that old timey sound

My grandmother’s not the biggest fan of Ralph Stanley. But it’s not Ralph’s fault. “Bill use to follow him around every weekend. Playing music. He’d leave me at home.” Bill’s her husband. Bill is Pa.

My mom talks about another Bill. How he was always “around” when she was young. How, other than his height and his big white hat, she never knew there was anything exceptional about him. Me, I remember being five or six years old and shrugging a big “So What?” to my same-age cousin when he pointed to his daddy and the tall, white-hatted man singing and playing music together back in the mountains. “Why that’s Bill Monroe girl! Don’t you know nothin’?”

The truth was, I didn’t know much. Not when it came to that high lonesome sound. But I’ve been trying to remedy this. Last night The Euro (Who loves Bluegrass. Who can’t abide Country.) and I were invited to go along with S & J to hear J’s 83 year old grandfather.

They get together on Friday nights. A group of what my own grandfather likes to call old timey musicians. In a little used-to-be country store with old coca-cola signs hanging on the walls and a pot bellied stove in the corner.

People drop in and pick up fiddles and mandolins and whatever else may be laying around or stashed, conveniently in their car. One fellow walked in with a base twice his size, sat it down in front of the door and just started in playing. Without a word. A lady stopped by, to just say hi, grabbed a hundred year old fiddle and…good grief she was good.