of banjos and buddies

I was playing banjo last night, or rather, plunking away and trying desperately to transition between D7 and C on the fretboard while my dog huddled in the corner, when I started thinking.

I remembered back at Penn State when I would ride in the middle of the seats of my friend Brian's restored Model A, with him in the driver's seat, his friend Dave in the passenger's seat, and me in between waving to people on College Ave. One day in particular, it was a gorgeous fall afternoon and Brian called me up for a drive. The three of us drove up into the nearby mountains, worn down over the years by wind, weather, human activities.

We drove on a gravel backroad, winding our way through the orange, crimson and honey colored leaves, enjoying the smells of autumn in the Appalachian Mountains. Each road switchback would cause us to spin the tires a bit, swerving in response to the spray of rocks and dirt. On the straightaways, Brian hit the gas and we were speeding along at a hasty 35 mph with the top down on a gorgeous boxy old vehicle. Every now and then he hit the "Aoooga" horn for my pleasure.

We ended up at Dave's log cabin in the hills about 45 minutes away from Penn State, near Juniata. Dave had assembled his friends for a modest bluegrass jam. There we sat in his completely awesome log cabin kitchen, him playing the banjo, his friends playing fiddle, harmonica, acoustic guitar, Brian played the spoons on his knee, and I sat there with a huge grin on my face, loving the music they were creating in this space. It's hard to think of a time when I was more present than that, absolutely soaking up every second of the moment.