is what my mama always called it.
Blue grass grew in the pasture and fed the stock.
Mountain Music grew from my Uncle’s home made fiddle
and fed my soul.
The scrape of a well resined bow over
yet untuned strings still brings a lump to my throat.
And when the chords start to roll out of the old guitar I have to
wipe my eyes.
And when the pickers start on Mandolins and banjos
my feet start to twitch and my hands begin
a drum roll on my denim covered leg.
Rocky Top, Cannon Ball, Orange Blossom Special
The rhythm of the mountains grabs my heart
and start it thumping.
For a bit I forget diabetes and arthritis and old age
and give over to pure joy.
My heroes are Lester Flatt, Earle Scrugs and Crafton Walker.
I want to be just like them. But I can only listen and enjoy.
I’ll never make such music.
You see I lack the main ingredient-