Stopping by Heaven, I ran into “Doc,” newly stationed. Being of the musical persuasion, albeit minor, we got to reminiscing on that subject, as old crooners and tooters are likely to do.

Doc came to town, a young surgeon, intent on serving, saving, (medically speaking) and supporting a family, not singing, which back then was probably a deeply hidden passion. Oh, kind reader, you can relate. “Dad (or Mom), I want to make a good living and raise a family. I’m going to be a singer.”

Fast forward two or three decades of doctoring, family rearing, making a living and then here comes that latent passion, music, clawing its way up Doc’s vocal passage.

By this time, we were both hanging around Elroy Myers, piano/organ player extraordinaire, me, to get a note in edgewise, and Doc, maybe because of an appreciation of good music, and Elroy sure could play good music. OK, maybe Doc met Elroy due to some medical malady. “Elroy, how’re you feeling now that the stitches are out? Do you know any Frank Sinatra tunes?”

Possibly because Elroy, or attendant band, got enough of us hanging around the stage waiting for that magic sound, “Come on up and play a little ‘Summertime,’ or come on up and sing a little Sinatra,” Stuart decided to start his own band. To that end, Doc “collected” musicians from the area including a 70-something-year-old saxophonist from Mt. Pleasant. Of course, Elroy was the “piece de re-sis-tance,” in that he could play any song in any key, sans music. We practiced where we could, sometimes at Doc’s home, with the emphasis on, you guessed it, Sinatra tunes. Stuart had memorized many of Sinatra’s hits by singing along with recordings and really had them down pat.

To keep non-musicians from nodding off, we’ll quickly motor to Charleston, site of a nurses’ convention and first paying gig. We were nervous because Doc was nervous, but the music must’uv been good because we got another job, this time for a doctors’ gathering down the street at The Aquarium. Again the reception was favorable, maybe because doctors are musically easy to please or was it all the big fish swimming around?

By now the band had acquired a name, “A Cut Above,” along with a business card featuring the silhouette of a musician in a tuxedo. Doc shared his “take” with me, still a band journeyman, at least in this area, which suited me fine ‘cause I figured all doctors are rich. Sadly, this was the last gig for “A Cut Above” in that life, its antonym, and the saxophonist’s wife who didn’t want him crossing the Cooper River Bridge after dark, all shared in the band’s demise.

To save this reminiscing from the editor’s cut room, we must regretfully omit the ensuing years, the searching for musical fulfillment, the move to the country, the discovery of the little country Methodist church, of the clear, accompanying voice of Mary Jo Springs and the sweet, nonjudgemental notes of Gwen Huffman, rural version of Elroy.

Doc made new friends, brought along some old ones, and got to sing, unfettered by stage. Fitting, that at Stuart Funderburk’s service, Gwen and the aforementioned journeyman got to share the pulpit, playing Doc’s favorites. Thanks, Doc, for sharing your gift, and your “take.”

Johnny Roland grew up in Boykin and now resides in Four Holes.

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