Some wunnerful stuff here. Jeez, don't get me started. . . .

But to keep things on the music track, back around 1960 or so, a number of folk singer types were doing what they considered to be the mandatory pilgrimage: picking up their guitar or banjo and hitch-hiking around the country. Sort of doing the "Woody-Wander" I guess you could call it. They seem to feel that it legitimized them as "folk singers." Anyway, when they hit Seattle, they'd make their way to the University District and eventual wander into the Folklore Center, a music store, and ask if there were any gigs in town. A few of them had some pretty good stories about their adventures "On the Road."

This guy's name was Pat Foster. He actually had a record out, on Riverside, I think. He'd hitch-hike up from California. He said that one night he slept in some guy's field, and when he woke up in the morning, there was no place around where he could get breakfast. He noticed that there were collard greens growing in the field, so he ate a bunch. Then, to provide for his near future, he stuffed a bunch of them into his guitar case, filling all the gaps. He rolled up his sleeping back and hit the road.

It was hot and dusty, and although a few cars had passed on this road, they just ignored his thumb. Not a good day for getting rides. Then, a car pulled over. It was the local police or sheriff's department. Two burly bully boys in uniform, with .357 Magnums strapped to their donut-padded hips got out and gave him the full Gestapo treatment.

"What's your name? Lemme see some ID. Where you from? Where you goin'?" The usual.

Then came the gem: "Whatcha got in the guitar case?"

Apprehensive, confused, and fully aware that he'd stolen some farmer's produce, Pat decided to make a full confession. He answered, "Collard greens."

Certain that Pat was trying to pull his leg, one of the cops ripped the guitar case out of Pat's hand and wrenched it open. Conceive his dismay when what met his eyes was a guitar resting in a nest of collard greens.

"Then," Pat said, "they rummaged through the string box. They decided that my spare set of strings would make very effective garrotes. Then one of them found my finger picks. He put them on his fingers—backward. He snarled and made slashing, clawing movements with his hand. But when he found my capo," Pat said, "he really went insane!"

Pat said he sang 'em a couple of songs. They finally concluded that he was nothing but one of those smelly Berkeley hippies, drove him to the local bus station, and told him to get the hell out of town.

Don Firth