My Banjo Myself

My Banjo Myself

Jeb was a quiet, simple man, tall and robust. Others referred to him as a gentle giant. His loneliness after the death of his dear wife Sadie led to the discovery of an immense talent Jeb possessed, waiting to be expressed.

Music had always been a comfort to him, so he took to whittling an instrument he could play. His creation, in Wayland, Kentucky, was the beginning of my life.

I have no usual head, although I have one, as well as one long extended neck. Attached to the end of my neck are tuning knobs, and the base or heel is connected to the pot. My pot is a round area on top of which rest brackets, resonators, a bridge to support my strings and a covering which is my head. This area holds the heart of my essence. It is so finely tuned it causes those who listen to dance or weep when my sinews are strummed with respect.

When I’m played, the tears shed are not those of deep melancholy, haunting notes one might expect from a violin, but are those of longing and remembrance of simpler times, of family gathered around for entertainment and feet moving of their own accord. It was said that I was one of the finest banjos ever made.

Jeb played me constantly. His favourite tune was You Are My Sunshine and it eased his loneliness, but only for a short time. His life ended too soon in a freak accident, and I suffered a deep sadness at his passing. My life had been full, but I missed ‘my father’. It was expected that when Jeb died, my ownership would pass to his son Clay, and he would cherish me as Jeb had. It was not to be. Clay left me unused and dusty for many years.

After a time, Clay’s daughter Emmylou discovered me. She begged her dad to have someone teach her to play. As Clay hadn’t an interest, oblivious to the joy and healing I could bring, he agreed to give me to Emmylou, but there would be no lessons. Realizing she now owned something special, she taught herself to play, allowing me to sing again. I was once more treated with respect and kindness.

This loving relationship continued for many years until a young man travelling through captured Emmylou’s heart. She spent all her time with this rogue as I sat idly by. Her love interest, Marty, noticed me one day and picked me up, and plucked away and played Easy From Now On. He was smitten with me, but not so much with Emmylou. I was gifted to Marty in hopes he would stick around, but he left Emmylou, and Marty travelled on with me in tow.

I left my beloved Kentucky to relocate in New Mexico where Marty lived with his brother Tim. Tim also played, and he and Marty became my joint guardians. The warmer, dry climate of New Mexico was a novel experience, but eventually I adapted, aided by the love and care of the brothers. In New Mexico, I was often the centre of attention at the Triple X Bar and Grill, especially on Saturday nights. And the patrons always wanted to hear Foggy Mountain Breakdown. One of my admirers and a friend of Tim’s was a painter and persuaded him I needed some embellishment. Pablo, Tim’s painter friend, hand-painted a leaf motif the entire length of my neck and through my head. I was now permanently tattooed. I learned to live with my art and accept my uniqueness.

Luckily, I was with Marty and Tim well into their old age. We had a wonderful relationship, and I looked forward to each evening we collaborated, producing beautiful sounds. However, with Tim’s death followed closely by Marty’s, I found that once again I was forgotten and lonely. I was left in the old, battered case they used to travel with me, sitting in a corner of the entrance hall.

The brothers had no heirs, so their belongings were distributed among friends, none recognizing the value of my life. I ended up in the local second-hand shop, The Olde But Treasured, where I languished for a year. Sadly, anyone interested in banjos rarely frequented this old, dusty, and neglected shop. A jumble of second-hand items covered me, so I remained hidden, barely breathing, but determined to stay alive.

One night during a storm, a streak of lightning hit the back of the shop, starting a fire. My dark thoughts were that I didn’t want to end like this, but I would be reunited with Jeb. The volunteer firemen put out the blaze before I expired, and I lay on the street. A family vacationing in the area, spied me and enquired about owning me.

“Sure. Take it. I doubt it’s any good now,” said those cleaning up. Covered in soot, gasping, but not broken, I was relieved to be rescued. The Bryant Family, my new owners, soon left with their found treasure--- me. And they took me when they returned to their home.

The trip was gruelling as I was dirty, tired, and wrapped in several old towels, squeezed between two suitcases in the car's trunk. I was glad that it was only March, so it wasn’t deathly hot. I didn’t know my destination yet but prayed for a return to Kentucky. We stopped at a small resort-type town called Pigeon Forge, Tennessee. It was in the heart of the Great Smoky Mountains, so I felt quite comfortable this close to my original home. But more than that, I felt I belonged. It was a strange feeling.

The Byant family treated me well. They lived close to the venue, so the travel back and forth was not arduous. They cleaned me up, using gentle motions, bought new strings and tuned me. To my joy and surprise, they bought a beautiful velvet-lined case for me. For the first time in my life, I felt protected. This was a good omen.

Three times a week, the Bryants entertained, so I was becoming happier being used as I should. They played The Banjo Song at each performance to the cheers of all. One night while I was producing some good toe-tapping tunes, I noticed a man staring. I had seen him before gazing at me. This time he approached the Bryants and asked a lot of questions about me. Then he offered the Bryants an enormous sum of money if they would sell me to him. Jeb would have been amazed at the amount.

The man’s name was Carl, and he explained he was about to celebrate his wedding anniversary on May 28th, and he wanted a very special gift for his wife, who was the owner of the resort. He said she was a talented musician and songwriter, and the banjo was one of the many instruments she used in her shows. He felt he had found the perfect gift for her. They had been married for fifty years, and he had searched for something special. After some discussion, I was sold to Carl. Off I went again, but they lived in Tennessee, near Pigeon Forge, so I soon arrived at my new home.

On the night of their anniversary, Carl dressed up, washed and polished me and presented me to his wife, Dolly. She was a petite blond, full of energy, who exuded an inner happiness. She took me into her hands, caressing me, and I was in love. I had loved Jeb, but this was different, something I had never experienced. Dolly picked me up and strummed. She became lost in the music, and I felt I was with someone who would love me and care for me for as long as she lived. I sensed Jeb’s presence and felt he was being honoured. When she played You Are My Sunshine, Dolly became my everything.

Feeling nostalgic one day, I examined my long life from my time with Jeb to the present, through all the loving and not so caring hands; I knew with certainty, with Dolly, I was home.