoples Church, the man could barely sing. His voice was almost gone. But it was OK. We sang for him. We sang for him. Living out what he taught us. It wasn’t about us. It wasn’t even about him.
It was about the song.
He will sing forever. And when you listen to him sing; you’ll sing too.