In the 80's, I went to hear Elizabeth Cotton at the Pickin' Parlor in New Haven. Despite her honored place in folk music, it wasn't a particularly large turnout. While she was performing, she looked over at a banjo hanging on the wall of the store, and reminisced about her long desire to have a banjo. When she was a little girl, an older brother had a banjo, and she was fascinated by it. He kept it under his bed and warned her not to play it when he was gone. But, as soon as he was out the door, she'd get the banjo out from under the bed and try to play it. She had no idea how to do it, and she'd tune the strings up until she'd break one, and then put it back under the bed. When her brother came home, and found the string broken, he knew who to blame for it, and she'd get a good whacking, and a renewed warning. And then she'd do the same thing again. And there she was, in her 80's, talking about how she'd always wanted a banjo and never had one. So, Harry ,the owner of the Pickin' Parlor (I'm going to have rummage through the old grooves in my brain to come up with his last name,) walked over to the banjo, took it down from the wall and gave it to her as a gift.
It was one of the most emotional, magical moments I've ever experienced. Elizabeth's face lit up in a smile that was worth far more than the cost of the banjo.

I don't know if she ever learned to play it.

But the gift was beautiful.

Jerry