As I listened to Sara fiddle tonight I remembered bluegrass memories. I used to hate bluegrass. It drove me nuts. But it’s grown on me. There is something sweet and savory about a singing fiddle. Not everyone can do it. Sometimes a fiddle makes me scrunch up my face. But a good fiddle can grab me and take me back.
One of the years I went to the Classic I was invited by Scotty and Jeff to go to this after party-like thing. It was up in a lodge on this mountain, at the top of a winding road I was sure would never end. It was like driving into another world. There was a bluegrass band there and lots of food. The fog was rolling in and we ate watermelon and bbq and watched the sunset. And listened to the music. I felt honored to be invited and share that time.
There was the bluegrass festival in Julian I performed at with Bucking Tradition, Charlie Metzler’s team. That stupid choreography prank on Jake. The ride up there in Mary’s car listening to “Here’s Your Sign.” Everyone sitting on Tanya. The heat and the dirt.
I love me a good hoedown. I’m not ashamed to say it. Sitting through one is almost torture. It’s in my blood. I need to dance. One of the instructors told me at Ray’s traditional workshop, “Ya got black blood in ya, girl.” One of the best compliments ever. I didn’t quite get it at the time. I was like 12. Now I do and I’m grateful. I remember Bill Nichols making sex jokes to make everyone smile for pictures. Lol. Good times.
I think one of the reasons I started listening was to make my mom mad on Sunday nights. She HATES bluegrass. But I started to love it. I started to love flatfoot too, which is equally as weird. But I’m grateful for bluegrass and memories.