Water, Jam, & Glue
Last week I found a letter in my new Michigan mailbox from an Ozark musician with whom I’d had the pleasure of jamming years ago. I was surprised that he even remembered me.
Turns out he recently connected the woman at the bygone jams with the writer of this Coffee Table column—and this realization inspired him to find my Michigan address. His letter mentioned the “precious memories” those jams imprinted on our brains.
He hit the nail on the head.
Eighteen years ago, my husband and I moved to Carroll County from the high desert of New Mexico, where our local municipality had begun drilling for water—and made us nervous. We jokingly opined that if the nation wound up in a civil war over water, we wanted to be on the side that could quench our thirst.
So Ozark greenery, rivers, and waterfalls were a big attraction. But it turned out there was an even bigger draw: Music. Carroll County, Arkansas, was a place where we could join a music jam almost any night of the week. Every family had at least one person who was adept at playing an acoustic instrument, and some played many.
On our first visit, we heard Arkansas Red playing banjo at The Balcony restaurant in Eureka Springs. A banjo picker myself, I was in awe. I asked him questions (“How do you do that?!”) never suspecting I’d be invited to play local gigs with him in the not-so-distant future.
Upon moving to Arkansas, we jammed with Jerry Jones at New Delhi—where we met Roscoe, who remains my good friend today. Playing music regularly with someone is like friendship glue.
We found more glue in Berryville Square—where hubby and I sold veggies at the farmers’ market—mostly as an excuse to jam with other musical farmers: Smitty, and Fiddling’ Fred come to mind. We eventually gave up selling homegrown goods—and just set up the jam tent every Saturday morning.
For six years, we hosted a hootenanny at the old hotel on Berryville Square—where we met hundreds of musicians—some just passing through, and some regulars who would remain in our orbit for years to come. Steve and Tim Poynter, Gray and Tyler Squires, and Lonnie Nichols. Glued.
But when my husband—my music partner of more than 3 decades—died, I came unglued. I was too inhibited to play music without him. My banjo sat idle.
Mitch Stroud singlehandedly pulled me up from the depths of my despair and put a banjo back into my hands. We played a great deal as a duo until I finally felt worthy of a jam circle. Glue. And then who should join our circle? A man known for musical prowess (as well as his ability to suck you into a joke you fail to see coming, despite knowing this is his M.O.): Arkansas Red.
Playing weekly with Mitch and Red not only brought me back into the broader circle of public jams, but improved my musicianship, and gave me the confidence to play with anybody. If not for these two gentlemen, I might have given up. But as it stands, I’m determined to seek out fellow musicians in my new hometown. It won’t be the same—but I aim to find a new music community.
Thank you, Lyman Squires, for the letter that activated these precious memories. Keep your fingers on those ivories. And I will do my best to find a Yankee jam circle that oozes friendship glue.