I’ve been thinking of late, is my writing too much about family or possibly even too personal. And who really gives a tweedle-dee, Robin. I mean, I am writing a welcome column for a bluegrass paper, not for Chicken Soup for the Soul. It’s nothing weird, it’s just an observation—thinking, tumbling, is a favorite pastime.
When I was first invited to write one of the welcome columns, I understood I could write about anything except religion and politics. Just as well, I have far too many an opinion on both—so the host did you all a favor. I’m sure of this. Really.
All of you share this beautiful music called bluegrass. And I asked myself, after 61 summers lived, just what is bluegrass; what is this word’s seed? And so, with my Mr. Investigator’s magnifying glass, I went a lookin’. What I found wasn’t the biggest surprise, but it interested me and spawned more thought.
Bluegrass is actually a grass. Most indigenous to the great state of Kentucky; particularly the very center region: it would just happen to be, there were a couple of little old brothers by the name of Bill and Charlie Monroe, who played around that region for quite a time until they split the act up and Bill took off for the big time with his newly formed band. When pondering what would be the most important name for their band—they looked around at all of that blue grass, growing up around them, framing their family stories, and felt if it was good enough to stand on; it was good enough to claim—and that was when they birthed the name of The Blue Grass Boys: this was 1938. By 1939, Bill Monroe and his Blue Grass Boys were invited to be a member of the Grand Ol’ Opry—and it was there the term “blue grass” became a the compound word: bluegrass. And the birth of America’s Bluegrass stuck and the roots were set for scores of decades, forward.
Now, you might be chuckling; I can’t say as I’d blame you—but short of Flatts; Scruggs; Monroe and a small band of others, I couldn’t name you too many bluegrass players; short of all of you. And I let my little old pea-pickin’ heart wander back to a time of sitting on my Grandfather’s knee while he played his banjo. I smile. And why? I realize bluegrass, like the classics, classical, rock and roll, you name it… is in each and every one of us—it’s what moves us; it is American and you can’t grow up without it touching a part of your life in one way or another. Music of almost every kind makes the spirit dance in us; brings family together; and inspires us to be better—and it is bluegrass, which might just take us home the most.
I’m a ukulele player you know. And I tend to think, I just might fit right in with a bluegrass crowd. I also play the stand up bass—another fine fit. I picked up the ukulele because I at one point had such a penchant for WWII songs, and it was the ticket—I picked up the stand-up bass, when I learned to sing the blues: I might just share a part of your DNA and have been in denial—ignorant denial at that—all this time. So, HOWDY FAMILY. How are ya?
I’ve had a very narrow opinion of bluegrass; I had some corn-seeded idea that you might have to have a blade of wheat between your teeth to play accordingly. You might have to have a gingham dress on or be ready to go on a hay-ride anytime you are called to. (I have to admit, the hay ride sounds like fun—I had plenty as a kid, trust me.)
Without standing on a soap box, I think our country spends a lot of time putting dreams; people and lifestyles in a box. When the truth is, we are all connected; we all enjoy joy… so if someone’s pickin’ some banjo, and they are enjoying it—those around them enjoy it as well. And if we were to honest, that goes for everything that any living creature can do in the name of joy–well, hell, I imagine most of us would be more than happy to chime right in. I have noticed more than once over the years, musicians love music… maybe they have favorite genres, yes, but they love music. My fellow union musicians can play every kind of music in studios… it matters not if it is Broadway or bluegrass—what matters is the music.
In short, I have come to this conclusion. What I write is part of my joy; and I hope you enjoy it. And as long as we’re all enjoying ourselves, come on over some time with your instruments and I’ll put out my uke and play right along with ya. In fact, to prepare, I’ll go and put a little blue grass in my garden to help some feel right at home.
You have all inspired me; turned my head a different direction; and allowed me one more kind of music to inspire my own work—whether I am writing; singing or dusting the furniture, because of you, bluegrass owns a little more of my heart.