The Banjo

Don't wait for the band

Credit: StockCake

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Did you ever notice that when we’re young time has no meaning? Growing up in the 70’s-80’s in small, rural communities our only clocks were the sun and the moon. When the sun came up we were up, dressed, and moving and shaking for the day. When the sun set, it was time to come home to our yard where we played for another hour or two outside in the dark, bathed by the moon. Once we became teens, my dad had a STRICT midnight curfew and missing it was NOT advised. Some of my sisters were brave souls who marched to the beat of their own drums when it came to the rules, but I fell in line like a good little soldier. It was easier and, besides, I was comforted by routines.

During our young adult years we’re still hopeful, dreaming, making our way. When we start families we fall into a more natural season-based biorhythm, albeit ruled by the global control of clocks for the good of the almighty buck. This is the time we’re focused on our children, helping them engage with the world in a safe and successful way until their ready to defeat their own dragons. I don’t know about you, but during this young-adult to mid-life phase I developed a habit of saying “I’ll do x when….” or “I’ll try y if…”. Life, for me, became a series of hurdles or benchmarks I had to get through before I could exhale and be me, see my dreams come true. Not much different than “I can really start living when I get my driver’s license” or “when I turn 18 nobody’s gonna stop me”. Within generation X, it was said our lives were ‘set in stone’ in our 30’s. It was said that change was much harder from this point on. I actually heard a startling (horrifying) statistic last week - 95% of humans never sprint again after age 30. WHAT?!! For whatever reason that really shook me.

I thought I had all the time in the world - Credit Lensa

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Well, as life take us through some shit (please understand there is not one of the thousands of people anywhere near you who has not gone through some shit, shit that would curl your hair or make you vomit) we begin to shelter from the storm in reflexive ways of which we’re consciously unaware, but that’s a story for another time. While we’re in the shit, we begin to awaken. Maybe it’s God’s way of shaking our snow globes so we understand that without storms, there is no peace. No deeply appreciated, abiding, completely freeing peace. It’s here, within the shit, that we understand there is no “if” and there is no “when”; there is ONLY NOW. Be the real you, the butterfly you, now. There is no time like the present, because there is ONLY the present.

When my mother died it was like she disappeared from the planet on a puff of smoke. One minute she was here and the next she was gone. Her family blamed my father, but he had nothing to do with the automobile accident or the drunk driver who took her life. Resentments from more than a decade of their volatile, violent relationship dynamics boiled over to hatred once she was gone. While we connected at annual family reunions with her people, there was too much water under that bridge to lead a normal life after her death. Other than photographs, we had nothing of hers except a softball sweatshirt that was worn threadbare. I think my youngest sister had her recipe book for a bit, but I’ve not seen it since I left home. Maybe I’ll track it down with my nieces because I long for her brownie recipe.

Following my mother’s death, my dad’s sister became a surrogate mom of a sorts to me. She sang to me when I had nightmares, she encouraged me to reach for the stars, and she helped hold us together for a few years before my dad whisked us away. We lived with both my aunt and my grandparents on and off. What we had when we all lived together was history.

That history included things, sentimental things. A heavy glass ashtray my aunt used, old pocket books of my grandmother’s, which we were fascinated to find with linen handkerchiefs and random other fripperies inside. A curio cabinet of my grandmother’s. My aunt’s 1940’s Kingston sewing machine was another thing I admired. Over time, some of these things seemed to quietly disappear, never to be seen again. Still the significance we attach to such legacy novelties is much bigger than any commercial value they might hold.

Over the years my aunt gave me the sewing machine and a set of rosary beads. For my high school graduation she gifted me a strand of pearls. Somewhere along the line, I became the keeper of the family photo albums and my grandmother’s box of photos too. I look forward to working with my siblings to scan and preserve and share all those memories.

Nostalgia, it’s a living breathing thing that overtakes us at the strangest times. It might be a scent, a scene, a song, or a turn of phrase that brings it back to wash over us like a storm. Of late, as I slow down from a lifelong career, I seem to find the quietude required to feel nostalgic more often. It’s mostly soft, and gentle but sometimes it makes me cry. Anyway, everyone feels it. When we’re younger we call it memories. In mid-life it’s gentle yearning. And, as I pass into my 60’s this year it’s often touched by a little sorrow, some regret. Not too horrible, but a tender pain while understanding there’s no path back to what once was. We don’t get do-overs, but we do get to try and try and try again. We get to blossom if we’ll just take a bite out of life. Take a step toward something new. Open up to the possibilities, creating hopefulness which is a form of faith and next to Godliness. Optimism is quite literally contagious.

Nostalgia for the ‘good old days’- Credit StockCake

Enter, the banjo. My husband inherited a banjo from his grandfather, Pappy Pete, several years ago. He’s not interested in learning to play it. But, in this banjo I feel the living, breathing history; something his grandfather imbued it with during years of jams with his seven brothers. Pappy Pete had 13 total siblings, I mean his family is huge. The men spent countless hours together playing music - banjo and guitar - and drinking beer. This deep history is what entices me to pick up his banjo and learn to make its music again. Why wait? Why put off this small dream until some nebulous future date when I don’t know how many future dates I have left? None of us knows which is our last day until it’s upon us. Until the bell tolls for me, every day is the best day for a new adventure.

Optimism is contagious. Pass it on to friends and family like a juicy rumor.

While you’re feeling spicy, start some shit of your own, or some spirited debate (potato/potahto) with the Bren’s Buzz community right here in the comments.

Carpe Diem friends - Credit Dreamstime.com