Banjo Roots

When I was at home this past weekend I walked by a relic, you could say, from my childhood.  Every single night (when the weather is decent).  There is a man that sits outside on a bench and plays his banjo.  He has been doing this for as long as I remember.  Family legend has it that I used to dance to his playing whenever we would walk by (when I was three or four).  Perhaps my playing was in the cards?

This guy plays his banjo without fail.  He’s pretty good, in my opinion, and he obviously has a real love for the instrument.  He sits with his banjo case splayed, and I saw last night that he actually had a CD out-which is great, but it also makes me melancholy.  Often it seems as though you can do nothing without having to reach the most advanced state of whatever you are doing.  You can’t just join a team, you have to be the captain.  I’m glad that he has an opportunity to record his music & I want him to be doing well. Although, I never remember talking to him, I feel a certain caring towards him as a member of my community.

He had sat on the same bench for years & years until last summer when they took down his bench to make way for a new ice cream shop.  Now, he sits on a stool, facing the opposite direction.  He doesn’t seem bothered, but I can’t help but wish that he could resume sitting in his chosen place.  The new ice cream & chocolate shop sometimes gives him something sweet to eat, which is nice.

Anyway,

I’m just glad that my town can attest to having a dedicated banjo player at its core.  He’s popular & known in town- and I’m not sure if he would have been able to achieve that same presence with another instrument.  There seems to be something special about the banjo, it has a certain quality that somehow knits people together.

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