Banjo God.

The gods gather every Friday night in Floyd, Virginia, for a jamboree.

While a band or two plays in the back of the Country store, 4 or so musical circles spring forth in the one road running through town. There's food, drink, dancing, and some of the purest Old Time around. I'm talking about 90 yr old ladies standing in their granny boots with autoharps under their chins, their voices wavering through "Wildwood Flower." I'm talkin' knobley kneed grandfathers with lighter feet (for clogging) than you'd see on a yearling. And, of course, The Banjo God himself.

Banjo Boy tugged excitedly at my sleeve and pointed across the street at a man who was chatting with two lovely banjo-goddesses under a street light.

He came from Galilee with a banjo on his knee. Hair down to his waist, long and flowing, and a mountain man beard that would shame even Whitman's whiskers. "That's my banjo mentor..."

I was introduced. We talked. I like the man and hope to find him again. According to Banjo Boy he's strangely mysterious and lives on some distant mountain. By day he carries a mop at a local school, but by night he's the best banjo and flatpicker for counties. I found him humble, warm, and outgoing. But I might just feel special affection because he gave me chocolate.

We watched as the ladies launched into Fire on the Mountain, throwing in all kinds of melodic harmonies and extra goodies. Banjo-God looked interested. Amused, even. He ran off to his truck, returning with his own banjar and ready to play.

He launched into Flint Hill Special. There would come a time when he'd hit the note with one hand and RETUNE THE STRING with the other, and RETUNE IT BACK in time to hit the fingerboard for the very next note.

And the light shone upon us and we were blessed by his picking.