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The Hobo |
Earlier as I was practicing, I did something just right. I hit the string just right, and the stars and planets lined up. The banjo vibrated with glee as it sung out the very loud, very clear, very pretty sequence of notes that I was some how playing. For a moment I got a little peek of what my banjo and I could do, and will do, together. I thought to myself, "Aha, now I'm a Banjoleer/banjoist/banjovian/banjoer or whatever they call banjo players."
Then, after I had started to understand what I was doing, everything snapped out of alignment. My hands became clumsy and fumbled over the strings again, and the pretty ringing I had going had turned to a sound akin to a small child trying to play by smacking the banjo.
But I learned something, I started to know how to feel for it. After some practice and a few choice curse words, I was able to do it again, and for longer. I'd fumble and miss a string or hit it wrong, but it started to happen less and less. And now I knew that my banjo could sing with the right touch. Today was a big day for me.
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