In case you’re wondering where we would get a child that looks like her, you have to go all the way to Romania –I guess or Kansas City to Kansas City Strings (a place that deals in adoptions of this kind). After buying her we found there isn’t a car seat big enough to fit her, in fact we have to lay down the back seat and leave the boys home if we want to take her anywhere, but the joy she’s brought me has been great. In the bluegrass world she is known as an upright bass, bass fiddle, or dog house bass, and  sings a simple bass line of bomb-bomb, bomb-bomb, bomb-bomb in whatever key you want to play in. I changed her strings from a heavy steel to a silky, nylon-type that is easier on the fingers. Ben now likes to talk about my silky G-string, and the possibility of rubbing our G-strings together to make beautiful music. I haven’t found instructions for this in my learn to play the bass videos, but I’m still looking.

Anyway.

I got her in July and two or seven days after getting it he drug me to a novice slow jam. Because “you can’t get better unless you play with others”. So there I was playing trying to play well with others while sweating like I hadn’t paid the bills. I had to give Pumkin’ a bath when I got home–but a few months later it’s getting better.

So while the rest of the world is carving punkins, I’m plunkin’ on mine.

I hope your fall is being filled with new adventures.

Simply,

Sis

If you haven’t noticed music is important. Really. Around here it ranks with food, shelter and clothing. We take our vacations chasing it, we pass our time playing it, and in lieu of having a third child we adopted one genetically engineered for bluegrass instead. Weird ain’t it?

Our two boys have adapted to our weirdness by scrounging around and finding something to play. They know when it comes to music, all they have to do is ask, and it will be given. Deputy Barney chose the fiddle and W the electric guitar. (Despite being dyed in the wool bluegrass junkies…we allow electric instruments in our house. You can read the story of how, at eight, W rebelled by putting down the mandolin, picking up the electric guitar and asking for a tattoo ~ all in one day, here.)

I started playing the guitar just over a year ago. Even though Ben is a fairly good rhythm guitarist (and teacher) we I decided it might be better for our relationship if I had a video to learn by instead of lessons from him or someone else. That decision has served me well. Now Ben can just wonder through and give me pointers and other tidbits to build on what I’ve already learned. It’s sweeter that way.

What’s even sweeter is the time we spend together playing. Barney took this picture…

A perfect description of our life… music front and center, sometimes out of focus, shotgun news close, bedroom light on, half a bubble off of plumb, but happy. The connection we make with music is deep, profound and really hard to put into words. It’s no wonder people use music to worship God, the level of connection is deep and wide just like the hymn, truly spiritual.

All that aside. I haven’t played Kate, my guitar, for months. I’m saddened by this. I guess I worry if the house isn’t clean. Ben says he could live with dust bunnies and going commando and even PBJs for supper if I nailed a killer lick. My wifely/motherly duties tug at me frequently though, and derned if dish water isn’t a callus killer when it comes trying to keep your fingers tough. So besides needing a new instructional video I think I need a maid and a cook all in the name of great music. That might be expensive, but think of the money I’ll save in lessons.

Simply,

Sis

PS~ If you are thinking about buying a video to learn to play an instrument, be sure and get one that fits your genre of music. If you like bluegrass don’t be buying a ’learn acid rock licks overnight’ DVD. Another thing. I learned to read music as a kid, but find it a hindrance to my creativity as an adult. So I’m learning to play the guitar by ear. Regardless, I’m loving videos. The only drawback is music instructional DVDs are like exercise DVDs, you have to use them for them to work. *gaw*

The weather has just been great here. Overcast, cloudy and cool, my favorite kind. Aunt Sissy been reading the Farmer’s Almanac again, and said this winter is supposed to be really cold and wet. So Ben decided we needed to have a jam before all our favorite local pickers are holed up by the fire this winter.

Our current old farm house isn’t set up very well for entertaining, but that doesn’t keep us from wanting to have folks over and be surrounding by great people. But, for the sake of space (and not having to clean our garage) we decided to have the jam over at my the depot. Remember the depot? You can read about it here.

Labor Day weekend before the Winfield Bluegrass festival isn’t a great time to have a jam. But, our calendar was clear and the moon was right, so we had one.

The depot has came a long way since the beginning of summer.

This is the front room where Debbie hangs some of her art.

I love the natural patina in this place, that only time can bring. Just like wrinkles showing wisdom, on a old face.

This is the ticket window where folks would come to purchase their tickets.

When Don bought the depot his mother hadn’t been in it since World War II. Needless to say, when she walked in memories flooded her mind. It’s a priceless piece of history.

Dang. I didn’t take a picture of the middle room, the office. I was too fascinated by the chairs.

Don collects chairs. Rocking ones.  Unique ones. Red ones.

Families of chairs.  He is an equal opportunity chair buyer.

This is the stage area.

Originally it was where the mail and other freight would sit until loaded on the train. Now it houses a stage and lights and you guess it, more chairs. This is where the pickers picked into the night.

 We slept six extra people at our house. The next day we had a breakfast of homemade cinnamon rolls and breakfast casserole and retired to the deck for some more pickin’ and story telling until noon.

It was fantastic!

I love having a historic and artful place to gather with great people. It’s the key to a good life. It’s like stepping back to a slower time where relationships rule, kids and dogs play together and shared music binds the blessings.

Life is good.

Sis

You can order it in maple (sounds similar to Earl Scrugg’s prewar Gibson) or mahogany (sounds similar to J.D. Crowe’s prewar Gibson). Ben prefered the mahogany sound, so that’s what he ordered. Ron Stewart models come standard with Keith tuners or you can upgrade to Keith D tuners if you like. Ben had Warren outfit Smokey with his Grandpa’s old Keith/Scruggs tuners.

Smokey’s neck is a speed neck; meaning it’s unfinished, slightly smaller towards the peg head and with a very slight v-shape. Ben says it keeps the neck from getting sticky when your hands are sweaty. If you can’t play fast before, you’ll surely be able to with a speed neck.

The fingerboard is made of rosewood. Many banjos are made out of ebony, but not this one.

The inlay pattern on the fingerboard is similar what you might see on a prewar banjo. I like to pretend I’m in the shrinks office and telling the doc what I see. It’s a game I play. The first one reminds me of a flying squirrel, like Rocky and Bullwinkle. The second one reminds me of the Dali Lama…

Moving on.

The pot (back round thingy) on the mahogany model is a little deeper than on the maple. Warren wants it to sound like it’s three foot across. Believe me, it does.

Warrren distresses the banjos to make them look old. Ben was a little nervous about this at the beginning. He requested only slightly distressed when he ordered. (Slightly distressed reminds me of my toe polish right now.)

 Anyway, Warren worked his magic and it looks like a well cared for 70 year-old banjo. “You don’t have to worry about wiping finger prints off of it…” is how Warren puts it.

This is Warren Yates, the builder works out of a small back yard workshop at his home in Hickory, North Carolina. (Ben wants to move in next door. So if you’re selling your house in Hickory shoot us an email.)

After Warren got Smokey built, Ron Stewart played it and put his final tweaks and signature on it. Warren even took a picture of Ron playing Smokey and emailed it to us, terrific customer service. Now Ben wants a pair of those shorts, too.

Along with the picture and multiple emails, Warren sent a wav file with Ron playing smoke and talking adjectives. Ben just about fainted. I’m telling you it’s like some crazy foreplay for banjo nerds. 

It took about eight weeks for Warren and Ron to mark it with their scent. Ben was on his ear the whole time. I loved teasing him and asked if he wanted to call Warren and have him talk banjo adjectives to him. Like what size of G strings he uses, how tight he likes his tail piece, at what pitch he tap tunes the head, etc… Note: This wasn’t as funny to Ben as it was to me. He threatened me with tap tuning my head if I didn’t zip it! Hey, a girl has to have a little fun.

Original 5-string prewar Gibson’s run well over $100 grand. Not many folks have that much to spend on a banjo. So if you’re looking for a high-end banjo, with that coveted prewar sound, at a reasonable cost, you may want to look into getting a new Yates banjo for a fraction of the price.

Keep Pickn’!

Sis

P.S. If you stuck with me this long, God bless ya! You must be a banjo nerd, a great friend, or just darn bored. If you want to learn more about these banjos, don’t  pass go or collect 200 doggies just click on this link to YATES BANJOS! A great big thanks to Warren Yates, said builder. Ben is so happy with Smokey. It won’t surprise me, if he adopted another in maple to add to his collection.

In the pursuit of passion or any hobby there is a certain lingo, verb-age, or vernacular that goes with it. Banjo pickers are no different. In fact, they are at the top of the game when it comes to adjectives.

This is all humorous to me until I’m left alone with one (namely Ben) and he wants to talk adjectives. He usually catches me doing the dishes or something I just can’t walk away from. The scene goes something like this…

“Honey, you hear that 4th string growl?

Yeah, sounds mad.

“Sounds like Earl’s, is what it sounds like.”

“What do you think of that third string? Does it sound fuzzy to you?”

Fuzzy? Why would it sound fuzzy? I thought you just changed the strings.

“Fuzzy is good. That’s a pre-war, type fuzzy sound, there.”

“Wanna hear my crumb-butt?”

Crumb-butt.There’s a fifty cent made up word by our children. We had a cat named Hercimer who always had a crumb-butt. When the kids were showing  me this Ben was in the background playing his banjo. He had just changed strings and was doing a 2 to 5 slide on the 4th with a 1-3 pinch (for you banjo nerds) over and over and his banjo was saying cccrrrum-butt,  cccrrrum-butt, cccrrrum-butt. Honest to God, no kidding. Boys will be boys and banjo players will be banjo players.

Around here we say Earl Scruggs is the King of the Crumb-Butts.

If Earl is the King and Ben is the Duke.

“Don’t look. I’ll go get my Stelling, Gibson and Yates and you tell me which one I’m playing and which cccrrrum-butt you like better. MMM-K?”

Sounds a little too personal if you ask me, like your banjo may need a nice outhouse and some toilet paper. The best part of this whole deal is, my dishes get done in record time.

So how about you. Does your banjo growl about it’s fuzzy cccrumb-butt? Do you want it to? Or is having a fuzzy, growly cccrumb-butt over rated?

Sis

Only Ben forgot to negotiate.

Well, kinda.

He had been talking about the need to add to our herd off and on for a while now. We even took some get aways together to, uh, reconnect and discuss this further. Which we did. We decided to adopt.

I never had a problem conceiving, so I wasn’t totally sold on this adoption idea. I was shocked and felt almost violated with all the telephone calls, emails, video clips and questions that followed. I felt like he had another woman again. Then one day the email came telling us, we could expect our third child to show up that day. (Yes, our baby had a tracking number, like some generic brown package.)

Ironically, delivery was to take place the same day the kids had to get their eye’s checked. A day that I didn’t need another “Oh dear, God, he’s making me out to be a bad mother again…” story. You can read about Barney reenacting the ‘possum trappin’ to the eye doctor, here.) In short, Ben couldn’t go help me pick out the kid’s glasses, which he’s great at.  He sincerely apologized and said, “Maybe they could just leave him in the garage…”

I said, “Uh…don’t think so. You have to sign for something so valuable.” (Obviously God made him a guy, he is already lacking crazy innate need to nurse and coddle. He stayed home to welcome Smokey into our lives.

Who names their kid Smokey? Again, I didn’t get to put my two cents in here. So we have W, the good American, Barney the Deputy and now Smokey. With a name like that you would think he was fuzzy like a bear. Alas, my friends, he’s not.

This is Smokey. A brand new, special order, Ron Stewart model, Yates banjo.

What else can I say, except…he is already sleeping through the night and soon Ben promises he will be sleeping in his case and not between us.

Simply,

Sis

PS ~ If you are a banjo freak stick around. I’ll be posting adjectives about our baby soon. Banjo players love adjectives. If you’re not a banjo freak…Oh Lord, I do apologize.

 Whew!

I just got back from twisting off and going MIA.

Ben’s parents took the boys for a week while his band played a bluegrass festival and three fairs. It was fun to be on the road, touring. Touring? Touring! I think that’s the right word. Somehow when I think of touring…I don’t think of driving our old Tahoe and pulling a trailer held together by bondo and bailing wire. (You think I’m kidding. Unfortunately, I don’t have a picture. I was too busy standing there gawking with my mouth wide open to take one I guess.) Anyway, when I think of touring, I think of a Silver Eagle touring bus or buses, semis, and a whole herd of folks to set up and tear down for you. I don’t think of a Tahoe tethered to bondo-mobile. But, you have to start somewhere, the bottom is as good a place as any, I suppose.

And Don, remember Don? He is the one with the depot and longhorns. Anyway, Don rewired the trailer and painted it up real nice with a custom color. “It almost matches your Tahoe…” is how he put it as we put the last piece of sound equipment in and closed the door (that was still wet.) Almost. Would someone please tell him, close only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes. Thank you.

Life on the road sounds like a blast until it comes right down to it. Eighty or ninety percent of the time we were setting up, tearing down, eating or driving. We didn’t sleep much on this trip. Like I was telling the reporters… 

“Yes, I’m the booking agent… I do some promoting too… *sphnicker sphnicker* Sound? That would be me. I’m the sound guy…Security. Hello, me again. (More about that later…) Ben even lets me carry his banjo once in a while too…”

They always write it up real nice in the paper, making us sound almost famous…like we are somebody. Bless their hearts.

So anyway we wound around and finally ended up in a small town in Missouri. They wanted acoustic bluegrass in the park Saturday afternoon and wanted us to plug in and play old country and rock and roll for the street dance after the rodeo. No problem.

Now people let’s get something straight. My life has been interesting in the most backwards, silly hillbilly way, but I’ve ain’t never seen anything like this before. I’ve been to D C and had to seek cover because of a drive-by-shooting on the backside of the block. I’ve rode horses into bars and dismounted on pool tables. I’ve canoed the boundary waters of the US and Canada and cliff jumped off a 40 foot cliff half in Canada half in the US… I’ve even been held at gun point while collecting information for tax purposes, but the events of Saturday night left me speechless. Now that’s a first.

After explaining all this to Ben’s sister, Aunt Sissy, she giggled and said, “It was like going from Mayberry with a parade and candy for the kids,

three legged dogs running around stealing hamburgers and Grandma in the parade as the Grand Marshall to Roadhouse in one fell swoop.

Friends, it was exactly like that. I’m telling you SINthia, has nothing on these people….

I can’t start to tell you everything that happened but my three favorites were…

The little gal that felt it her patriotic duty to inform me if the band didn’t start playing again, “THEY” are going to riot.

Of course, being the kung-fu flighter I am…I said, “REEEEEALLY? Wow. Thanks for telling me that. I’ll let the band know they need to get started right away. I’d hate to see a riot.”

She was satisfied with that, slurred “Yeeeer welcommme,” and she was on her way.

They started back up 15 minutes later, just like they said they would and I didn’t have to open a can of whup-ass. Glory be.

Another chick decided our 65 year old lead singer needed some beads. The Marty Gras, type.  After dancing for him she, uh, presented him with the beads. Bless her for not showing anything, AND not having said singer show anything either. It kept the nice festive atmosphere that way I reckon.

The most amazing thing of the night was the law enforcement that was there. I think we started out with three deputies and ended up with what looked like six deputies, three reserve officers, and two State Troopers all with  grass stains and scuff marks on their uniforms from having to ride people to the ground. It wasn’t a full moon, but the natives were darn sure restless. After making the 60 mile round trip to the jail five times they gave up and brought over the paddy wagon and hauled another eight people in for those some of those special 8 by 10 color glossy photos complete with reservations on the group W bench, compliments of officer Oby. (You’ve heard the song, right?)

 Anyway. The drummer and I decided we had the best sit in town, but derned if it ain’t hard to work while chaos ensues around you. Bless the law enforcement guys that were picking up some overtime. I’m pretty sure, even with the overtime, they didn’t get paid quite enough.

We finally shut it down about 1:30 am packed up the bondo buggy and headed back to base camp with the lights only working on the buggy when we had the turn signal or the brake on. Funny, I don’t think Barney or the Sheriff cared by that point. I guess they were waiting for Patrick Swayze and Sam Elliot to run in and save the day. We arrived at MiMi’s around 3:30 in the morning and dined on PBJs, ham, cheese, cheetos and fruit in lieu of stopping at Alice’s Restaurant.

See why I’ve been MIA? You don’t recover from something like this over night. In fact I’m not sure I’m right yet. The boys and I have spent most of the evening watching YouTube videos of Larry the Cable Guy’s farting grandma, dancing to Elvis singing ”Hound Dog”, and bellering out ”OOOOmp Papa Mow Mow” with the Statler Brothers.

To say touring with the band has affected me, some, would be an understatement. Next year I’m bringing chicken wire and duct tape.

Dang it’s nice to be home.

Simply,

Sis

Sandy Feat!

Meet Ed and Alan, for fun they travel around the country building stuff out of sand.

It’s safe to say these two gems play nice in the sand box.

Their music festival started with 20 tons of sands whacker packed very tightly in wooded forms, some water and a witty idea to build Froggy Mountain (after Earl Scruggs’ song Foggy Mountain Breakdown.)

A few hot days later you get this…

Froggy Mountain, complete with a banjo playing bear…

…frogs, waterfalls, snow capped mountains…

 …climbing ropes, and more. A totally amazing feat, if you ask me.

I went to Merlefest hoping to hear some great music, which I did. But, one of the greatest highlights was getting to know these good people who have a passion for building with sand and zest for life and folks. That alone was worth the price of admission.

Simply,

Sandhill Sis

Ben chases smoke. Not just any smoke, mind you, when your grass is BLUE…the smoke you chase can’t be inhaled. However, it’s fair to say it’s as addicting as other smoke. This banjo player chases the ‘prewar sound’ type smoke. For all you non-banjo players, that would be the ‘sound’ that a 1933 Gibson banjo makes.

I know what you’re thinking. Oh, yeah, THAT sound. Yeah, right. I wish it were THAT easy.

The problem with sound is, it sounds different to each ear. And God gave us two. Each. Damn it. Is it any wonder T calls it smoke.

We chased this ‘smoke’ from Kansas, to Georgia, through South Carolina to Warren Yate’s banjo shop somewhere in North Carolina, (near Hickory), to Merlefest in Wilkesboro, North Carolina and back. Whew!

This is Ben Smoke, as he is called now, pick purse in hand, riding in a 37 foot RV, bound for Warren Yate’s banjo shop.

These are our good friends, T (the tour guide) and Ann (a model wife, mother, friend). Good people, who graciously invited us on this smoke chasing tour.

If you need one of them real good times, fly across country, climb in an RV with some good people and chase whatever kind of smoke is your smoke…There is no telling what will happen.

When we got to Warren’s house we discovered his driveway was 35 foot. If you ever lay awake at night wondering how a 37 foot RV would fit into a 35 foot driveway…

The answer is, pretty good. However, you may have to replace some divots, as Ben called them, and direct traffic when you pull out, but if you hold your mouth right, it fits.

Warren Yates, the maker of the Yates banjo, was quite a host. He loves to talk banjos, play banjos, smell banjos, feel banjo, croon on banjos, well, anything you can do with a banjo, this guy loves. It’s fun to watch people waller around in their passion, and Warren does it well.

Like a pusher with the goods… here he is tuning up smokey.

 He had a couple of new banjos to show us, both were Ron Stewart models, and distressed (made to look like 1933 banjos look now) with differences in sound smoke. He used a bunch of adjectives describing the difference. (Banjo players love adjectives.) My eye just glossed over at this point. So, I just smiled, nodded and took a few pictures of Ben chasin’ smoke.

We chased and picked and picked and chased. After a little while we figured out how Warren gets them banjo’s to look distressed.

That’s simple. I like simple.

Warren makes other instruments too, the guitar and washtub bass were also crafted by him.

 Like a hound dog on a trail…

 Ben smelled smoke, and was fixing on inhaling deeply.

It gives a new meaning to HIGH lonesome sound, doesn’t it?

His other woman is even feeling the strain.

Believe it or not, we call this vacation.

Welcome to my world.

Sandhill Sis

Despite our love for bluegrass, we haven’t been to any huge festivals yet. Even though, Winfield is just down the road from us, we have never gone. We are kinda of weird that way.

Instead of going to festivals in the summer, when everyone else does. We wait until it’s in the middle of a Kansas winter and go to ‘Danfield.’ Danfield is an indoor, slightly backwards, kinda hillbilly, bluegrass festival and jam, where you pitch your tent inside instead of outside. We fit perfectly. In fact, it was an absolute scream.

There was a potluck and a community pot of chili made from wild game and cooked over an open fire. I felt right at home.

They had a band scramble, where you throw your name in a hat and they draw out random bands and the bands have a hour to get two songs performance ready.

All good things must end, after 15 hours of pickin’, Barney couldn’t take it anymore.

Honestly, we weren’t much behind him.

Food, folks, fun, and bluegrass music. That’s the story of my life and this festival.

Simply,

Sandhill Sis