Song of the Mountains

Late last night, I started to watch bluegrass music on P BS. I have forgotten the name of the group, but it was a standard bluegrass band -- banjo, fiddle, mandolin, guitar, string bass, and there was one extra guitar player who stood in back and was probably the uncle who owns the van. Fronting the group was a charming woman, the kind you always encounter when you're too young, too old, too drunk, or too married. She wasn't classically beautiful, or Alison Krauss cute, but more like a young Holly Near.

Girls from the mountains mature early and age late, so she could have been any age. Dressed in a floor-length earth-tone dress, she had sandy hair, straight teeth, freckles, and a smile that could melt a glacier. Her voice was the kind that would echo through the canyons. She also played the banjo and the fiddle, and I was mesmerized. I briefly dreamed of waking up with her every morning, and her teaching me the five guitar chords which would allow us to harmonize all day long. I watched 3-4 songs, and realizing she would never be mine, I went to bed. But I am still thinking about her today.