Mississippi Chris Sharp

Just glad to be here!

 ©2005-2009 John Christopher Sharp/All Rights Reserved

My friend, Pat Flory, a very talented individual, has been writing a story called "A Mighty Event". This story is appearing in installments on a Yahoo Group called "DEEPGRASS"".  If you've been to many Bluegrass festivals, no doubt, you will recognize many of the characters; perhaps, you will recognize yourself. I did, and had to laugh.

Nothing is sacred from the irony, humor, and analysis of Pat Flory. Until the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Pat , an architect, served on New Orlean's VIEUX CARRE commission, preserving the historical integrity of that unique part of American architectural wonder. Pat is an authority on old buildings, a fine musician, a train enthusiast and expert, and apparently a fine writer.

Dealing with the loss of his job, and TWO homes after Hurricane Katrina (New Orleans and Pass Christian, Mississippi), Pat has earned the right to display his own brand of ironic cynicism, in his own most enlightening manner. If you see yourself in his writings and get angry, then learn to have a sense of humor about yourself. Life is no fun if we take ourselves too seriously.

Pat has given me his permission to publish "A Mighty Event" here. Thanks, Pat, for allowing us all to read this. It is offered with no editorial changes, only those of format. The first Three Installments are posted below. Everything beyond this point is ©2006 Patrick Flory, and may not be copied, distributed or otherwise used or reproduced without permission.

(Note): Very few "outsiders" have been privileged to view this portion of the "festival". Your camera crew had to film this portion with very long telephoto lenses and distance-sensitive microphones with big dishes, while hidden in the outlying brush around the grounds. It is about 5 PM on Monday at the Mighty-Event. About 20 RVs have gathered in the stifling heat of the the day, but the lengthening shadows and impending cooler breezes of the approaching evening awake the napping bluegrassers inside the cool, shade-drawn RV's spotted around the grounds.

Ralph-the-bluegrasser, resplendent in his American-flag shirt, pressed stretch-Levis with a round Skoal-can in the back pocket, black Wal-Mart cowboy boots, all topped off by a "Bluegrass-Forever" baseball cap, takes his shiny-new-highly-polished Martin D-28 out in seach of a jam. Immediately he spots the RV of Fellow-Retired-Bluegrassers Fred and Edna, almost identically outfitted with spinning birds and goofy party lanterns. Fred-the-bluegrasser is a banjo player, and he has been working on his gold-plated Stelling banjo all afternoon in the air-conditioned RV....... tightening the head, slightly loosening it, then tightening it again, while trying out fifteen different bridges........ desperately trying to get airport-tarmac volume and what he thinks is "pre-war-tone" all at the same time. Fred also incessantly wipes the gold-plated metal parts down.... after all, he bought the most expensive instrument there is, based on the basic bluegrasser assumption that "the more you spend, the better you pick".

Well before Ralph gets to Fred's RV, he can hear Fred incessantly dinging away on the 5th-string, never satisfied with its pitch ...... despite the fact that the electronic tuner clamped onto his banjo flange says that it is perfectly in tune. Ralph ambles up as only an ole country boy can and sez..... "How-do, Ralph, been awhile"..... despite the fact that they were both at the same "festival" last week. The long-range microphone has trouble picking up their conversation with the distance and wind noise, but at least an hour goes by with Ralph and Fred almost motionless in the lawnchairs, "visiting", but not "picking". Edna emerges from the RV with some sandwiches and Kool-Aid in a pitcher, Myrtle shows up, and they have a light supper. About this time, Joe-Bob the mandolin player shows up, and now a jam is possible.

After they all dine quite leisurely in the soft glow of the silly lanterns hanging around the edge of the pull-out awning, and Myrtle and Edna retire inside the RV for hen-talk, the exercise known as "tuning" begins. Despite the fact that all of these bluegrassers have electronic tuners, they never truly get in tune, since all rely totally on the tuners, unable to understand the fine physical nuances peculiar to each instrument that are critical to final tuning. The mandolin player Joe-Bob is the worst, since he can never get a pair of strings to be truly indentical in pitch. This is amplified by the fact that, in trying to be Just-Like-Bill, he has bought an imported mandolin with a scroll that Actually-Looks-Like-Bill........... but Joe-Bob has spent all of his money on appearance, not sound, and Joe- Bob's Far-East mando can never do any better than a tin-can-tone....but Joe-Bob "does" at least LOOK LIKE BILL.

The hidden cameras capture a couple of other similar scenes in the twilight distance at other RV's, some lighted by Coleman lanterns as the mosquitos and moths trying to get to the jammers swarm around the perimeter defined by the odor of "Off" spray and smoke-candle repellants.

Next........... the first "jam"

Part Four- A Monday Night Jam.

After an evening repast of lunch-meat/mayonnaise sandwiches and Kool-Aid, bluegrassers Ralph, Fred, and Joe-Bob go through a painful and vain attempt to tune their instruments, in spite of their reliance on the Intellitouch tuners co-joined to their instrument headstocks.

Bluegrass-spouses Myrtle and Edna excuse themselves into the RV for extended hen-chatter. Both of them have string basses that they drag around to every festival, their RV's make this easy, but both of them have a bass only to make an appearance of "participating" in the music with their fanatic-picking husbands. Both Myrtle and Edna barely thump out mere basics, play only when greatly wheedled into doing so, and would much rather quack with other similar bluegrass-spouses in the cool comfort of the RV, while needlepointing yet another banjo/music-note/flower-encrusted denim vest.

After a few minutes of vainly trying to tune, Ralph proclaims "that's good enough for bluegrass!" Then they launch into their first tune, "Bluegrass Cabin Home", in the key of B to be Just Like Bill, even though this was not one of Bill's songs. Ralph, like a lot of bluegrass jammers, has an undistinguised hoarse voice with all of the edges sanded off. He can barely hit the notes at all, but Joe-Bob comes in on a tenor anyway, which clearly cuts through to the inside of the RV, making Myrtle and Edna wince, and Edna's toy poodle jump up and bark.

Thankfully, Fred the banjo player, like most banjo players, does not sing, but rather devotes himself entirely to being Just Like Earl. He grinds away at full volume right through the singing and the mandolin parts ........ explaining when interviewed that it's Just Like Earl Did It.... but leaving out the part where Earl backed away from the mic when not featured.

The precise moment that the song is finished, Fred immediately starts dinging away on the fifth-string, imagining it to be out of tune. Joe-Bob tries again to get his pairs of mandolin strings tuned together, but never has yet and never will. Ralph, feeling strained after singing in B, proclaims, "Man, if we did this all the time we could go on the road!", despite the fact that the three of them not only play the same songs together nearly every week, but they also play them in mostly the same order every week.. and they literally ARE "on the road" almost every week as well at some of many events just like this one.

They proceed through the same songs they do every week ......... "Blue Ridge Cabin Home", "Old Home Place", "Doing My Time", "I'll Fly Away", "Will The Circle Be Unbroken", "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" ............etc etc etc etc. The string bass in the RV lies idle, Edna is too busy carrying on about her grandchildren with Myrtle. Between every song is at least 15 minutes of "visiting"...........Ralph, Fred and Joe-Bob almost motionless in the arm chairs, slowly making proclamations about this or that with great consideration, changing out their pinch or ejecting chew-residue around the corner of the RV. In this manner, it takes maybe three hours to get through the few songs they know. This is good, because it keeps them from getting into songs that they "don't" know.

Around 9 or so, Ralph finally sez..... "well, been a long day, gotta save my energy for tomorrow". It takes another 15 or 20 minutes of philosophizing and chew-ejecting for them to really get up though. Myrtle senses that the jam is over, the ritual being weekly, and comes out of the RV. Myrtle's main job at the Event is to take care of Ralph, and she has thoughtfully done so again, having brought along a flashlight to find their way back to their own RV. They uneventfully find their way back to their RV, unaware of the impending danger that lurks in the darkness.

P "suspense" F

A Mighty Event - Part 6 - Morning Finally Breaks1

2:01 AM Tuesday Morning:

The 20 or so RV's on the Event grounds are darkened, windows covered with dew from the hyper-chilling air-conditioners humming away on top of the units. Since everyone in them is well over retirement age, lots of snoring and snorting is going on inside but mercifully the air conditioning hum contains the rhinoceros-like tones inside the units.

The scream heard earlier from Joe-Bob being hit by a needle-spray of 32 degree water inside the pull-chain bath house shower, trying to wash off the red clay mud from his complete-horizontal-forward-spill behind Ralph's RV, was clearly heard across the grounds, but mostly muted inside the RV's by the air conditioners. Those that did hear it thought that it was someone's teenage grandchildren engaged in boredom-generated nefarious activity of some kind, and discounted it. Joe-Bob himself, near cardiac arrest, emerged from the bath house fully clothed but drenched, having decided to shower with his clothes on to get the tenacious, viscous red evil stuff off. However, the wet cold clothes actually felt comfortable in the warm evening as he retreated to his tent for the night.

One RV, however, is still lighted in one corner at 12:01 AM on Tuesday morning, and it is the banjo-player Fred's. Ever since the earlier jam that evening, Fred has been intensely working on his banjo, trying to get it even louder for the next-day's jams. Fred has a little drawstring bag with at least 25 banjo bridges in it, and he has been trying each one out with successively tightened head tensions, each measured precisely by a metered wrench. The variables unavailable to Fred, requiring his shop at home for execution, are change-outs of the tone ring and the tailpiece......... but Fred is already silently cursing the items currently installed and plotting his next moves in that arena. Fred contemplates a cell-phone call in the morning to order a new tone ring, so that it can be waiting at the house when they get home Saturday night. Fred knows, however, that Joe "Pro" Moater's event grounds are well beyond the reach of any cell-phone coverage areas, and he curses under his breath again, knowing that Plan B will involve a trip to a pay phone in the nearest town, at least 20 miles away. Time passes and Fred eventually passes out from exhaustion and metal anguish in the chair in front of his partially dissected banjo. Edna has long since given up on Fred and retired into the back room, cool and dark, with their annoying toy poodle curled up with her.

Over in Ralph's RV, the temperature has risen to near 90 since Joe- Bob tripped over and disconnected the electric feed for the AC. Ralph is too knocked-out from the jam to wake up in the stifling heat, but his sleep pattern is is not even and he keeps Myrtle awake by tossing and turning and snoring and snorting and worse. Myrtle thinks that the poor dear was finally considerate in keeping the RV warm for her and that he is suffering on her account....... but she does wish that he would enter a lower conscious state and fall still and silent. For once, though, Myrtle is not cold, and she is happy for that.

So................. nocturnal peace and solitude finally envelope the grounds of The Mighty Event........ and the dark quiet hours pass silently (except for the droning RV AC units) ...... finally greeting a pink sliver of dawn in the eastern skies.

Next- The Second day of The Mighty Event.

PF

Part 8 - the second day continued - early morning
6:30 AM Tuesday:

As the rising sun begins to make itself known through the tall tree rows lining the rounds to the east, Joe "Pro" Moater finishes his morning maintenance rounds and manages to escape just as life begins to stir inside the RV's. Pro really doesn't want anyone to see him in his work clothes, he prefers to mingle among his guests wearing a dark suit and white hat just like in the old photo supposedly but incorrectly depicting him as a featured performer in the band of one of bluegrass music's greatest early legends.

In Fred's RV, Fred jerks to consciousness in his chair and realizes that he fell asleep while working on his banjo, and a lightning bolt of red-alert-hyper-awareness of his incomplete bridge/head tension work whips through him. Very awake very suddenly, Fred goes into a frenzied state, undecided whether he needs to assuage his starving hunger or fix his banjo first. In a fit, Fred leaps up and accidentally kicks the banjo case over, freaking out Edna's toy poodle in the bedroom. The dog immediately starts yap-barking and yap-snarling, and immediately loses it on the shag carpet. Edna startles awake suddenly from deep slumber and jumps up to see what is going on. Just as the piercing and humid malodorous wave hits her olfactory, she barefoots the dog's fresh calling card deep into the shag threads. Simultaneously, at the exactly-wrong-moment, Fred, unaware of what has just befallen Edna, and that her tension-meter has pegged well past the breaking-point deep into the red zone, rather sharply demands where breakfast is. An extremely volatile domestic situation has indeed generated within a mere 30 seconds or so, one equaling the Cuban Missile Crisis in intensity.

Not far away, in Ralph's RV, Myrtle is deep in a mercifully-finally-achieved state of deep unconsciousness after a night of being kept awake by a restless Ralph. The AC has finally been restored by Pro, and is cooling the interior just below 80 at the moment, but Myrtle is too far gone to be shivering in the cold. The cooling breeze has soothed Ralph into blissful slumber, and the windows are finally beginning to fog up like the other RV's. Pro's timely intervention has averted disaster.

Meanwhile, in a raggedy tent, Joe-Bob the mandolin player has stirred awake. His cold shower the previous evening, while an erstwhile death-like experience, actually cooled him down so much that he rested quite well. Joe-Bob always attends the events alone since his wife hates bluegrass, and his sartorial level is accordingly lower than the wife-driven attire of the RV bluegrassers. Joe-Bob's bib-overalls are draped over the barbed wire fence behind his tent, attempting to dry in the sauna-like humidity, so he digs out a dark-navy-blue oil-stained mechanic-garage coverall suit, with an elastic waistband. On the front is a patch that reads "Main Street Service" and the other side, another one that reads "Joe-Bob". Having suited-up, Joe-Bob sees his dirty feed-store cap right outside of his tent, knows that Pro is on top of things, and completes his outfit.

Since Joe-Bob has no wife present to take care of him at the events, he is always scrounging for food at the RV's, and is rarely disappointed since the RV campers are generally very friendly and generous. He detects the odor of breakfast wafting from other RV's across the grounds and wanders over, successfully scoring breakfast at the first one encountered. Joe-Bob's host asks him, "Boy, did you hear that bob-cat last night? He must have been HUGE!!!!". Joe-Bob, too embarrased to admit the truth, says no, he didn't hear anything.

The RV of Ralph is silent, however, except for the humming AC, and will remain so a good while longer while the exhausted occupants repose in a deep paralyzed slumber. The hum of Fred's AC very mercifully covers the piercing discourse occurring inside.

As the sun rises higher above the trees, however, jams are anticipated, and the mood around the grounds generally is of cheer however. Breakfast is being cooked on outdoor grilles, and somewhere between the distant RV's, the first tentative notes of a banjo can be heard drifting in the wind.

PF

Part9

10:00 AM

 Fred and Edna, miraculously, quickly overcame their earlier differences, and had they been younger would have never come out of the RV today, and instead be inside steaming up the windows and rocking the vehicle. Instead, they are sitting outside their RV under their lantern-festooned awning eating a hearty country breakfast, watching the bird-things on sticks spin in the gentle Southern breeze. Fred has done his best to get his banjo ready for jamming, and his pulse quickens as he hears more and more banjos cranking up here and there. Fred knows, and regrets, that his banjo is not truly at its best and that it probably is not currently the loudest one on the grounds. He grumbles to himself that he should had made a extra five cups of coffee to stay awake and properly finish the job. The truth, however, is that Fred will never finish the job, and will always be an unhappy soul unable to truly attain final banjo-nirvana within his eternal set-up work.

A couple of RV's over, Ralph and Myrtle are stirring into an awake condition, in an RV chilled to the approximate temperature of a meat-locker. Ralph yawns and says "Boy did we sleep a long time! I was dreaming that I was playing with Bill Monroe on a tour around the world right at the equator, and Bill never did let us take off the suit coats!" Myrtle is shivering almost uncontrollably, thinking that Ralph finally got up and turned the thermostat colder after having let her be warm all night and suffering because of his love for her. She is very happy in her belief that Ralph could still think of being nice, starts to get a romantic notion, but then realizes their age and instead starts thinking not only about what kind of nice breakfast she can fix him, but also that she might actually play the bass later on.

Joe-Bob has already passed by Ralph's RV a couple of times, wondering why the customary early-risers are so late getting up, and not realizing that he had accidentally pulled the plug on them last night. He has been around some of the other RV's, watching some of the more fanatic banjo-players already grinding away and hoping that some unwary guitar player will come around. Joe-Bob has heard about last night's bob-cat a couple of more times, almost uncontrollably laughing to himself about how his name and the type of cat are so similar, the absurdity of the whole incident, yet embarrassed to tell anyone that it was he in the shower making the horrible screech, not a wild-cat. He doesn't think anyone saw him coming out, so he stays quiet.

Ralph and Myrtle finally emerge, somewhat dressed down since the formal jamming hours have not actually begun. Ralph has on a pair of regular Levis, a "It Ain't Bluegrass Without Martin Guitars" T-shirt, some loafers, and a CF Martin boonie-hat. .... all pledging Ralph's eternal dedication to the Martin guitar.......... even though some early photos of Ralph in the navy show him playing a Gibson J-45. 

Ralph's quasi-military white hair and white mustache, left over from his days as a navy copter pilot, are perfectly aligned and groomed, however, as always. Myrtle is wearing brand-new Wal-Mart dark-blue denim ladies trousers and a polyester plaid short-sleeved shirt. Ralph and Myrtle see Fred and Edna almost everywhere, so they trade-off breakfast duties. They go to Fred and Myrtle's RV, hoping that something is left to eat, which it is. Ralph regales Fred with his dream about Bill Monroe's equatorial tour, and Myrtle shows Edna some more pictures of her grandchildren that she had not broken out yet.

A few more RV's are trickling in. a couple of banjo players are starting to walk around looking for jams. Tuesday is well under way. 

PF

A Mighty Event - Part 10 - the second day - noon

(Errata: Author's note: At the end of part 9, an RV was erroneously referred to as "Fred and Myrtle's" Now, be advised ........... there is ABSOLUTELY NO HANKY PANKY going on here....... Ralph is married to Myrtle and Fred to Edna, have been for decades, are happy, and that's the way it is.)

12 Noon Tuesday:

Even though a couple of banjo players were out looking for a jam, the Southern mid-day heat has driven them back into their air-conditioned RV's. Ralph and Myrtle have gone back as well, still pretty tired from their long wearying night with the AC cut off, and are thinking about resting some more as well.

The only person on the ground without an air-conditioned RV is Joe-Bob the mandolin player. Since Joe-Bob's wife detests bluegrass and never goes to festivals, she will not approve the cash outlay required for any kind of camper vehicle, and Joe-Bob is reduced to staying in a tent. Joe-Bob has not yet retired either, unlike just about everyone else on the grounds, so he does attend virtually every "event" every week within a 300 mile radius. Joe-Bob managed to get an electric cord run to his tent for a fan, and he is lying motionless inside in front of the fan, trying to stay cool in the 95 degree, 110% humidity Southern noontide.

Even though the "event's" first scheduled activity is a fish-fry on Wednesday night with gospel singing, at least 35 RV's have come into the grounds by now, and more are arriving constantly. A dust cloud perpetually hangs in a haze because of the RV traffic density. The dust in the air settles on guitar strings, is driven in by the players playing and sweating, and reduces the tone of every Martin on the ground to that of an oil-filled gourd. The end result is that every "guitar player" (the term is very loose, most do not even know how to make an individual bass-note within a chord) on the grounds is, at this moment, fanatically changing his guitar strings inside his RV, trying desperately to get Tony Rice's snappy clear tone........... even though Tony's recording guitar is a very fine vintage Herringbone as compared to the totally-green brand-new shiny Martins at the "event", all of Tony's records are made with brand-new strings in hermetically sealed studios, and Tony almost never plays in such a dusty environment. This will happen repeatedly every day throughout the "event", and used guitar strings will cover the grounds like shields, swords, and bodies after the Battle Of Troy.

The "guitar players" outnumber all the other pickers by at least three-to-one at every "event", and banjo players are a close second. In chronic and critical shortage are fiddles and string basses. Myrtle has decided to actually play her bass later on in the cool of the evening, in appreciation for (what she thought was) Ralph's consideration with the RV temperature the night before.

In an RV across the way are a couple we have not met yet, Harold and Gertrude. In habit and dress they are almost identical to everyone else on the grounds. Gertrude, however, is a hammered-dulcimer player. The hammered-dulcimer is not considered a "bluegrass instrument" by a long shot, but she got one anyway after becoming enamored with the thing in Mountain View Arkansas a few years back. Harold has a new shiny Martin like everyone else here, but prefers to play an Autoharp, believing that it not only mixes well with Gertrude's playing, but that the combination of these blues-note-free instruments represents some kind of "mountain purity", along with a sort of hard-to-define other-wordly aura as well..... free of all ties to worldly music like blues, jazz, and rock; since those forms never use Harold and Gertrude's instruments. Therefore, Harold and Gertude are confident that they are not associated with any sort of earthly musical vulgarity of any kind.

Tuning both of these instruments is a hellatious and tortuous experience, yet Harold and Gertrude do it every day, and they are doing it now. Eventually they will take them outside the air-conditioned RV to jam, where they will immediately go out of tune in the heat. That doesn't matter much, though, since both Harold and Gertrude pretty much have tin ears and can't really hear minor-but-annoying tuning discrepancies.

Next: Part 11, The Evening of the second day.

Part 11

5:30 PM Tuesday:

The hottest part of the day is here. Even the die-hard pickers have been driven to air-conditioned RV refuge, except RV-less Joe Bob......... who yet lies motionless in front of the aerodrome-like fan in his tent.

However, once again as yesterday, the lengthening shadows promise some sort of jamming as soon as the Great Solar Engine descends in late afternoon majesty behind the western treeline. Ralph and Myrtle have awoken from their nap, and are suiting up in their finest bluegrasser regalia for the evening festivities......... the flag shirt for Ralph, the embroidered denim vest for Myrtle, etc. etc., all described in great detail in yesterday's accounts.

Fred has not napped a wink, but instead has been obsessively and frantically working on his banjo to make it even louder still.......despite the fact that it can very clearly be heard outside the RV over the air-conditioning hum and the sound of a large generator someone else has cranked up nearby. Fred's non-stop tunng, retuning, partial song playing, and scratching bridge-sliding has kept Edna up even though she desperately wanted to nap, being emotionally worn out after her unsanitary barefoot encounter with the fragrant-canine-leavings early this morning. She did manage to sleep a little bit earlier, when Fred went to the nearest pay phone 20 miles away, his cell phone being being useless out here, to order the 25th tone-ring he has tried.

Harold and Gertrude, long hours later, are still tuning the hammered dulcimer and the autoharp. Their intellitouch tuner says that the tuning is perfect, but neither Harold nor Gertrude are advanced musically enough to understand what "temper tuning" means, think that there is something wrong with the tuner, and begin to experience heightened anxiety that they might not sound very good later......despite the fact that they never really do ever sound what one could call "great".

Joe "Pro" Moater is on his way to the grounds in his dark suit and white hat, from the early band picture, that supposedly document his elevated status in having been in the band of a god-like early bluegrass icon........ a false story that Pro has allowed to perpetuate itself and now has spun into a barely sustainable myth that could implode at any minute, making Pro look like a complete goofball. His wife Diane "Dee" Moater accompanies him on this trip, and they will make the RV rounds and personally greet all of the regulars. Even "Dee" does not really know the deep dark truth about Pro, and he is constantly on the lookout for any slippage in the story.

Although the first actually scheduled "event" event is a fish-fry tomorrow night, the "event" grounds are very well-populated, most of the week-in week-out "event" regulars are already there, circulating and "visiting". Almost anyone entering the grounds after this point will be what some disparagingly call a "day" attendee.......... a person unfortunate enough to not be retired, have a large RV and have all week to hang around the "event" grounds ....... someone that might by some be considered not a true devotee of the music. It will be tomorrow or even Thursday before anyone fitting this description will arrive...... but they WILL arrive.

Next: Part 12: A Tuesday night jam

P "No RV" F

Part 12

7 PM Tuesday:

 The Great Solar Engine has now descended in celestial majesty below the western treeline, but orange rays still filter through to the RV's on the perimeter of the Mighty Event.

Ralph-The-Bluegrasser, Fred-The-Bluegrasser, and Joe-Bob--The-Bluegrasser have gathered for an earl-evening jam at Ralph and Myrtle's RV. Myrtle has grilled cheeseburgers for supper. Joe-Bob, always at a loss for food at the "event", came early and had three. His wife's bad attitude toward bluegrass and festivals ensures that Joe-Bob will never travel well-provisioned or well-sheltered. He is a scrawny, skinny, scruffy character, always in his worn-out overalls or as tonight, his auto-shop coveralls with "Joe-Bob" on the front pocket. Nevertheless, Joe-Bob, Ralph, and Fred are pretty tight and have been jamming for years at the "events".

Myrtle brings out the bass to play without being begged to as usual, to be nice in return for what she thought was Ralph's considerate setting of the RV thermostat. Ralph, not knowing what is going on, acts pleased, but he really wishes that she would put it away and not play, since Myrtle is, to politely put it, "awful" on the bass. Ralph usually asks her to play bass only to be nice, knowing that she normally refuses, and that is usually the end of it. However, tonight is a different story.

At Harold and Gertrude's RV, the hammered dulcimer and the autoharp have been brought outside, and immediately go out of tune in the heat and humidity.They never truly were in tune, but Harold and Gertrude are confident in the abilities of the Intellitouch tuner, and they can't hear the tuning's slippage anyway. Harold and Gertrude are repulsed by, and in fear of, any worldly music with a blue-note or flatted third of any kind. Of course they are unaware that both Monroe and Flatt played and sang many such notes, but that is not relevant here. It is good that they play instruments that incapable of uttering such sounds. They almost exclusively play songs like "Ill Fly Away", "I Saw The Light", and old hymns like "in The Garden" or "Sweet Hour Of Prayer".

The hammered dulcimer immobilizes Harold and Gertrude, so they are dependent on others to come join them. Like Ralph and Fred, however, they have been playing with almost the very same bunch for many years, and the bunch always comes to their RV. This group is pretty much cloned from Fred and Gertrude in their musical preferences and skill levels. They really don't like anyone new coming into their circle to play, comfort is had with the familiar in this case.

One night a few years back, a very-hairy-hippie day-camper did not get a good initial read on this jam, and plowed right into the middle of the circle with a heavy-alcohol-breath- supersonic harmonica blast. Harold, Gertrude, and the rest were simultaneously mortified, terminally offended, and convinced of the fellow's beyond-salvation position. They never made eye contact with the guy, closed the circle tighter than Fort Knox, and bad-vibed the dude right out of there. Of course, the word got around the event about the hippie, who was never allowed to penetrate a jam anywhere. Conversely, when the hippie got back to town, he told everyone he ran into about what a bunch of self-righteous jerks he had run into out there. As a result, at least 20 city people who had thought about trying to find the "event" blew it off, and will never go now.

Not far away is a group or three or four ol' boys who like to pick but would much rather hunt. They are hanging around a muddy jacked-up pickup with huge wheels and a cab-roof spotlight rack, wearing their camouflage outfits and ejecting chew on the ground. They are very keyed-up, talking about the bob-cat they heard last night, knowing that the presence of a bob-cat means good local wildlife conservation which promises a great deer season later on this year.

Next: Part 13

PF

Part 13

9:30 PM

The Great Lunar Orb, completely full tonight, has ascended above the eastern treeline of the Event Grounds in cheese-yellow/gigantic majesty. It has now become a pure white and is brilliantly lighting the grounds, enough to throw fabulous and mystical shadows from the trees.

Under the glow of the silly awning lanterns, the jam at Ralph's RV has gone pretty much as it did last night, with Ralph, Fred, and Joe-Bob doing the same worn-out songs in the same order... but with one major exception..... MYRTLE played the bass. She was, is, and always be, a dud on the instrument, plodding along with some notes just barely ahead of the beat, and others slightly behind, all with no dynamic variation in the volume. All of this truly and completely destroys the only group she ever plays with... Ralph, Fred. and Joe-Bob.......... making adherence to any kind of steady beat a true ordeal. Myrtle played only to be nice to Fred, Fred acted like he was pleased only to be nice to her, and the other boys put up with it only because Ralph and Myrtle are old friends. Myrtle is so sweet in her disposition and appearance, however, it is very hard to be angry with her at all, and no one truly is. Nevertheless, this entire group is in great need of communication-skill-counseling.

At Harold and Gertrude's RV, music playing concluded quite a bit earlier. A couple of regulars showed up to pick, none of them noticed the grossly out-of-tune condition of the hammered dulcimer and the autoharp, but it didn't matter since the extra players were all out of tune as well. Of course, a lot of visiting went on between songs, and ... as in every time they get together.... the story of the time when the hippie interrupted their jam came up. It never fails to simultaneously raise the level of their blood-pressure, pity, and concern for the dude's afterlife, which makes for a very interesting conversation. Harold and Gertrude's awning lanterns are turned off now, and their AC hums peacefully, frosting up the windows.

The hippie has been the conversation of the ol' boy hunters around the muddy jacked-up Hank Jr. pickup truck as well, they remember him very well, but not as you would think. When the hippie was ostracized from the jams here that night years back, the ol' boys spotted him wandering around and were about to set upon him, when, unaware of what was about to happen, the hippie pulled out a hidden flask and asked them if they wanted a nip. Of course they did, and even though they had their own fuel in well-hidden abundance already, they recognized a kindred spirit. It was not unlike seeing a dog and cat pal around together as you sometimes see, very unlikely friends but great ones nonetheless. The hippie and the ol' boys had an incredibly fabulous time that evening.......... the hippie telling them about some trips down to Mexico and the hunters telling him about some of their own exploits in the woods, as well as enjoying watching some of the hippie chicks at the past "festivals" that preceded this "event" years ago, very openly daylight-skinny-dipping in Pro's creek-fed pond.... incidentally nearly putting a younger Harold and Gertrude into cardiac arrest.

Joe "Pro" Moater has been circulating on the grounds with his wife Diane "Dee" Moater, meeting and greeting his regulars. At one RV, though, dire fate awaited Pro. When Pro walked up in his dark suit and white hat, supposedly from his time with the Great Bluegrass Legend, the guy at the RV said, "Pro, I brought an old friend with me tonight who used to play with The Great Legend back then too, he has been wanting to meet you." Pro's heart immediately went into his throat in a softball-sized lump, but he managed to crimp his face into a used-car-salesman-smile and squeeze out a strong "glad to meet you, neighbor", firmly shaking the guy's hand while hoping that the guy couldn't feel his pounding pulse. The former player, really up in age but still alert, squinted very hard at Pro and said "that's funny, I was so-and-so a pretty good while back then, but I don't think I remember you, son". Pro, really twitching internally with a heart rate accelerated beyond-max, managed to keep a poker face and said something like he really didn't play with The Great Legend that long due to family commitments, he worked in a lot of odd dates....emphasizing that it WAS a VERY long time ago and he couldn't remember the exact dates anymore, implying that the older fella probably couldn't either. Remarkably, the old man relaxed, saying yeah, you're right, it probably was just before or after, glad to meetcha anyway. A stand-down worthy of calling off a Cold-war Dew-line SAC-scramble ensued, with Pro slowly regaining his internal composure.

Of course, "Dee" had no idea of what happened. Pro's story still stood like a towering but leaning monument with incipient structural cracks all around the bottom, ready to fall hard if the very least but proper pressure would be exerted.

Next, Part 14

P "worried for Pro" F

Re: A Mighty Event, Part 14: Very Late Tuesday Evening
11:00 PM:

Relative silence has peacefully descended upon the grounds of the Mighty Event. The full-moon-of-perfection is high in the sky and incredibly bright, well illuminating the scene. Ralph, Myrtle, Fred, Edna, Harold, Gertude, and all the other RV folks are noisily sawing logs in their antarctic sleeping quarters. Earlier, Myrtle found a goose-down-vest under some hatch-thing in the RV, put it and two more flannel gowns on making a toal of four gowns, and at last she is as happy as Ralph, who is snorting away blissfully in his skivvies with the covers kicked off.

A lone figure makes his way in the moonlight to the "bath house". It is Joe-Bob, but he is not going for a shower. He is going because, being RV-less, he does not have his own sanitary facility. Normally, for less urgent activity, Joe-Bob and every other male present can,and do, make use of the nearest brush-line, but this is a much more serious matter.

Joe-Bob fears this part of the event the worst. It is the one time that he is completely dependent upon the generosity of Joe "Pro" Moater........... which is normally good everywhere else, but always low in this aspect. Knowing well of the usual presence of foul, fetid water on the floor under a non-functional open wood grid, Joe Bob has elected to change from his coveralls to cut-off jeans and his now-clean Monroe T-shirt, to avoid an unfortunate floor-dragging as he only once did. He also has wisely brought a "roll" with him, having already made another costly mistake only once in the now-distant past.

Pro has been putting off an upgrade of this facility for years. Almost no repeat customers use it much, so complaints are pretty non-existent. The whole event is pretty marginal anyway, but Pro always manages to get enough to take care of the most very important part, which is paying the bands as promised. An earlier festival operator not far away used to shaft his bands regularly, which meant that he eventually couldn't get anyone local to play for even cheap, and since he never would spring for a headliner, he went under. For all his flaws, Pro is very honorable with the bands.... but not with the bath house.

Joe Bob goes in, and to his relief, he sees that early that very morning, Pro fixed a slow leak under a sink, which allowed the concrete floor to dry, and removal of the nasty wood grid as well. Also, Pro installed new toilet seats and removed the split funky ones that had been there since the 70's. It gives cause for Joe-Bob to wonder what is going on with Pro. Still, the overall effect is yet of moldy neglect, and Joe-Bob makes a mental note to do Pro (and mostly himself) a favor, and before the next event, bring his pressure washer on site to deeply cleanse the whole shack down with bleach.

While going in, Joe-Bob took notice that the food-service operation vehicle had arrived late in the afternoon. Like the bath house, no regulars really depend on it, and no one knows what Pro's arrangement with these people is, but it is obvious that Pro either ain't putting much in or getting much out of it, or even cares at all. Known widely in the construction business as a "roach coach", this thing does not offer much to dispute the term. While no one has actually seen roaches, it wouldn't be hard to imagine them around. A self-fulfilling deal of sorts has evolved, where everyone in the know brings their own food and avoids the coach. The coach therefore becomes marginalized, and Pro won't attend to it much. Neither will a very good coach come to the event because of the paucity of customers. Therefore, the RC is a last resort for non-regulars, and they get by if they have to on cotton candy and boiled peanuts and maybe lunch-meat sandwiches. The coach came because tomorrow, Wednesday, will mark the beginning of day-camper arrivals who will do at least some small business with them.

The ol' boys are slowly working their way into their funky RV next to their huge truck, getting rid of their chew plugs and finishing off their last drops of volatile refreshment, and still talking about how they miss their hairy little buddy and wish that he would show up again one day. They are also hoping that they might hear the bob-cat again tonight, but that is fairly unlikely.

Next: Part 15

A Mighty Event, Part 15: Very, Very Early Wednesday Morning

2:00 AM

All is silent on the grounds of the Mighty Event, save for the humming of the AC units atop the RV's, cooling to interiors to a polar extreme for the slumbering, snorting occupants, and the puttering grumble of a generator that some bonehead is using to stay cool.

Joe-Bob is asleep in the lone tent on the grounds, in front of a large, droning shop fan that he purloined from his auto garage. He is actually fairly comfortable in the artificial breeze. Earlier in the evening, Joe-Bob had fairly marveled at the burst of energy that Joe "Pro" Moater had spent on the bath house, in fixing a small pipe leak and installing new toilet seats. Joe-Bob considered himself very lucky, recalling a story of horror that to this day circulates continually not only at this event but at all the other regional ones as well. It was at a very early spring event, long years back, that the victim went into the bath house in quite a hurry, seeking an immediate seat reservation. This particular person, under severe stress at the moment, was the very first one to enter the building in
months. Unknown to anyone, a colony of wasps had begun constructing a nest under the long-immobilized seat, and of course, when the victim hit the seat, the wasps scrambled to ward of the intruder. No one clearly knows whether to laugh or cry about the story, it really depends on the age and gender of the teller/listener..............with 12 year-old boys getting the biggest guffaw out of it.

In the northern skies, trouble is developing. While the moon is still bright, massive thunderheads are building with fitful lightning fully illuminating the majestic towering castles in the sky fully to their 50,000 foot altitude. a full anvil cloud is clearly visible on top, signaling the imminent approach of an event of colossal proportions. Thunder rumbles faintly, but growing nearer every time. No one hears any of this over the mechanical drone of the AC units, and in Joe-Bob's case, the large greasy shop-fan.

The pre-storm advance chilled-air torrent hits the grounds, but no one notice except Joe-Bob, who only subconsciously feels it and goes even deeper into REM-sleep, dreaming that he is finding a signed Lloyd- Loar-Gibson laying on the side of the road in perfect condition in its case that fell out of Grandma's car on the way to the flea market.

It's a bluegrass festival, and only naturally would one expect rain to fall, with the odds increasing exponentially with the arrival of the crowd. This one is no exception. Pro's event has regularly been inundated and saturated almost every time since he started it, enough that he has started keeping a tractor on hand to get cars out of the tenacious abyss that they often find themselves in. The moon has disappeared, the wind is really beginning to whip up, and terribly unfortunate circumstances begin manifest themselves. In an unusual lapse of attentiveness, Ralph-The Bluegrasser has left his Shiny-New-Martin HD-28 on a stand outside.

Next - Part 16.

Part 16: The Storm

3:00 AM Wednesday

 The impending maelstrom has reached the grounds of the event in great fury. Rain is blowing nearly horizontally, and the RV's are starting to rock, awakening a few occupants who roll themselves deeper in their snug, dry, cool cocoons. A white-hot flash of lightening, accompanied by an immediate atomic thunderclap, monetarily brightens the interiors of each RV so intensely that the awake see it as a photo negative. Anyone not yet awake is startled into being very alert.

Joe-Bob suddenly realizes that his tent is not up for this at all, scrambles into his coveralls, grabs his mandolin, and makes a run for the bath-house. As he exits, the tent falls over in a wet soggy pile. Joe-Bob slips and slides across the way, and tumbles a couple of times in the wet grass, but gets inside the bath house and out of risk.

Fred and Edna's toy poodle is freaking out, running all yapping and about to go up the walls and around the ceiling like Fred Astaire did in one of his old movies. Edna is extremely thankful that she walked the dog before retiring, but she realizes that this is no guarantee against a repeat performance of the day's earlier disaster in their RV, as the annoying animal (very descriptive slang term: "punt-dog") mindlessly scrambles, yaps and claws at the door in complete unawareness of how much worse it would be for him outside.

Ralph and Myrtle are very awake and very glad that they are secure and dry inside. Another thermo-nuclear lighting flash clearly illuminates the void where Ralph's guitar case ALWAYS sits, they being the "retentive" housekeepers that they are. The immediate thunderclap is not only in the air, but in Ralph's consciousness as well as, in a bolt of mental-white-hot-anguish, he sees the void that triggers the realization that his Shiny New Martin HD-28 is still outside. Ralph is still pretty trim and fit, a holdover from his military days, and he flies to the door faster than any Navy jet ever flew. Ralph fully engages the silly little 1/8" high metal threshold that is there for no other purpose than what it is very excellently doing right now. Having been in the military, Ralph's senses are keenly aware as he goes airborne and horizontal. Myrtle screams piercing and uncontrollably at the spectacle. While in the air, Ralph simultaneously sees via lightning flash the awning party lanterns flipping and dancing in rapid crazed fluctuating orbits, the bird-things spinning so fast that the props are no longer visible, a lawn-chair tumble crazily past the RV, and.............. the guitar case full of water out in the open.

Ralph makes a full belly-landing but his continued fitness program ensures that he is not only uninjured, he is able to leap up and immediately assess the situation. Ralph is kept from having cardiac arrest only by realizing that his awning is on the lee side of the wind and that his guitar is safe and dry, still in its stand against the RV. Ralph grabs it, writes off the case, and leaps back inside the RV into the waiting arms of Myrtle.

Ralph goes into stand-down mode, and everyone else is feeling quite secure when........ an even brighter lightning bolt/louder thunderclap than ever are accompanied by a simultaneous power failure over the entire grounds. Every RV AC kicks off. The occupants open their windows slightly to allow the currently cool air to keep things reasonable. At his nearby house, Pro has been awakened by the storm, but the power failure sends him into alert status, whereupon he puts on a slicker and rubber boots, and immediately heads to the grounds to see if he can do anything.

Next: Part 17

A Mighty Event, Part 17, Daybreak Wednesday Morning:

The approach of the summertide sun is apparent in the east. Torrents of storm water pour through the normally preaceful creek, and through the culverts under the entrance to the park.

Joe "Pro" Moater has been on the grounds since around 3:30 AM, busily attempting to ameliorate the effects of the intense early-morning thunderstorm directly over the Mighty Event. The power had kicked off over the entire grounds, but Pro found that a main breaker had tripped right at the park's service entry, forestalling damage to the RV's themselves. When the storm's abatement became apparent around 4 AM, he turned the power back on and every RV AC that was still activated sprang to life. Pro had wisely made the rounds earleir, though, and turned off about half the RV power boxes in advance, to prevent a breaker-tripping surge; after turning the main switch on he went around again and turned them back on one at a time. This level of care of the RV regulars has kept Pro in high esteem among the RV campers for years.

Most all of the campers went right back to sleep and their RV windows fogged right back up. Ralph, however, is growing sore in the ribs from his crash-landing experienced while saving his Shiny New Martin. Myrtle has made some coffee, knowing that Ralph can't sleep, and they are looking out their windows at the scene on the grounds.

While no real damage was done, lawn chairs and spinning-bird-sticks were blown all over the place, and lots of leaves are everywhere. The worst part is that, on the very day that the crowds will begin to arrive, all of the vehicle paths are now muddy and full of puddles, setting the stage for disaster that occurs every year at Pro's. Despite Pro's endless attempts to fill the ruts with gravel, the ruts are bottomless and will always be. Concrete driveways would be an ideal solution, Pro thinks, but he rejects the idea outright for two good reasons.... first, the money; and second, whoever heard of a bluegrass festival with concrete driveways?

On the stage, some of the equipment had already been set up. Though the stuff is covered, Pro has summoned his son Alexander Richard, a full-time electrician, to check everything out. "Alec Ric" Moater goes about his task assiduously and in great detail to assure that the stage portion of the Event will progress without interruption.  Joe-Bob is setting his tent back up, but will not get much rest after his harrowing night sitting in the bath house with his mandolin. Edna lets her punt-dog poodle out, who miraculously was able to contain himself during the tempest. Fred is up very early, working on his banjo yet again, unaware of the imminent surprise awaiting him. Edna lets the dog back in, and less than a minute later, Fred accidentally knocks his banjo bridge over, which hits the head with a resounding snap. The dog, right under foot and seeking shelter, still freaked out over the storm, leaps into full-alert-overdrive and immediately sinks its incisor canines to the hilt in Fred's ankle.

Fred's resulting involuntary arm-jerk sweeps 24 banjo bridges off of the table and into every imaginable crevice in the vehicle. Their very-end high-end RV is fortunately very-well insulated, containing not only the well-conditioned-air within but also Fred's choice of language, much of it forgotten since his Navy days.

Pro surveys his park with pride. Since he doesn't want to be seen in anything other than his Bluegrass-Legend-Suit, he will send one of his nephews out with a riding mower later in the morning to mulch up the leaves on the ground. He has already gone about restoring the lawn chairs to their former locations and sticking the uprooted spinning bird things back in their places. Despite the storm , the Event appears to be progressing satisfactorily and unimpeded.

PF

Next: Part 18, Gaining full speed

A Mighty Event, Part 18 - Wednesday Morning Crank-up
Wednesday Morning 10 AM:

The unofficial official first day of the festival is here. While no bands are scheduled, several local bands will arrive and stay at the event until the bitter end. A fish fry/gospel sing will be held tonight, and all 25 "guitar players" presently on the grounds will show up to play "rhythm" for the 4 banjo players and two mandolin players currently here.... although more players will probably show up today. Remember, "two" "bass players" are already here, but will not play.

Excitement is building on the grounds in that people are actually moving around slightly instead of motionlessly "visiting" in lawn chairs on astro-turf rugs below the RV awnings. The Roach Coach crew has arrived, non-bluegrassers all, to begin preparing whatever they need for whatever they are going to sell to whoever comes to their window. The same coach is seen at nearly every event..... the larger events having sometimes two or three..... and the superfluous fare is well known by all. Greasy, smelly smoke begins to spiral rapidly skyward from the noisy turbo-fan on top, formerly chrome but now decorated with copious runs of grease down the side.

A unique caravan appears at the gate, consisting of one RV and several vehicles, mostly pickup trucks but a rusty old van is among them as well. This is the first "band" to arrive", but this "band" is not "booked", and never is "booked" anywhere actually. This "band" will "practice" the entire time they are here and never go to the stage show or anywhere else. Very average pickers all, they have an fairly self-inflated self-view. Their practice sessions will have the appearance of a "jam session", and several loose players will attempt to join in, but none will succeed. New players of any kind, regardless of ability, are not welcome at this very tight circle, but crowds of admirers are welcome, and are expected by these guys who think that their next stop is Rounder Records.

When they start playing later on, these players will be remarkably identifiable by their continual and furtive sideways glances, trying to see what is going on at the circle perimeter without being noticed..... whether they are being admired or crashed by unwelcome players. Of course this behavior IS noticeable, and very silly to secure musicians who don't care if anyone is there or not.

Pro has activated the gate steadily today, mostly by wives of bluegrassers of all stripes. The skin-slitting day-glo bands are being applied to each entrant, who are also given a "schedule", which will have less and less meaning as time goes on.

A new character has arrived, a real piece of work known as Phil The Fiddler. Phil always dresses like he thinks a huge-star fiddler should dress at a large important fiddle contest: in full western regalia starting with a well-cut dark western suit, very expensive driven-to-extinction-animal cowboy boots, a gigantic western buckle that no guitar player could wear..... with a fiddle in the middle....... and a very wide-brimmed white dress western hat, with a huge silver pin of a fiddle place squarely on the front. The trouble with Phil is that he a truly a terrible fiddler, and no one wants him to play with them. Phil will wander around with his fiddle until finally a group will admit him, the kind that says that bluegrass ain't bluegrass without a fiddle, without thinking that how well the player can play really matters more.

A Mighty Event, Part 19, Wednesday Mid Day

Around noon, the event is finally beginning to feel like something other than a used-RV display area. Music is starting be heard coming from around corners of RV's.

Unfortunately, though, not all of the music being heard is what the RV campers want to hear. A very large, very new pickup truck has pulled into an area right between Ralph's RV and Fred's RV. One of these comes to every event seemingly, but why this one came today is a mystery. The 3 or 4 occupants, much younger than the rest of the RV campers, look and are dressed more or less like the country music stars Tim McGraw and Gretchen Wilson. These folks are engaged in "partying", whatever that means, but it usually means popped-open fuel cans disguised by bags or huggies or something. They have the radio, CD, or whatever cranked up to speaker-blowing volume, playing some current pop-country hit, and the reverberating electric bass and deep thumping drums carry far across the grounds.

That sound, plus the steel guitar, keenly annoy everyone here, but no one quite like Harold and Gertrude. Harold finally snaps, and goes to find Joe "Pro" Moater to complain. When advised of what is going on, Pro, being keenly aware of who pays his bills, goes over to politely have words with the group. Of course, Pro in his suit represent a mentality that these folks are not wont to readily agree with or even communicate meaningfully with, and they become very edgy. Pro finds it worthy to refund their money and ask them to leave, which they do. On the way out, though, they peel-out in the mud right at the entrance with the truck's huge mud tires, creating a gigantic and deep mud-hole which will vex Pro for the rest of the event.

The first "band" that came in earlier, the amateurs who always "practice" but never "gig", are already well-cranked-up under an RV awning, trying to impress everyone, and also getting ready for their perennial "supper-break" appearance tomorrow. No one really knows what "supper-break" means anymore, since wanna-be bands insure that the PA volume level is not only maintained when silence is ostensibly desired, but that performance quality levels are momentarily diminished accordingly.

They have already run off Phil The Fiddler, but have attracted a few admirers, which is why they are there. The all have Keyser capos and Intellitouch tuners co-joined to their instrument headstocks in some sort of bluegrasser-affirmation-display, but, like Ralph and Fred, none of them can tune up exceptionally well.

Fred has finally found most of his scattered banjo bridges in his RV, and is still fooling with every conceivable banjo adjustment he can do in the RV. Edna is silently yuk-yukking to herself about the dog biting Fred a few minutes earlier, in a sort of perverse get-back for when Fred caused a earlier chain of events that resulted in her barefooting of the dog's leavings.

A double-edged-sword is about to hit Fred. A friend of his knocks on the RV door with a box and, handing it to Fred, says, " I saw this on your porch this morning on the way out". It is Fred's new tone ring, sent Overnight Express by mistake and arriving much too early. Fred is thrilled and horrified at the same time. He has, in the box, the key to simultaneous nuclear-banjo volume and pre-war tone. However, he does not have the tools to properly install the ring here at the event. Fred paces neurotically back and forth in the RV, tripping over the yapping-snapping-poodle a couple of times, in a swirling conundrum, trying to decide whether to risk diving headlong into the pond or not.

Ralph and Myrtle are still marveling that Ralph's Shiny New Martin was not damaged after having been accidentally left outside in the storm. The molded guitar case with CF Martin embossed on the side, though, filled up with rain water and is a total loss. Myrtle is already trying to figure out some way to make a geranium planter or something out of it. Even though she is not hungry yet, she attentively fixes Ralph a ham sandwich so that he can be free to jam if he wishes. Ralph is pretty sore from his crash-landing, however, and needs help from Myrtle in getting through the flag-shirt sleeves.

Next: Part 20

A Mighty Event, Part 20: Countdown to the Fish Fry
4:00 Wednesday

The heart of the day is oppressive, and many RV campers have retreated into their air cooled refuges. The young and the over-eager however are jamming away at a couple of locations.

The amateur "band" "practicing" has never let up since they got here. A few pickers have tried to crash into their session and been bad-vibed out of there by under-the eyebrow glares and circle-tightening. A few people hang around and, to the great appreciation of these players who consider themselves greatly unappreciated, applaud now and then, egging the players on into higher keys and faster speeds, both of which are very much at their talent limits.

The banjo player starts skipping beats, and the typically hoarse-voiced lead singer strains very hard to sing Real High Just Like Bill, even though they are doing a bluegrass version of a Johnny Cash song right now. It's a good thing they don't have a fiddler. Phil The Fiddler tried to play with them earlier and was shunned…… but Bobby Hicks would have been shunned too if unrecognized. One night many years back, this same bunch shunned a couple of old fellas at another festival, it took a minute for someone to recognize that it was The Great Legend, still living at the time, and his fiddler, both looking for a jam for something to do and willing to play with guys like this for a change. The amateurs were the only ones jamming at the time, and did not recognize their heroes who were wearing jump-suits and ball caps instead of their stage clothes. The goofballs shunned the two, suddenly recognized them only as they were walking away, and could do nothing to turn back the clock. It has been a source of great shame for them, but they are still amazingly pretty unrepentant. They think that no one saw this, but the word has been around for a long time now, and they have never found out what everyone thinks of them.

When the errant loud-speaker pickup truck left earlier, at Pro's very polite urging, it departed in a bad-temper, glas-pac-dual-exhaust-roaring, protesting-great-spinning of huge-tires right at the entry gate. The booth and the ladies in the booth were completely stuccoed with red-clay spray, and very deep trenches were dug by the truck's oversized mud-tread tires. The ladies retreated to the bath-house pull-chain showers, and a variety of piercing glass-shattering shrieks was heard outside as the 33-degree water hit them.

Being in the daytime, however, these sounds did not fool the ol'boy hunters into believing a bob-cat was nigh. Pro got a nephew to clean up the booth and put a couple of other ladies at the booth, who continued to apply wrist-slitting day-glo arm bands to each entrant. The deep mud right at the most heavily traveled spot on the grounds worries Pro a lot, and he got another nephew to go get his tractor to keep on the grounds. Pro also ordered a load of crushed limestone that will be spread here, but it won't get here until Thursday or maybe Friday...not soon enough to completely forestall disaster when a nice big 50-foot RV will go down to the top of the hubs. The continuing stream of smaller vans and an occasional RV try hard to avoid the water and mud-filled trenches, but some get into the mess and are keeping the booth pretty messy.

The booth ladies are having to duck the foul spray and are getting pretty good at it. Since they know just about everybody that's come here for years, they are not fooled when a carload of bored kids tries to get in for free, saying that they are with such and such a band. The kids only saw a name on a flyer down the road at a convenience store, are looking for something to do, and claim that they are with such and such a band, but the only trouble is that the youngest band member is 59. They are politely turned away, and grouse as they have to drive all the way back to town to cruise on the strip, rather than carouse, skinny-dip, and annoy Harold and Gertrude's bunch.

Joe-Bob, having laid low earlier, resting in front of his shop-fan at his tent, heard jamming going on someplace, got his mandolin, went out and found music at the "amateur" "band" RV, but was shunned…again and as usual, since the same people see each other almost every year here at the park. Joe-Bob is kind of adventurous, but Ralph and Fred are pretty happy just playing music with each other and Joe-Bob. They are pretty friendly to wandering jammers, however, and there will actually be a few tonight.

Pro, in his suit, cannot do any work that would soil his appearance, so he has a bunch of guys getting the fish and the fry pots ready. It won't be long now, the event is about to go from "moribund" to "ripping"

Part 21: The Wednesday Night Fish Fry
7 PM

As most country people know, 7 PM is REALLY LATE for supper, but Joe "Pro" Moater puts it off till the sun is going down because of the heat. This is a uniquely Southern cultural gathering with a blessing prayer being said over the meal before anyone digs in. If any Yankees or Non-Christians were here, this would totally confound them, but there are none here tonight, and everyone is completely geared into the happening and totally on-track and in the groove. A preacher brought in for the occasion recites a very, very long blessing, not missing anyone who needs help in the world. Finally, the fish is laid out in platters on top of picnic tables covered with red-and-white-checked oil-cloth mats; the tables are already groaning with potato salad, French Fries, salad stuff, sliced tomatoes, bottles of Kraft French Dressing, and a large variety of diabetic-coma-inducing dump-cakes and stuff like that. Some of the larger ol' boys in size 56 overalls can really put away some serious fish, but scrawny Joe-Bob is right up there with them. Joe-Bob's wife never comes to these things, and since she really can't cook, this is probably the biggest and best meal Joe-Bob has had in a good while.

Afterwards, a "Gospel-Sing" is held, as it is every year. Since nuclear-picking or some attempt at it isn't the thing tonight, the "guitar players" abound. At least 15 have showed up. All have Intellitouch tuners permanently mounted on the guitar head, but, as usual, no one can really tune. When they start playing, none of them can keep very good time very well with the other ones. A nice quiet drummer would really help here, but since drums are the province of unenlightened worldly players, cardiac arrest would immediately claim half of the guitar players if a drummer actually showed up.

Notably absent are the ol' boy hunters. The whole fish-fry scene is not, politely put, "their thing". They are roasting some venison that they brought along over a grille next to their camo hunting-camp RV, and are heavily using up aluminum at a rate to not only terminally frighten any environmentalist, since they don't "recycle", but to give all the teetotaler campers each a massive coronary. They mention, as always, the hippie from years ago and remember that, despite how bad the guy looked, he was a pretty cool character that they enjoyed hanging with. Later on, they will pull out their instruments and pick a little among themselves, but doing stuff more like Hank Jr. and Charlie Daniels would have done. When the hippie pulled out his harp years back to play with them, these boys were the only ones on the grounds who welcomed his playing, which actually wasn't bad in absolute terms, i.e., not kicking it out because
it "isn't" "bluegrass".

Back at the gospel sing, Harold and Gertrude are totally in their element. They have brought over the out-of tune hammered dulcimer and the autoharp, and are pretty much leading the plodding, unsteadily-swaying music. Long ago, there once was a movie called "White Men Can't Jump", and someone here at this event, once referring to H&G as they are called here, said that someone ought to make a movie about players like that called "White People Can't Count". H&G literally cannot play the correct number of measures predictably or repeatedly in any song. The plodding and wandering nature of their renditions of the already slow old hymns is tortuous to listen to. Anyone trying to "follow" them simply cannot. Nor can a strong rhythm player, and there are none here tonight, pull them along; H&G are totally resolute and strong willed in their performance and will not be denied their leadership role.

Ralph has brought over his Shiny New Martin and is strumming along with the auditory disaster. Earlier, to be nice, Fred asked Myrtle to play her bass at the gospel sing, which she refused as always, which of course relieved Ralph since Myrtle is truly an awful bass player. Fred has his Stelling banjo half-apart trying to get his new tone-ring in; he decided to go for it despite having no tools here at the Event. He is not at the sing; he is manically trying to make the banjo work in his RV. Edna is doing what she likes to do best at these events, read a book. Their toy poodle is relaxed and asleep for a change.

The gospel sing will wrap up early and most will go back to their RV's to pass out before 9:30, but the possibility of an actual jam tonight lingers promisingly in the humid Southern air.

PF

A Mighty Event, Part 22: Later Wednesday Night
10:30 PM

The Fish-Fry Gospel-Sing finally wound down around 9 PM. Harold and Gertrude (H&G) were the very last ones there, to the bitter end, reluctant to relinquish their rare moment-of-visibility. They rarely get to be the focus of much of anything but their need to be in the spotlight is as strong as any amateur bluegrass player, which is pretty strong. If microphones had been present at the Gospel Sing, H&G would have been steady as an oak tree centered right on it, not giving anyone else a chance to even come close.

Joe "Pro" Moater and Phil the Fiddler was quite a sight at The Sing in their respective suits. Phil tried to play fiddle with the group, scraped the bow continually, and played out of tune a lot, but even he couldn't follow the rambling, meandering, erratic measures and missed beats. Pro, of course, is very untalented, and if he actually ever played in front of anyone, he would dismantle the entire myth that he once was a featured performer with The Great Legend. He was, as he always is, dying to play but tonight had to hold off, again offering a plethora of excuses of why he can't perform anymore. Pro was indeed magnificent in his suit and white hat, though, and with his flowing white TV-preacher mane splendidly waving out from under the back of the wide-brimmed-western-hat, he very much looked the part of the glorious and golden bearer of a long and illustrious tradition.......... which of course he is affecting very successfully.

The amateur "band" took a very, very short break from their "practicing" to horse down some hot-dogs, but quickly got back to "practicing", denying entry to their circle of a couple of loose players who actually would have improved their sound considerably. They never went to the Fish Fry and are still playing in a tight circle under their well-marked RV-awning territory, in great anticipation of their supper-break appearance tomorrow, if Pro lets them play. He has done so every year up to now, and they are always hopeful that Pro, or some other promoter, will like them enough to book them, but it hasn't happened yet, and never will. The funny thing is that all these guys live within about 10 miles of each other and "practice" all the time, incidentally never playing music with anyone else even though several really good loose players live just as close. Their need to "practice" so much here, therefore, is very much of a curiosity. They are truly very average-sounding, and make tapes at every "practice" that ought to tell them clearly how they sound, but these guys are simply are unable to hear reality, and think that stardom is inevitable.

Joe-Bob is wandering around looking for a jam besides the eternal "practice" session. He hears something relatively musical from across the grounds and heads that way. Joe-Bob is not a particularly good mandolin player, but he was way, way, way above the music level heard at the Fish-Fry. He got enough of it very early, and sat around for awhile not playing, marveling at how bad some players can actually be, and not be able to hear the least of it.

The ol'boy hunters are very-well-fueled by now and are in the middle of a Charlie Daniels song. They are having a much better time than anyone else here, since they don't have any rules about what "is" or what "ain't" right when they play. Unfortunately, this is not good within the greater cosmos of the event, and an unstable situation is beginning to boil.

Most of the RV's are dark, fogged-up, and somnambulant. The grounds are very peaceful at the moment, unaware of the impending, imminent disaster.

Next, Part 23, The Dam Breaks

A Mighty Event, Part 23, The Dam Breaks
Wednesday Night, 10:45 PM

Most of the park is long-since surrendered to slumber in frosty-windowed RV's. A few notable exceptions can be found, though.

Joe-Bob has miraculously found two guitar players hanging around an RV who sing brother duets. His playing is pretty simple, but he can do the style that fits these guys' singing very well, and they are having a fine time. Unfortunately, Phil the Fiddler hears something going on over there just as soon as they get cranked up good, and thinking as he always does that "you gotta have a fiddle in the band" (no matter how bad it is), he is headed over to the scene to make his vital contribution to music.

Harold and Gertrude (H&G) have long since worn-out their welcome at the Fish-Fry Gospel-Sing, and are the very last ones to leave. The stayed until the bitter-end, not giving anyone else much of a chance to call a song, since they believe that they are the premier and exemplary singers of gospel music in this area. Even Ralph had enough after awhile, took his Shiny New Martin, and went back to the RV with Myrtle, where they are now conked out in 40 degree splendor……… Ralph very contented in his skivvies on top of the covers, and Myrtle under the covers in four flannel gowns and a goose-down vest, barely able to tolerate the cold. H&G, sadly knowing that their moment in the spotlight is gone until the same time next year, have cased-up the hammered dulcimer and are headed back to their RV. Unfortunately, their path is fraught with unfortunate circumstance.

Fred is in his RV, still at work on his banjo, trying to get the tone ring in. Executive Summary: he is just making things worse. Edna has given up and is asleep in the back with the toy poodle.

The ol' boy hunters are having a fine, fine, fine time at their RV, playing country-rock songs on cutaway plywood Takamine guitars, tanking up, and constructing a Matterhorn of the finest aluminum. They think that, since everyone is supposedly asleep, they have time to bag and conceal the evidence when they are done. Unfortunately, this is not the case tonight. Also, one of them had left his cutaway Takamine out in the rain the night before. It can probably be fixed, but for this festival it is not useable. So…….. in a great display of very poor judgment……… the axe-less guy has brought out a Japanese Stratocaster copy and is playing it at very, very low volume through a tiny amp, the volume probably lower than the "rhythm" player. The stage is set for disaster.

Just as one of the hunters chucks an empty fuel can with a nice round clink into the pile awaiting placement on the Matterhorn, H&G happen to pass by very near, but out of sight. They hear the can, but are just about to dismiss it as a awning-party-lantern clinking in the breeze. Disaster could have been avoided if bad fortune had not intervened. But, at that very moment, the hunter playing the Strat reached down to adjust his tone, got the volume knob by mistake since his functions were relatively impaired, and slipped slightly at exactly the wrong moment, accidentally cranking the volume-knob to a full-and-disastrous "ten". The amp of course leapt immediately into airport-tarmac level Jimi-Hendrix feed-back mode…………………

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! EEEEEEE! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!! WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!! OOO!!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOOO!!!! EEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!

The hunter near the Matterhorn gulps, knowing that this Unholy Cacophony will be heard extremely well across the grounds, and will terminally violate the values and preferences of all the RV campers there. He leaps up and slips, kicking out the key-can at the bottom of the Matterhorn. The Matterhorn elements glint crazily in the light of the Coleman lantern as they collapse very noisily to the ground in a sound not unlike a minor car accident. H&G hear all of the commotion, are shocked in realizing what they are hearing, and have to immediately decide whether to flee earthly deviation, see if
anyone was hurt, or satisfy their morbid curiosity. Of course they need to see what happened, and they immediately go around the corner of the camo RV.

The hunters know very well who H&G are, and have managed to avoid them up to now over the years, but a confrontation is inevitable at this point. The guy with the Strat is trying to shut the amp off but can't in his foggy condition, it is still going crazy and is as loud as a jet-whine on the runway. The hunter on the ground is struggling to his feet, but slips once, and then staggers when he gets up. Of course these guys are truly sorry for having unintentionally caused a scene at all, they have always minded their own business at the event, but they are a minority in a unforgiving and non-parallel environment. The guy staggering to his feet is at a loss for words, he wants to apologize and make peace with H&G, and doesn't really know how. H&G are paralyzed and speechless at the spectacle, fixated on the scene of intolerable debauchery before them. The hunter, now swaying on his feet, puts his camo cap back on, staggers forward, and does his very polite best to make peace in the way that usually works very well within his own peer group…… which is all he is capable of grasping in his condition. He holds out a fresh cold can and in his most repentant tone, unfortunately rife with foul alcohol breath that could compete with a blowtorch if lighted, asks... "want a beer?"

A piercing shriek is heard once again across the grounds. Lights click on in most of the RV's. Pro, on his way out of the grounds for the night, leaps into his truck to see what has befallen the event.

Next….. Over The Edge

A Mighty Event, Part 24, Over The Edge (and back)
11 PM

Harold and Gertrude (H&G) have stumbled onto the ol'boy hunters engaged in a double offense against bluegrassers ………. alcohol and electric instruments ………. and are near cardiac arrest at the spectacle of a falling Matterhorn of beer cans, a squealing out-of-control electric guitar, and the specter of an inebriated beer-drinker offering THEM a beer. If a cadre of TV-beer-ad babes in straining camouflage bikinis had appeared, it would have been completely over for H&G.

Still, it is bad enough with Gertrude's over-the-top screaming. Harold is grotesquely frozen in place, unable to move. He remembers a trip in their youth years ago when they made the mistake of going to NEW ORLEANS……… and then, in a fit of adventure…….. they went down BOURBON STREET. They have never seen such a sight since that ill-fated trip, and are now in shock as they were that awful night years ago.

 Joe "Pro" Moater is already in his truck on the way to the scene. He cannot tell what has happened yet, but he knows that a couple of wild pigs have been seen in the area, and fears that someone might have gotten into an altercation with one. He looks sort of like Wyatt Earp, in his suit and hat with his shotgun, as he jumps out of the truck. The first thing he sees is Gertrude standing with her head tilted way back in full penetrating scream. When Pro sees the entire scene he knows exactly what has happened. He has had to "remind" the ol' boys before about their on-site fuel consumption but it has never come to this before, especially with the electric guitar. Pro attends to H&G first, telling them that everything is going to be OK and asking them to please go back to their RV and rest, which they mercifully do. He also tells them that he'll come by and see them after he gets the mess cleaned up. Then, he goes over to the hang-dog ol' boys, who are well aware of their unfortunate transgression, and says, "Well boys, you done done it now".

Pro basically tells them that they can stay if they pick up all the cans and turn over to Pro the remaining fuel and electric instrument stuff, which they'll get back on their way out after the event is over. The ol' boys are glad for this because they really want to see the headliner on Thursday night. They pick up all of the cans, place them in bags, and give them to Pro for discrete disposal. They then give Pro about three 6-pacs and say that that is all they had left, that they were going to get some more fuel tomorrow. Pro knows very well that this is only the tip of the iceberg of their hidden supply, but he goes along with the game because he likes these boys, they are usually pretty well behaved, and they are fairly regular at the event. Then they turn over the Stratocopy and the little amp, and Pro says that he'll lend them his guitar for a couple of days since he supposedly can't play anymore. The say that they don't really need it, they have a mandolin around that' they'll use. The ol' boys reach a neutral position on the stress meter, and Pro is free to work the other end of the crisis.

Pro then goes over to H&G's RV and totally changes masks. Finding Harold pacing in the RV and Gertrude in tears, he tells them that he values their patronage and hopes that they will not only stay, but continue to come in the future. Pro tell the ol'boys have repented thoroughly and are considering leaving, but also that they might have seen religion………he isn't' sure about that however. Pro advises them to leave them alone and let salvation work its way to the camo RV. Not only that, he offers H&G THE SUPPER BREAK SPOT on Thursday. This puts huge smiles upon the countenances of H&G; they have ANOTHER shot at exposure. Pro knows, however, that he must deal with the closed-circle jammers who think they are stars, the guys who normally play the supper break every year. Pro has needed for years to move these guys along, but now he has a real reason to make this happen.

Pro puts his shotgun, unused fortunately, back in his truck rack and drives slowly out of the grounds. Most of the RV's are lighted, and half have someone standing outside trying to figure out what's going on. He tells each one that everything is OK, someone startled a wild pig at the edge of the grounds, and that they can go back in. Joe-Bob and the guys he is jamming with are still at it, unaware and undisturbed. When Gertrude screamed, each time that she let go was at the very exact moment Joe-Bob was in the middle of a piercing, wavering, truly terrible tenor part……….. which completely and perfectly masked Gertrude's mortal cries. Ralph and Myrtle are still knocked out in their meat-locker RV, undisturbed. Fred is still trying to make his banjo into something it isn't, so absorbed that he did not hear the commotion. Edna's poodle heard something, snort-growled once without picking up its head, and passed back out. The Event is back at peace.

Next: Part 25.

A Mighty Event, Part 25: Even later Wednesday Evening
12:30 PM

The park has returned to the peaceful quiet sounds of the rural Southern night. Joe-Bob and his little group finally gave up. They had to deter Phil the Fiddler who heard them picking, though, and tried desperately to get in on the action. The big-headed amateur group finally hung it up after "practicing" Rocky Top" for about 25 times. They do not yet know that Joe "Pro" Moater has basically sold them out in trying to keep Harold and Gertrude (H&G) happy. but they will tomorrow, and will not be happy.

If anyone on the grounds is awake at this time, it is the ol' boy hunters. A rumor on the grounds has made them very acutely awake and ready for action. They are not fired up for picking, however. A little earlier, one of them encountered a fellow festivalarian on the way to the bath house. The other guy told the hunter, "Did you hear about the wild hog someone saw across the grounds?" The hunter about flipped out, didn't know it was the excitement at their own campsite that had generated this rumor, forgot that he was going to the bath house, and ran immediately back to the camouflage RV. Upon hearing this, the rest of the boys immediately broke out and prepped their weapons, and are on a midnight foray in search of tomorrow night's supper. Of course, they broke out some hidden fuel cans to insure their success in this endeavor, and, properly fortified, are now prowling in the woods not far out of the cleared area of the park.

One of the hunters sees something moving in the dark and squeezes off two rounds that resoundingly echo across the grounds. A scream breaks out and the boys think that the hog has been plugged. Every RV light pops on again and campers run out, fearing that they are being beset by a gang or something. The ol'boys is plowing through the woods trying to find the hog and trip over something that moves and screams at the same time. One of them points his searchlight down, and overly brightly and embarrassingly illuminates someone's grandson and someone else's granddaughter, both about 18 or 19, who had sought some solitude in the woods, since they'd been bored to tears for days on the grounds. Virtue had not been compromised yet, but the youngsters are scared out of their minds, having been shot at and discovered by an overly excited hunting party. Of course, the hunters are scared too, having shot at some human kids, and they make a deal with the kids that if "you don't tell, we won't either". The kids run back and tell their guardians that they were walking out in the woods when the shooting started.

Just as Pro was getting ready to leave for the second time after having to "visit" with an overly verbose camper, he heard the shots. Like Wyatt Earp, he hurried back and found the ol' boys coming out of the woods, carrying a large assortment of firepower. Being exceptionally quick-witted for his condition, one of them says, "Thank goodness ( he had to really work to not say something else) we had our guns, a bear came around over here and we had to run him off." Pro is upwind from the hunters, he cannot smell their breath, and thinks that another tragedy has been averted. He thanks them but tells them that they'd better not be so quick on the draw next time, and that they'd better keep those pieces cased.

As Pro goes out again in his truck, he again reassures the RV campers that everything is alright, that the hunters thought they saw a bear and ran him off. Pro thinks about how accommodating he is to an entire variety of goofballs on the grounds, not thinking of his own shaky and leaning legend that could kick him in the arse at any moment.

Next, Part 26.

A Mighty Event. Part 26 THE OFFICIAL FIRST DAY
Thursday Morning

As the sun rises above the eastern tree lines of the park, some folks are up already, cooking breakfast. This is not only the first "official" day of the Event; it's the biggest day, when the main headliner will appear. Joe "Pro" Moater, being the penny-pincher that he is, is able to get a couple of famous groups for cut-rate prices on Thursday and they pass through on the way to bigger events later in the weekend. Tonight the featured act will be Hoyle Dawson and Picksplitter, and most of the festivalarians are looking forward to the show.

Several people will not see Hoyle, however. The self-important amateur group will never leave their RV, continuing to "practice", even though they could have done that at home without paying for admission here. Fred the Bluegrasser will not see any stage bands either, any spare moment he has is spent on trying to get more out of his banjo.

As the morning progresses, the tempo on the grounds begins to rise. The fist Great Band Bus appears on the grounds, belonging to a local group that will appear all three days, as local groups are wont to do. Curley Wurley and the Whatever Mountain Boys played local "festivals" for years, and then as the trend went from "festivals" to `events", they successfully made the transition by getting rid of a lot of their secular material, working on more gospel quartets, and suiting up very elaborately ………. emulating a formula the Hoyle Dawson has very successfully implemented. Of course, Hoyle's bus will appear less than an hour before his show and will roar out within 20 minutes of finishing his set, but Curley will be there for the duration. Nevertheless, Curley and his boys have a sort of a star-complex, and generally stay in their bus rather than mingling with the people who pay their bills.

Anticipating more drive-in attendees, the roach-coach is already humming, sending blue, greasy smoke spiraling skyward out of the once-chrome rooftop turbine. A few vendors of sorts are starting to arrive, too, offering various weird jewelry items and cheesy T-shirts. The T-shirts are invariably "50/50" material….. meaning that the polyester content guarantees a sweaty-back-clinging experience not unlike wearing a plastic laundry bag on an August day. A few shirts are sold, but no one can figure out who buys the funky jewelry and the goofy fake-crystal gee-gaws.
 

As mid-day approaches, the scene is set for Pro to receive a near-fatal shock. He is touring his grounds, checking on this and that, when he spies a used-record table that has appeared near the stage. At almost the same moment, he sees a long-time patron walking towards him with a vinyl record in a cover. The patron says, "Pro, I didn't know you made a record, would you autograph this for me?" Pro sees, of course, that another copy of the feared terrible album has appeared, and goes into near seizure, but contains him without anything showing. Pro tells the guy that only a few copies of this record were ever printed, most were destroyed in a fire (not true), and that he does not even have his own copy (which IS true, he destroys every one he is able to get). He tells the guy that he'd like to buy it from him so that he can have his own, but the guy senses falsely that a factor of rare collectibility is at play, and begins to hold out. A bidding war of sorts begins, and the price escalates upward rapidly. Finally, Pro is able to get the thing for 50 dollars, WAY, WAY beyond its artistic value but a very small price for Pro to pay to keep the thing from making it into local circulation.

Ralph and Myrtle are sitting out under their awning, having a light lunch and considering gathering up Fred and Joe-Bob for a little jam. The do not know that Fred has the banjo completely apart down to the last screw, has failed in his attempt to get his new tone-ring in, and is very upset that he will have to play his clear-head Alvarez archtop from his early days if he wishes to jam today. Joe-Bob has gone back to the brother-duet guys to play some more, but immediately Phil the Fiddler hears something going on over there, forgets that they shunned him last night, feels compelled to add his on valuable contribution to the jam, and heads over. The big-headed amateur band is practicing for a supper-breaks show that is not in their future. Harold and Gertrude, in great anticipation and joy, are tuning up their hammered dulcimer and autoharp for their supper-break show tonight, perhaps the biggest thing they have ever done. The ol'boy hunters are lying low, since they caused great consternation and excitement on the grounds twice last night.

The Mighty Event, like a mighty steam locomotive, is getting underway.

Next, part 27.

Hello, "A MIGHTY EVENT" readers!

I am responding to your e-mail requests for faster publishing of this great Bluegrass saga, written by our omniscient friend Pat Flory, from New Orleans. I promised you one episode per week, but so far I am averaging two per week. Pat needed some time to catch up, as this had become an almost DAILY publication of new episodes on Yahoo's DEEPGRASS group. I have a total of 28 episodes and Pat has promised more to come. I am going back to one episode per week, which will give Pat a couple of months to elaborate, embellish and otherwise finish this most excellent story. I hope you are all enjoying it. If you are, please e-mail me and let me know. Send this link to your fellow Bluegrass compatriots, so they can enjoy it too . . . or NOT!!!! <BIG GRIN>

Your friend,

Chris

STAY TUNED FOR MORE . . . . .