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.

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