My father played Bluegrass music for over fifty years. In the late eighties, he played professionally in Branson, Missouri. In the aughts, he leveraged his training in tool & die to become a luthier specializing in the restoration of pre-war Gibson banjos. At times, he had as many as twenty of these coveted instruments in his collection. 

For the last several years, he hosted a booth at the International Bluegrass Convention, held annually in Raleigh, North Carolina. Before the 2022 affair, he told me he was not able to go because his helper had a conflict, and he, my father, being in his late eighties, was not able to set the booth up on his own. 

Given his age, I know he fretted every year might be his last. Feeling for him, I volunteered to help get him there and set up so he could attend the event. Two things came from this offer. I was struck at the childlike joy this ellicited from my father when he learned he would not miss the event. And, I did not expect to, but found I enjoyed watching people discover my father’s collection. If you’re into 1930s Gibson banjos, which a surprising number of people are, and unexpectedly stumble upon this private horde, well, watching a person take this in offers a unique pleasure.

Amongst the banjo-lovers was a standout. It was a 14-year-old boy, though you had to look close to confirm this as he stood well over six feet tall. This boy loved banjos, like next to his mother, and possibly his father, I would guess he loves banjos more than anything else in the world. You can imagine the thrill he experienced when he rounded the corner and took in my father’s booth. 

He entered the cramped space and eyed each instrument with deep curiousity. After asking if he could try one, he cautiously lifted the first in the line and sat in the chair reserved for trials. The cacophony of organized sound this boy pulled from the instrument seemed impossible to my ear and brain. He played the first for a few minutes, put it back, and after getting approval, selected the next from the stack and sat with it for a few minutes. Like that, he worked his way down the line, sampling each banjo. After trying them all, he returned to one in the middle and played it until my father shooed him away, saying he had to make room for others. 

The next day, the boy was back. He selected “his” banjo and sat oblivious to all until my father chased him off. This dance played out over and over for the remainder of the event. On one of his visits, I commented to the boy that he seemed to have found his favorite. Not realizing I had watched it all unfold, he explained to me that he had played each instrument, and this one, the one he was playing now, sounded the very best of them all. 

I asked the boy’s father, who was always standing nearby, about buying the banjo, and was told it was not in the cards. After my dad ran the boy off the fifth or sixth time, I told my father he should give that kid the banjo. Appalled, my father said that if he had six thousand dollars, he could buy the banjo. I said he was a kid and surely didn’t have 6k. My father, sans emotion, said it looked like he wouldn’t be leaving with the banjo then. 

On the last day of the convention, I got the father’s contact information, explaining that as my father’s only child, I may one day be tasked with finding homes for all of these instruments, and I might have an inkling where one of them belongs. The conference ended, and as is often the case with my father and banjos, he went home with more instruments than he came with.

NEXT: Part 2 - The Banjo