Coney Grove, take me home, to a place I have known...

Photos of Coney Grove by Beth Adams

I sing my own version of John Denver’s song every single time I drive past Coney Grove on the way to my sister’s house. Of course, I changed the lyrics. I do that sometimes to make a song fit a particular memory or situation I find myself in. Doesn’t everyone?

As I turn off Hwy 280 outside of Cordele and head towards Arabi, I will begin to sing these words. Sometimes out loud. Sometimes to myself. I’ll look over at that country road lined with pine and pecan trees that take me to a memory from a long time ago- from the legendary Coney Grove Bluegrass Festival. I always look for the cut off. It always brings me the simple pleasure of a good smile.

I was only a small kid, so my memories of Coney Grove are somewhat more simplified compared to the undeniable fun experienced by those grown-up kids. There was enough friendship and music to fill an entire weekend of campers, campfires, and laughter. It was early 1970s in all its glory spread out all over this grassy grove. Music lovers settled in to listen to amazing music- tight harmonies of old-time songs and gospels played in off-beat rhythms and always at incredible speeds.

Bluegrass and banjos at Coney Grove.

It was the place I learned to appreciate the power of music and memories that come with it.
It was the place I learned to walk out on my own, find my voice, and use it.
It was the place I learned to serve others even if it was only asking if they wanted some boiled peanuts. Even if I was only six years old.

An old country cabin held concessions and sat up the hill from the rows of people. They gathered around a stage covered by southern shade of pine and oak trees. My dad sent me out from that concession store, telling me not to be afraid.

Just speak up.
Smile at folks.
Don’t be shy.
It will be ok.
Everybody likes boiled peanuts.

How can I now be fifty but remember what it felt like to be a kid holding that tray while I walked through the makeshift aisles? Through a myriad of those wooden benches and old-fashioned metal chairs that swayed on uneven ground? Through a crowd of familiar faces and my childhood heroes?

I’m not sure if I believed him, but I have always done what my dad asked. He usually gave me pretty good advice. I was really young, but I realized even then that he was trying to teach me something.

As I made my way towards sounds of banjos, harmonicas, and harmony, I carefully balanced brown bags of boiled peanuts on a makeshift tray. Without looking back, I knew my daddy was watching over me. He gave me that little extra push I needed to speak up, but he wasn’t going to let me out of his sight.

I walked out on my own with a task in front of me. I learned to just get on with it. To this day, I remember what it felt like to overcome my nerves and speak up. To greet people and thank them. To feel good about just being there.

Within a few minutes, the tray was empty, and I returned with a proud grin to my dad. I still hear the music behind me and loose change bouncing around in that makeshift tray. I still remember what it felt like to tell him I did it! I really did it!

He filled that tray up and sent me out once again to use my voice to talk to people. I haven’t shut up since.

I don’t remember all the lyrics to John Denver’s song when I drive down that road. I just sing Country Roads the way I like. I have rather enjoyed my version over the years.

Here’s to John Denver and here’s to hoping his song gets stuck in your head. I bet you have your own memories of this song.

Coney Grove, take me home, to a place I have known.
Good music.
Good memories.
Good country roads that take me home.