“We just see who shows up,” he said. “Sometimes six or seven, but tonight I only see three others. Bobby Tatum, he sings by himself.” Bobby Tatum was a very young man in a cowboy hat and a very elaborate cowboy shirt and boots. His jacket was Western-tailored, of course, and his clean-shaven face gleamed with eagerness. He was chatting with a cluster of girls who looked about Mary Nell’s age, and they were giggling at everything he said.

The other entertainers seemed to be groups like Roberta Moore’s. I eyed the amount of expensive equipment piled up behind the stage and was taken aback. This wasn’t slapdash and amateurish. These people knew their stuff.

As the darkness gathered closer, Hollis got a blanket from the truck and moved his chair right by mine so we could share its warmth. Terry Vale, the mayor, made some public service announcements. He was far from the anxious man I’d met at the sheriff’s office. He was happy, relaxed. “The tan Chevy Venture blocking the driveway to Martin’s Pharmacy, be advised you’ve blocked Jeb Martin in, and he sure wants to go home. Unless you want him to call the tow truck, you better get over there with an apology on your lips,” Terry Vale said, and the crowd laughed. A very young man with a sparse mustache got up, abashed, and headed for the pharmacy. After a couple more public service announcements, including a reminder to pick up trash when the concert was over, Terry Vale introduced Roberta Moore and the Sons of Grace to a big round of applause. The gray-haired woman nodded absently at the crowd and continued tuning her guitar. When she felt she was ready, Roberta Moore gave her band a signal, and she began to sing.

It was just great. I was sure these people were pharmacists and pest control sprayers and farmers by day, but by night they were talented musicians, and I was enthralled. I didn’t know any of the songs, though I had a vague feeling that when I was very young I’d heard one or two of the spirituals. The voices, twangy and plangent, rose through the clear night air. From time to time, one of the singers would say, “Now we’re gonna do an old favorite, and if you know it, you sing along.” But it was not an old favorite of mine or my parents, or even my grandparents, as far as I knew, and I realized how ignorant I was. It wasn’t the first time I’d reflected on that, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Hollis sang along with “The Old Rugged Cross.” To my surprise he had a nice baritone.