She was sitting in a small garage with a dog and a book. We greeted each other. Furthermore, here is a poem on the matter:
She said
she'd just hit her head
and was a bit groggy.
Her dog barked and lept forward at me! I jumped back and brought my my sandles, which I was carrying in my left hand, in between us. I was indeed surprised! Jack was upset that I did not introduce myself to him, so we talked for a bit. We became fast friends.
Then we all walked - all three of us - to UCM so we may partake in Thursday Supper. As we waited for the food, I played the banjo. Jack was very hungry. He barked impatiently. Jess took him outside to wait. Mind you that Thursday Supper is served in a dingy basement, wonderfully cool on a summer eve.
When I got in line for the food, a woman walked in and stood behind me. She was a bit overdressed for the meal. She was also very conversational. We chatted for just a little while before she let on why she was at the meal.
"I just burried my mother today," Eileen said. "I'm coming from the funeral. I thought I'd stop by. In this way would I need not have to cook my dinner. I also want ot be with people. It's my first time here."
Of course, we made her welcome. "You have friends here," said the man across the table.
The meal was cookout-fare: burgers (veggie and meat), dogs, salad. It reminded me of this year's Independence Day cookout, which was a blast! I woke up in the woods. I talked to a llama under the afternoon sun.
Eileen was sad. She was on the verge of tears many times. I further learned that she had a daughter who lives in Columbus. She'd not seen or spoken to her daughter since Christmas after she had checked her into the psychiatric ward of a hospital.
"And I have a bachelor's degree in psychology!" she exclaimed.
Then, yesterday while I was playing banjo at the Farmers Market, I met a strange man. He was like a wizzard: tall and gray, taking long, firm strides and making swooping gestures with his large hands. He had an admirably bushy moustache that extended up his face to a set of equally bushy sideburns. His eyes spoke of swift and cool mountain streams.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"My name is Chris. What's your name?" I caught his eyes and their color held my gaze.
"What?" he said as if I'd disturbed him in deep thought, "Call me Doc."
He played with me for a bit. He'd a harmonica in the key of A. "My grandpa bought it during World War II," he purported. He talked to me very much in a style that meandered through various topics, often abruptly leaving one, touching another, then returning to the first.
By and by he did leave, but he did return to harass me. He crumpled up dollar bills and shoot them at me like basketballs. Then he sang loud and long with me. And, he invited me down to a concert.
"Have you heard of the Appalachain Green Parks Project?" asked Doc. "Well that's me. Come down the show tonight. Bring your banjo. Show up at 7 - no, 6:30. I'll see you tonight. Be there by 6 o'clock."
To be honest, I had become a bit annoyed with him by the time he left. He certainly had his fun with me. I tried my best to be patient. I thanked him and gave him my regards.
That evening I walked into the theater and found him. He told me to grab my banjo and come around back. He took me backstage and sat me down next to a man removing a banjo from it's case. Doc asked this man, Jim, to teach me the songs.
Jim certainly didn't argue with him, but he also made no attempt to teach me any songs.
"I met this guy at the Farmers Market, barefoot and playing a banjo," Doc continued, "so I invited him down here tonight."
"Ah, just like the old Green Parks Project!" said Jim, smiling.
I talked casually with Jim and the other people that filled the room. I asked a few people what exactly was the Appalachian Green Parks Project. I many cleaver answers that suggested a close-knit group of performers. The room was heavy with reminiscing. Old friends were meeting for the first time in years.
I sat down next to John Lewis who very patiently answered my questions.
Very suddenly the performers broke out into a song. They were rehearsing a performance. I strummed along on my banjo. Doc walked in.
"Play louder," he said. "Louder. Louder! LOUDER!" He certainly convinced me to play loud! He encouraged me and I appreciate it.
"Why don't you go find a seat in the audience?" asked Doc when the song was long over. He and I walked into the house. "There's - let's see - twenty rows with room for ten people apiece. That's two hundred seats. You can choose one. And, enjoy the show. You've gotten in for free. There'll be banjo pickin'. Maybe not as good as yours," which I thought must be a joke, but Doc seemed very serious.
I did enjoy the show. The stage was full of musicians whose fame was spread across Athens County (and even farther in some cases). They had been ...
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