I read the poem below on the message board at the California Bluegrass Association this morning, and thought of this thread.
The bluegrass festivals are as much about picking around camp as they are about the stage acts, and the Father's Day festival at Grass Valley is one of the best.

This poem captures one bittersweet aspect of the festivals, and reminds me why we pay for the tickets with next month's rent to get there.

(The CAPS are Cliff's choice.)


OLD FRIENDS

AND ERNIE HUNT, HE PULLED OUT HIS DOBRO
AND TURNED UP HIS HEARING AID
AND STARTED TO SING
AND I PLAYED QUIET BECAUSE THESE
ARE MOMENTS TO SAVOR
AND THREE SONGS IN, BOB JAMES JUST
SOMEHOW KNEW ERNIE WAS PLAYING
BECAUSE THEY'VE BEEN CONNECTED AT THE HIP
FOR SO LONG THAT THEY CAN JUST FEEL EACH OTHERS SOUL
AND BOB STARTED TO SING AND ERNIE HIT THE TENOR
AND IT WAS ONE VOICE
LIKE AN ANGEL OR FERLIN HUSKY
AND PEOPLE STARTED FLOWING OVER TO THE R.V.
AND FALLING LIKE AUTUMN LEAVES
INTO THE METAL FOLDING CHAIRS
AND I PLAYED PASS ME NOT OH GENTLE SAVIOR
AND THEY SANG THE HARMONY
AND I REMEMBERED HOW
THEY BROUGHT ME UP ON THE STAGE AT WILD IRIS
AND WE SANG THAT GOSPEL MUSIC
AND I HAD TO LEAVE AFTER THREE HOURS TODAY
AND IT WAS LIKE PULLING TEETH BECAUSE
I DON'T KNOW IF I'LL EVER HEAR THEM TOGETHER AGAIN
BECAUSE THEY'RE OLDER THAN DIRT
AND BOB MOVED BACK TO ARKANSAS
AND IT'S TOO FAR TO DRIVE
WHEN YOU'RE SEVENTY PLUS
AND YOU CAN'T GET YOUR FULL HOUSE CAMPSITE
INTO YOUR OLD CAR
BECAUSE YOU MIGHT HAVE TO LEAVE YOUR WIFES BASS
AND THAT WOULD BE WRONG
AND SO I SAID GOODBYE IN MY HEART
AND HOPED I'D SOMEDAY GO TO MOUNTAIN VIEW
AND SEE HIM ON THE STREET CORNER
PICKING WITH SOME OLD TWO TOOTHED BANJO PICKER
THAT COULD PLAY FASTER THAN A GREASED WEASEL
AND SPIT THIRTY FEET AND NEVER MISS A NOTE
BUT YOU NEVER KNOW

AND ERNIE, HE AIN'T GETTING YOUNGER
AND THOSE GUYS SHOWED ME THE ROPES
AND WELCOMED ME JUST LIKE I WAS A HUMAN BEING
AND I DON'T LIKE THIS ONE BIT
HOW WE GET OLD
AND I'M THINKING ABOUT WILD BILL WILHELM
WHO DIDN'T LOOK WILD THIS YEAR
SLEEPING A BIT MORE THAN USUAL,
THERE IN HIS SILVER AIRSTREAM
AND I REMEMBER HOW DAPPER HE LOOKED
IN HIS BLACK COWBOY HAT WITH THE SILVER BUCKLE
AND HE SANG WITH AUTHORITY
THOSE OLD COUNTRY SONGS
AND I PLAYED REAL SOFT SO I COULD HEAR HIM
BECAUSE I WANT TO REMEMBER
BECAUSE THESE ARE MEMORIES WORTH REMEMBERING

AND LLOYD BUTLER SAID THIS MAY BE HIS LAST YEAR HERE
IT'S TOO HARD TO PACK THAT TRAILER
AND DRAG IT DOWN THE MOUNTAIN
AND HE IS OLD
SO OLD HE WAS TALKING ABOUT GOING TO CHURCH
BECAUSE MAYBE IT MIGHT BE GOD THAT HE'S GOING TO SEE
INSTEAD OF THOSE US GATHERED AROUND THIS CAMPSITE
AND THIS CAN'T BE BECAUSE
I SAW HIM MESSING AROUND WITH KYLE
WHO'S FIFTY- OUGHT YEARS YOUNGER THAN HIM
AND I COULDN'T TELL WHO WAS THE KID
BUT TIME DON'T LIE
EVEN IF IT DOES DISGUISE THE TRUTH A LITTLE
AND I WISH I HAD A TAPE RECORDER
SO I COULD GET HIM TO PLAY SITTING ON TOP OF THE WORLD
ABOUT TEN TIMES SO I'D ALWAYS BE ABLE TO HEAR HIM
AFTER HE PLAYED IT FOR THE LAST TIME

AND I SEE THE SUN AS IT DIPS IN THE WEST
AND HEAR OLD SONGS THAT I ALWAYS WANT TO HEAR
FROM VOICES THAT I NEVER WANT TO HAVE FADE AWAY
AND I'M HOME
AND I'M THINKING ABOUT THEM NOW
AND HOPING THAT THEY ALL LIVE FOREVER
AND MY FINGERS ARE ITCHING
AND I WANT TO PICK
AND I WANT TO PICK REAL BAD
PICK WITH MY OLD FRIENDS
PICK WHILE I STILL CAN

CLIFF COMPTON JUNE 2006