074 Gregory and the Hawk
In retrospect, Meredith and I spoke very little. I felt bad for trying to pry into her guise with silly questions she must have been asked thousands of times before. She would grin, her dimple curling on her cheek, close her eyes, and busy herself with her guitar. In truth, I try to probably be just as elusive, just as transient of a figure as the name “Gregory And The Hawk.” Yet there I was, ready to excitedly unload secrets in exchange for her stories the way an orphan or a vagabond would meet another. “So, I’m kind of scared of cameras,” she said at the start. “Oh, well I’ll try to make this quick?” I said, trying to pad it all over. “It’s ok, I’ve prepared for this.” Meredith smiled and walked out.
We could hear the others outside. Meredith’s two friends, one, the tenant of the house on this hill we were filming at, are mingling with the Pollifax staff that came along for the ride. They’re talking about the town in the summer. “You can’t beat it with the river right there.” They’re talking about the farms. “Oh, the food here is fresh from the farms. Loads of good places to eat on main street.” They’re talking about the dog and the pool and the drive over. “Oh, yeah he can roam around outside. Yeah that pool needs to be fixed but it’s great in the summer. Which highway did you take? Nice drive up here right?” I motioned for Meredith start. She started playing “For The Best” so softly, so far under her breath, but sure enough, everyone stopped outside. The wind, the few cars coming up, the banter, the howl of birds, the steps of the dog on the wooden floors, the valley was quiet again as if Hudson hushed itself to hear her pretty song. Beautiful.
Every now and then, a head would poke through the open doorway. It’s mesmerizing how big of a presence her lullaby voice carries. Meredith’s music is a seashell. In the grime of New York City, you can put her voice on close to your ear and you’ll be back again in the little town by the river where your loves have started.