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|Namesake|Marmalakes was born in the fold of an old notebook found in a used bookstore on the west side of a letter street in Washington, D.C. Someone had written it there long ago before any of the members of the band and even before the idea of their great uncles’ birth had been conceived.|…|L.M. Pineworm, owner of the bookstore, who was pushing his 89th year as store owner and his 114th year on earth, moved swiftly with his fingers through a shelf of very organized, yet very nonsensical papers and from the middle, yet a bit to the left, he carefully plucked out a brown, unmarked notebook. It had been dropped off as part of a box in the summer of 1988 after the reading of a man named Wayne Paul Francis-Awn’s will. The will stated, “My beloved mother’s notebooks will be placed in the hands of Mr. L.M. Pineworm, her childhood companion and most impassioned friend.”|…|On an early Tuesday summer morning (he adored Tuesdays), L.M. opened to the first page. It was blank, of course, he knew it would be. She always left the first pages of her notebooks clean so that she would always have something fresh to flip back to. Henrietta “Marma” Awn was very particular. She loved napkin rings, but absolutely hated the idea of placemats. She referred to herself as Marma though no one else did and the only one she trusted to even know this secret name was L.M. and then later, her son. L.M. flipped to page two. He continued to pass his eyes through the pages, one after another, staring, but not stopping at any one for too long. In the very middle, right where the staples meet the spine, in big block letters with black ink pen, a word not printed too early or too late, MARMALAKES.|…|When Henrietta was young, about 7 or 8, she began to develop the story of Marmalakes, a dream of a place that’s purpose was to, more than anything, make her and others simply happy. It was a place where people walked in rhythm and moved with melody. Sometimes, instead of speaking to one another, the citizens of Marmalakes would whistle their message. In fact, some preferred to whistle and some thought it more efficient that conventional words, however, most spoke, for everyone adored words as Henrietta (Marma) and L. M. did.|…|Henrietta continued to work on Marmalakes into her teenage years and her work was not only represented with her typewriter and pen, but also with countless drawings, paintings, and sculptures. L. M. often spent entire days and many nights next to her as this dream flowed out of her, sometimes fast, but often steady and slow. There were stories of shopkeepers, swimmers, sinkers, and sad souls. There were tales of trumpeteers, turned keys, twisted trees, and tall attire. There were visions of fairgrounds, flickering flames, and twice-folded poems tied with twine. |…|For sport, soccer was often played, but only in the streets, and most music was centered around the violin or banjo. The kazoo and tin sandwich were often played while in motion. For transportation, cars were unheard of. Citizens rode upon bicycles, tricycles, and tandems, but often opted for old-fashioned feet. Boats were always made by hand. A self-propelled helicopter that involved a very complicated system of levers and pulleys was planned out, but never successfully flown. |…|And the food, oh the food, was more magnificent than you could imagine. Henrietta and L.M. both were very fond of enchiladas. The tortilla was a staple in the Marmalake diet. Tuesday evenings were always very special. Every week, around sunset, people from all around met in the center of the village for a giant potluck enchilada dinner. There was an endless amount of food with all the fixings ever needed. Live music never failed to show it’s face. Plates were dropped from dancer’s hands because the music was too grooving not to dance to. Festivals were held to celebrate just being there. Just being. |…|Henrietta was a person unlike any other. As she grew older, her mind stayed young. She had the imagination of a 7 year old, but the wisdom of an octogenarian. She was not cynical, but inspired and never bitter, even on uninspiring days. She often kept to herself, but was not unsociable. She and L.M. were similar in that regard. They stayed close into their late twenties, but parted ways for a while after that. They made a pact in the winter of 1912 that every four years on leap day they would meet at their favorite swimming hole, where much of Maramalakes was created, and no matter the state of the weather, they would jump in. This promise was kept by both until the day of Henrietta’s death.|…|Henrietta “Marma” Awn died on a February day at the age of 77, not too early or too late. She was survived by her son and 3 grandchildren, and of course, L.M. She drowned in her favorite swimming hole near the tree where she often sat and thought. Those who knew her best knew that she had just decided to go for a swim.|…|L.M. Pineworm had not seen any of this in decades. Her handwriting had aged beautifully. He placed the notebook in a place where he could always find it. On this day, at the bookstore, he would find it for the last time. He took the book in his hands and moved slowly over to the young man in the poetry section. The young man’s name was Chase Weinacht. He was from Austin, Texas, but was in D.C. visiting some relatives. He was thumbing through an old translation of Rilke’s “Letters” when L.M. walked up. All Mr. Pineworm said was “Here, this is for you. Take it.” Chase was a bit startled, but kindly thanked the man. He took the notebook and left. |…|Chase waited until he returned to Austin to open the book so he could share his treasure with his good friends Josh and Max. He gathered them together and opened the notebook to the very middle. There it was in big, block letters, MARMALAKES. |
