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The din in the lounge rose as the organist in the dining room put the finishing touches on his golden oldie repertoire, and a belt, wo bodies deep began to squeeze the bar. Customers in the lounge began to hunker down to serious, after-dinner conversations.
It was then that the big man was seen, moving, really gliding, through the mass, shaking hands and letting deep dark eyes drinking in well intended words.
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A newcomer to that Saturday night scene at the Fireside Inn asked a regular next to him, "Is that the bouncer?"
"Oh," she said, with a girlish giggle, and a trace of a German accent.
"No. That's Tiny. He's the band."
The newcomer looked out, across the dance floor, center stage, the band - enough keyboards, amplifiers, lights, and microphones to fill all the dale of Hone with sound. And, there was just one seat. That's the first chair, all the backups and the podium, the whole band, Tiny.
This six-foot, four man with a chest as big as a kettledrum, fingers as nimble as a flutist's, makes all his music there.
He's been at the Fireside for more than a year now, doing his music -"It isn't country" … "I don't do rock." Before that, for more than a year, he wasn't making any music. The "band" had been stowed for a spell in a trailer while he and his family were starting a new life in the Port Jervis, New York area.
He was raised on a farm - the oldest of six children -in the Grand Rapids, Michigan area. He went to a one-room country school where he was counted on for his ability to hold a pitch. "Christmas parties were always a place for a show," he said of his K-8, country schooling. Then, on the third day of entering Hudsonville High School, he was called "Tiny." The real name was never offered when asked for in this interview. "Tiny" it is, has been, and will always be.
After high school, he did concrete work in construction.. When he was 20, he bought his first musical instrument, a Kay string bass. Two years late he bought a keyboard.
"I just picked it up. I don't read any music at all. I thought, 'If I got good enough, I'd play at home parties.' I wasn't looking for money, but the pleasure of it." He began to play with others.
Then, in 1976 there was an accident that almost cost him his leg. For five years, he was disabled, trying to play with the help of friends to move him around. Surgery at the Mayo Clinic improved the leg.
There were a number of crises facing him and his young family. A slump in the real estate market, compounded their problems. They had to sell their home.
"It was kind of a struggle," said the father of three. But, he and his wife, Lois, emerged from it. "That couldn't happen with just any lady. I’ve got a good one," he said.
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"We've had some high times and some low times, financially. Even during the accident, it was not a low time. Just financially, is all," he says. Lois and Tiny have three children: Michele, 23, Mark, 15, and Angela, 13. Michele is the mother of the grandson, Anthony, and they live in Michigan.
After the recuperation, the music continued, but only as a single act. "Working alone is the only way to survive," he said.
He has opened acts at major midwest fairgrounds - Kentucky State Fair, Western Kentucky Fair, Iowa State Fair, Upper Peninsula State Fair, and numerous county fairs.
He even recorded an album to benefit Junior Achievement.
Then he and Lois decided to move to Pennsylvania where he would start a fiberglass business. He repairs bathtubs that are damaged in shipment. That work takes him to Connecticut three days a week.
As he and Lois poured their energies into the business near Port Jervis, the "band" languished in the trailer in the yard.
Then at Christmas time in 1988 he got a call from Joe Ranner of the Fireside who needed some entertainment to fill in for someone who was facing major surgery.
When Lois called Tiny in Connecticut, she said, "Joe wants to know your price." "Tell him that he can pay me what he thinks I'm worth."
When she told Mr. Ranner this, he said, "Supposing I think he's worth a dollar."
"Then," Lois said, "I guess you pay him a dollar."
So, he pulled the music machine out of the trailer and came to the Fireside to see what would happen. The bond between Tiny and the Ranners has grown over the last year and a half, and so has the contract.
"There are three parts to business business: management; employees and entertainment, " he says. All have to work togethet. He feels they mix well at the Fireside.
As he moved around the lounge before his show. He stopped and talked with a young man with fresh tatoos, a muscle shirt, a John Deere hat, and a Brooklyn accent. Older people, younger people, all the regulars and newcomers.
Then he takes the stage and starts the show looking out over the audience, picking out some with a spotlight. "There's Farmer Billy," he says, holding the spot on one customer. And, that leads to a song, "Won't You Come Home Bill Bailey." And, the lady regular tells the newcomer, again. "See, he really gets everybody going." |
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