love at first pluck

Phil and I stayed up late, listening to bluegrass and stacking our new shipment of firewood. Thanks to brother George, we also had a little Gentleman Jack to keep us warm.

Stacking woodpiles is still enough of a novelty to me for it to be fun. Phil and I shouted and hollered, inspired by the music's raw twanging. We're a good team.

But there's another reason for our giddiness. New sounds are ringing from under the roof on these late evenings, and I'm totally infatuated (since I probably can't claim love this early on). When the Kings came up last weekend, they brought us an old banjo and mandolin. I thought I'd want to play the mandolin more, but since a few nights ago, I can't pull myself away from the banjo. My picking and strumming is awkward and wobbly, like a colt on new legs. I like to think that at some point I'll at least manage to trot along, and maybe throw a kick in here or there, but I'm still delighted with these slow beginnings. I find myself daydreaming about when I'll have time to practice again, when we can get to the shop to get new strings or a better lesson book, or where I can get my hands (ears) on old recordings of bluegrass for inspiration.


Sandy said...

I like imagining a chickadee and a squirel plucking at banjo and mandolin on the porch of a yurt.

I love you guys.

Abigail said...

I am glad.

My brother Pete plays the banjo, and after I gave up the bass, he tried to convince me to take up mandolin, but I took nothing up instead.

I prefer the banjo to the mandolin, anyway, and I hope I get to hear your merry picking!

(I'll have to ask John, the resovoir of music knowledge in our house, if he can pull out some old bluegrass or Early Amercan Folk for you to borrow.)

Abigail said...


That should be 'reservoir.'