(Language alert: a few mild cusses at the end.)
I’m in the middle of working on what Marty was calling my “mythical book” about women in bluegrass until I let him hoist the 373 pages of text I had already painstakingly prepared. He now calls it my “non-mythical book.”
So with my banjo-player-size brain engaged in trying to adequately—and cleverly—describe the advances women in bluegrass made in the 1960s, I can only offer a short blog today. Luckily I took some notes at Cody’s lesson so I am ready (even if I don’t get to go, as they say here in the Valley).
Cody, you will remember, is my twenty-year-old, country-music-loving guitar student. He now picks a mean version of Wildwood Flower in C, so for the last few weeks I’ve been showing it to him in G. On Tuesday, when we finally made it through the third phrase (G chord moving into C for two beats) Cody says, out of nowhere, with the air of one well satisfied with his work, “That’s it. I’m a professional.”
That struck me as funny, so I grabbed an empty banjo string envelope and wrote it down.
But we had another phrase to go and I was ready to press on. Cody beat me to it. Without me telling him anything, he picked out the last phrase all by himself. (To tell you the truth, I was hoping this would happen.) I was ecstatic. Grinning all over myself.
So I said to him (pardon my grammar, it just came out like this): “Damn, if you ain’t professional!”
To which he responded: “Oh, hell yeah.”
Then thinking I should brag him up a little more, I added, “I’m so proud of you for doing that.”
Cody: “Yeah, I’m a bad ass.”
And he says all of this with such a boyish grin and such laid-back, ingenuous charm that I am simply in stitches. Just one of the perks of being a teacher of the bluegrass. (I can’t quite see this happening in a classical music setting.) Again, happy girl! That’s me! (And that’s no April Fool’s either! Had to at least give it a mention!)