I was awfully glad that some people actually noticed that I've been away from my blog. When you beat your brains out to come up with something that almost resembles a humorous bit of writing and then you don't get any comments, you wonder if anybody's paying any attention to you at all. But then I realized that there is a vast, unseen audience in the blogosphere. It's made up of people who actually read your posts but don't sign on and leave comments. And so, to the three of you, I say Thanks for noticing.

So, where have I been? I said I'd be back after the first of the year, and now summer's gone and up until recently my Christmas post was the last thing up. Well, I've been off indulging a muse of a different sort. And since I still can't type with my toes, the blog got overlooked. I've been spending my idle hours each week (all four of them) learning to play bluegrass banjo.

My bluegrass habit started out pretty innocently. Last fall Carolyn and I went to a bluegrass festival near our home. We met up with some friends and spent an evening listening as one band after another played music that was upbeat, fun, and in some instances downright amazing. Fiddlers bowed at incredible speeds. Banjoists picked and mandolinists plucked with machine-gun staccato. We even hung around after the stage shows for some "parking lot picking." That's where the real fun is. People who go to bluegrass festivals, it seems, don't just go to listen. Many of them take their guitars, fiddles, mandolins and banjoes and roam from place to place, pausing in campsites and parking spots to play in impromptu groups of three, four, six or more players. The music can play on far into the night, much to the delight of all concerned. We followed our friends from one group to another, listening as they jammed on a few songs with folks who had been total strangers moments before. What impressed me, along with the players' talents, was the quality of the people. Bluegrassers are among the kindest, friendliest, and most encouraging people around.

As the evening took on a chill, Carolyn decided she was ready to call it a day. But I was all set to become one of those all-night pickers! The only problem was that I had nothing to pick. I took Carolyn home, found an old washboard and some thimbles, and rejoined our friends at the festival. I was afraid those kind, encouraging folk would encourage me to kindly quit my racket and go away. But they let me scrape and tap away for a couple of hours.

Playing the washboard was fun, but I wanted more. The next week I stopped at a local store that specializes in used string instruments and made my way to their banjo section. Half of one room holds a rack full of new and pre-owned Gibsons, Washburns, Deerings and Gold Tones. I lifted a used Gibson off the rack and noticed immediately that it weighed almost as much as an econobox I drove during the late 70's. I turned it around and got a look at the price tag. $3,000! Dang, I thought, that's more than I spent for my first car. Or my first three cars. Combined! I placed the Gibson back on the rack with way more respect than I gave it when I removed it and made my way down the rack. I found a little relief among the lesser-known brands, but it quickly became clear that unless a heretofore-unknown rich uncle suddenly kicked over and left me an unexpected windfall, I was doomed to remain a washboard picker.

Not long after, I mentioned to my neighbor that I wanted to learn to play the banjo. The only thing holding me back was the cost of an instrument. My neighbor told me that his son had one that was gathering dust under his bed. He disappeared for a moment and returned with a 1970's-era five-string Silvertone, complete with a vinyl gig bag. I pulled it out of the bag and strummed the strings. It sounded just like a banjo, but I had no clue whether it was in tune or not. After I flubbed my way through a few notes from "Dueling Banjoes," I thanked my neighbor profusely and made my way home, marveling at the way that, once in a while, a blessing will come from an unexpected direction. The banjo had a few days to adjust to its new surroundings while Carolyn and I took a brief trip to Nashville to see the kids. While we were there I found an "Intro to Bluegrass Banjo" book at the Ernest Tubbs Record Shop. At last I was ready to learn.

On our return home, I gave the banjo its first real tuning since I'd had it, put on my picks, and got down to business. Before long I could pick a recognizable version of "O Susanna" and do a simple roll without looking at my hands.  Backup rhythms followed, along with different kinds of rolls and some chords for the left hand.  I'm throwing in some slides and hammer-ons now, and while I'm still no J.D. Crowe, I'm having a good time.  My playing's progressed from "painful to listen to" all the way up to "just awful."  My goal for the next year is to work up to "not too bad."  After that, we'll see.

 Over the last year I've been spending a half-hour to an hour each night plinking away.  Most of the time practicing's fun, although some nights I'd just as soon throw the thing against the wall and go watch TV. I don't understand why, but every once in a while these regressions happen.  A song that I zipped through the night before just won't come out of the instrument. My right hand, which nimbly hopped from string to string only hours before, will turn to foam rubber. At the same time the left one takes a death grip around the neck and has to muster its bravery to change chords. How the same hand could have knocked out slides and hammer-ons the night before is a total mystery. The only remedy is to back up about twenty pages in the book and slowly step through some exercises. This usually re-fires the motor neurons I need, and by the end of the night I'll have regained most of the earlier losses. (Now if that would just work for my stock investments...)