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

This is what is on one of our walls in the living room. I love it. It totally defines who we are, what we do, and why we do it. And says it more eloquently than I could say it, that’s for sure.

About three years ago Ben and I started taking music focused get aways, alone, as in, no kids. Not that I don’t love those two monkeys. It’s just, I’m pretty sure I’m a better Mom if I take a break from the intensity of parenting for a week or two a year.

First it was Pete Wernick’s Advanced Banjo Camp in Boulder, CO. Ben banjoed and I shopped ever thrift shop in town (there’s eleven) and we would connect to eat and in the evenings. It was glorious.

The best thing about banjo camp is meeting interesting people from all over the world. We met a guy from Georgia, named T, who graciously invited us to his wife’s birthday party, another trip that involved more great folks, over the top food, and tons of music therapy. A peak experience, just as he promised.

That set the next series of events, another trip to banjo camp, a trip to the International Bluegrass Music Associations (IBMA) week in Nashville, TN and now we are off to Wilkesboro, North Carolina for Merlefest, a HUGE bluegrass festival.

Here’s the catch. While the grandmas wrangle the kids. We are flying to Atlanta, meeting up with our friends, road tripping to North Carolina in a 37 foot RV, road tripping back to Atlanta, and flying home. With T as our tour guide, it promises to be, a pickin’, gigglin’, sleep lackin’ trip. The best kind. We will come home with all the dust washed off, totally exhausted but rejuvenated.

So we’re outta here. Gone. Off, for some much needed music therapy. 

To say it my own way…Music, is like shakin’ the heck out of the etch-n-sketch of life. Ha. It really doesn’t have the same ring.

Later,

Sandhill Sis

While we were planning the rest of our evening three young Marines came in.

“Sis, check out the one in the black hat”, Jules gushed.

“The one in the straw hat is much better looking”, I said and returned to the story I was telling.

Soon the one in the straw was over to ask Jules to dance. That was typical.

When she got back she said, “You’re in luck, Sis, he’s interested in you.”

“I’m not interested.”

“No, really, he’s a Marine. Isn’t your brother a Marine?”

“Yep, and he said never marry a Marine. Strike one.”

“No, Sis, really, he’s a cowboy. He can rope and stuff, like you. Your dad’s a cowboy, right?”

“Yep, and Mom said never marry a cowboy. Strike two.”

“C’mon, Sis, he’s from Kansas, isn’t that close to Nebraska?”

Yep. I would never live in Kansas. Strike three, he’s out. 

“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like to dance?”

Helloooo handsome! I set my beer down and turned looked into his eyes for the first time and lost my breath, words, all sense of time and all sense.

I had never seen anyone so…steamy. I mean GQ steamy. Those eyes. And lips. Perfect Beverly Hills lips. The kind of lips people pay good money for. I took a deep breath and as I opened my mouth to say something a thought ran through my  mind, it was just a whisper at first…’this is HIM’.

“I would love to…” was all I managed say.

Evidently that was enough.

After sharing every move on the dance floor for an hour, he decided he needed to play the guitar up on stage and went up to commandeer the position. 

Oh Jeez, I can really pick ‘em. This isn’t Hamburger Hill, Marine, this is a bar. You can’t just get up on stage with the band anytime you want to. Maybe he’s not really ‘the one’. I started thinking about leaving while he was preoccupied. Then I heard him play. Wow he’s good. Really good.

Hours later, the bar was closing, but I didn’t want the night to end. Ben, was gracious enough to invite us back to his apartment.

“So, what do you think?”Jules said with a yawn.

“He’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. I’m gonna marry him. Let’s go.”

“Sis, are you sure? You just met. You really don’t date much…I mean really…”

“Nope. I’m sure, he’s the one. Let’s go…”

“I don’t think this is a good idea…”

“Aw, he’s a Marine. If you can’t trust a Marine, who can you trust?”

So we went, against Jules’ better judgement. Which at the time, was the only judgement we had, as I had misplaced mine.

At his apartment, Ben and I soon found ourselves alone. He picked up his guitar. My heart was pounding in my chest and my mind was racing. He’s so magical…are there really people like this…is he even real…is this a dream? He was singing a song I had never heard called Knoxville Girl. (click to hear)

“I met a little girl in Knoxville, a town we all know well. And every Sunday evening down in her home I’d dwell…”

Awwww, this is nice little love song. He’s so different from what I usually date, this is sweet…

“We went to take an evening walk about a mile from town…”

I was getting weaker by the moment. I sat mesmerized and day dreaming about us walking hand in hand as the sun set…

“I picked a stick up off the ground and KNOCKED that fair girl down…”

Oh Crap! Did I just hear him right? Jules. JULES! It’s time to go. Oh good Lord, where is JULES? Oh God, she’s gone. She gone and he is smiling. Smiling a very sadistic smile. Oh this is it, this is the end.I started to shake violently on the inside and felt like I could throw up.

“She begged and pleaded on bended knee, for mercy she did cry… ‘Oh, Ben my dear, don’t kill me here, I’m unprepared to die’…”

This IS it. “Oh God, please. If you just get me out of this, I promise I’ll never…”

“She never spoke another word. I only beat her more. Until the ground around her, with her blood did flow…”

Okay. That’s it. It’s either me or him. And it darn sure isn’t going to be me. I think I can take him. As Kate used to say…”Partner, you best get up to yer fighting weight.”

All he could do was smile that smile. The same one that got me to that point in the first place.

I wish I would have known then…If the woman is still alive at the end of the song, it ain’t bluegrass.

(to be continued)

From the grave,

Sandhill Sis

P.S. Happy Anniversary, Ben. Thanks for 14 adventurous years. I respect you greatly.

Ben and I have been together near on fifteen years now. Fifteen years of me not playing anything but the radio. You would think all the talent, patience, and music ability that has surrounded me all this time, I would have taken advantage of it. But, I’ve always seen it simply as his passion, and not mine. Then I lost one of my very favorite people. Aunt Kate.

‘She weren’t no ordinary Aunt.’ She lived BIG. Big in body, big in spirit, big in 70′s shag hair, and big in relationships. She was a rough talkin’, chain smokin’, Diet Pepsi drinkin’ fool who was as sentimental as an old schoolmarm who pined over lost a love. Despite the ‘rough start’ in life (as she called it), she chose to bask in the goodness of the present, that’s just a small part of what I loved about her. We spent countless hours fishing for hawgs, playing cards, and sitting by campfires swapping stories while dinner cooked. So, I wasn’t surprised when she wanted me to have something, when she found she was terminal. But her guitar?  An Alvarez, Yari, one of a pair, that her and Uncle Sam had bought in the early 80′s. 

“I can’ think of anyone who would get any more enjoyment out of it than you. But, if I give it to you, you have to learn to play it. Okay?”

I would be honored to have it, Kate, was all I managed to say, as I sat beside her in the hospital, listening to all the sounds whispering death was eminent.

“That way, you and Ben can play together.” Her eyes stared off in some far off place. “Sam and I had our best times playin’ together…I can hardly wait to see him.”

We all miss him too. We lost her just a few months later, and buried her on a beautiful day. We should have been fishing.

So, what do you do with a death bed promise?  I brought it home, sat it in my bedroom and stubbed my toe on it. NICE! Once in a while, I’d take it out, and hold it. Mostly I let it gather dust and memories.

Maybe I should name it, everything else in my life has a nickname. I thought about my guns, Jimmy, Elivis, Samson, all manly names. But, this guitar was different. One day I put my cheek down on her body and cried. God I miss her, as the tears started to fall, I breathed deeply. With the breath came smells of cigeretts, campfires and biolage shampoo… reminders of Aunt Kate. The scent of a person is usually one of the first things you loose when they die. But not with Kate. She stunk up her guitar real good before dying and left me with her scent, allowing her spirit to somehow be present as I play with Ben and our kids. I love that.

I had an english teacher that said everyone has at least one good poem in them.  So I figure, everyone has one good song in them too. I haven’t found my yet. I’m still looking for it. In the mean time, I get to hang with Aunt Kate and even sit with her beside the fire.

Simply,

Sis