God Bless the Child Well Im sitting on a corner with a dollar in my hand/looking for a woman thats looking for

a maaaaan/tell me how long do I have to wait/well can I get you now/or must I hesitate? belted Dave Von Rammstein amongst a crowd of students and various beatniks in a rush to go nowhere, merely meshing in with the hustle and bustle of a city so overloaded with brilliant minds, ideas seeped through the sewer grates (it was either that, or sewage). It was the fall of 1967 in the St. Marks section of the Village. New York City was a vibrant land of revelation and revolution. A herd of young men and women enlightened by an air of change amongst the United States political climate. There was a sizeable group of youngsters under the age of 30 who made no qualms of exercising that outspokenness through both non-violent and violent protests. Beatniks with pocket-sized manifestos like Allen Ginsbergs Howl and Ken Keseys One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest took to the streets of metropolitan areas like San Francisco and New York City. Their intent was to speak up where their parents generation followed in line with cultural and social norms, afraid to voice their opinions amongst the paranoia and terror-stricken Red Scare-era America where McCarthy ruled with an iron fist manufactured from the sweat and soul of poverty-stricken workers. Dave Von Rammstein was raised by his loving, but unfortunate parents in this environment. He was a sweet child, but had the misfortune to be born in quite a hectic world. After long shifts in the subway tunnels as a maintenance man, his father, Robert, would find his only internal solace by analyzing the anthologies of folk music that Alan Lomax published throughout the 20s, 30s and 40s. Daves father would slowly strum his thrifted guitar and hum tunes to himself, like Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore and This Land is Your Land, with the slightest smirk on his face, a small victory for a man covered in sweat and dirt. Dave was elated to see a small song book take his father to such a happy place. Dave did not want to slave as his father had; barely making ends meet doing something he was not remotely interested in. He went to sleep with an empty stomach, but a full heart because of the lullabies his father would sing him to sleep to and the kisses his mother laid upon his forehead every night. Between selling the occasional dime bag of marijuana to the native college students and managing to book a few gigs as a folk singer with the voice of a soul singer in local coffee shops, Dave made enough money to afford a room in a loft that acted as a shelter for local folkies for 25 dollars a month. Most days, hed make about 2 or 3 dollars sitting on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal Street. Many people just passed by, allowing his soulful singing to be backing vocals for their walk until the mass of noise and buildings downtown covered his voice. Some fellows dropped a dime or nickel into his brown, suede hat. Even less people struck up a conversation with Dave about the local music scene. His intimidating,

bearded, 6 foot, 210 pound frame shunned a lot of people from talking to him, mistaking him for one of the many homeless men that populated the downtown area. He was troubled by flashbacks to that studio apartment he was raised in. Cluttered and void of any bright future, money frequently dictated the quality of life for him and his parents. This fueled him to hold on to that which makes you human, living a life that is more spiritually satisfying than monetarily comfortable. Dave was fortunate enough to see at an early age to not be emotionally dependent on money. It was a few square feet of living space where dinner was not guaranteed and water to clean with was cause for pomp and circumstance. Where he went to sleep with an empty stomach, but a full heart because of the lullabies his father would sing him to sleep to and the kisses his mother laid upon his forehead every night. However, there were moments every now and then where his father would hold that guitar with a glint of desperation and rays of hope. Hed place that partially rotted, plastic-stringed guitar on his knee and called his young boy over and told him, I want you to play these three chords for me when I say so, Ill let show you first. His father strummed an A chord, an E chord and a C chord. After a few minutes, Dave was able to piece together a little arrangement. Robert grabbed his wife, Evelyn Von Rammstein, who was preoccupied washing dishes that had no food on it, from behind by the waist and said, Aw ma, remember those Secaucus nights in high school where I tried my dam nest to impress you and your friends in the school yard with those old songs? She bloomed from her gloom like a germinating seed, Would I ever forget the most charming in New Jersey? Davey, strum those chords twice each at a moderate pace. This is what I sang to your mother when we were a little older than you. Robert waltzed with his love and swooned her by singing the WC Hardys Hesitation Blues: Lord, if the river was made of whiskey an' I was a duck, I'd just swim to the bottom an' I'd never come up. How long, dear, mm, do I have to wait? Why, can I get you now, dear, mm, must I hesitate? Evelyn had been especially troubled by the circumstances surrounding their situation. Now matter her level of happiness, she was always worrying and peering over her shoulder, looking for that smile from Dave first. Tonight, that smile was lighting up the room that was previously only illuminated by candles. She could maintain life on a low income, but her love for that sweet, young boy and wanting to provide him with a grand life overwhelmed her from time to time.

Robert trotted around and danced with her, although it was a bit cramped so they had to improvise their dance moves so as to not fall over the kitchen table, or the bed. It was a moment of brilliant jubilee that stayed with Dave for the rest of his life. Dave toured the country during the folk revival, with some trips overseas sporadically. He frequently called his parents and was greeted with enthusiasm from his father. His mother tended to maintain that nurturing attachment, constantly checking on her son as if he was a 12 year old at camp for the summer. Von Rammstein led a life and career revered by many, with timeless renditions of songs that brought folk to a whole new audience, to a more commercial audience. He always maintained his artistic integrity, however and he was able to help his parents to a substantial degree, as he grew older, something that felt to Dave as a pinnacle of his life. His father was never hesitant to tell him just how proud he was of the remarkable man his son became. In 1969, when Daves career was well established, he was regularly visiting his parents in the small townhouse he paid the rent for in Westchester. He, like many people whilst growing up, was so caught up in the events of their own life, he was not cognizant that the lives of his loved ones continued while he was busy following the only life he considered suitable. He noticed his mother sitting down frequently; too lethargic and disconnected to even feign laughter at her husbands corny jokes. This was not an unfounded observation by Dave, his mother had always been a worrywart and she succumbed a few days after his visit to a stress-related heart attack. At his mothers funeral, he had trouble looking his father in the eyes, terrified to find the lost, hazy stare that he imagined would befall a man that just lost his life-long partner, his high school sweetheart. Dave also knew that he could not possibly allow his father to live alone in the suburbs, far enough from Dave where he wouldnt be able to make it to his father past 1 a.m. He rented out his comfy studio downtown to a friend so he may spend time with his heart-broken father. He dreaded the empty feeling he felt would creep upon him that first night. Dave immediately fixed himself a glass of whiskey for his father and himself upon returning to the townhouse that evening. He would grab the rest of his stuff from the city in a few days. They sat on the townhouse terrace letting the silence speak volumes. The occasional and forced Whats next? thoughts filled in the silence from time to time, until Robert with a sorrow-laden tone said, Tomorrow, well begin to figure it out, buddy. Dave immediately was left to wallow in his own sense of loss. It was a warm summer night with the slightest breeze that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The hair that was not previously there when he last saw his mother with a smile on her face. Dave had been so wrapped up in the vibrant and revolutionary atmosphere of which his

music contributed to. He realized he was now left to resume his role as a son, to take care of the broken pieces of man he holds in such high regards, he who showed his son the wonders of music, reassuring him there is always an escape. Dave went inside and pulled out his brand new, hollow-bodied black Gibson guitar and crept into what used to be his parents room, now just a cell to rest a broken heart. His father groaned and awoke to his son pulling up a chair to his bedside. Pop, thank you. Dave played a few scales of music for his father before going into a few verses of the folk song, God Bless the Child, one verse of which caused Robert to break down crying as his adoring son gently sang: Yes the strong get smart While the weak ones fade Empty pockets dont ever make the grade Mama may have, Papa may have But God bless the child thats got his own Just dont worry about nothing, hes got his own