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.