Seen on a t-shirt at camp.

I admit, I didn’t think this through.  I knew that bluegrass music contained banjos, I really did.  I guess I didn’t think there would be so many of them here at camp.

When DMP and I drove out of the Centre to tour part of the lake and eat breakfast, I saw a banjo player under a tree.  There was another next to a bush, one sitting on a chair in the middle of a field and two perched on picnic tables in front of the cabanas.

It was as if they sprung whole from the earth.

“They’re everywhere,” DMP gasped.

I began to feel queasy.

It was only the beginning.  Later in the afternoon we watched banjo players appear all over the camp.  It was truly frightening.  I am not a big banjo fan.  Not.  At.  All.

Anyone who plays violin knows what awful sounds come out of it when played badly–sort of like dying cats screeching–so a fiddle is right up there on the list of instruments guaranteed to make one’s ears bleed.  The banjo’s volume is what gets to me.  Banjo Man’s practice sessions echo through the house, no matter where he plays, which leaves me no place to hide.  At least the fiddle has a mute.

We went to the store and bought ear plugs, rice crackers, granola bars and Diet Coke.

At the Meet-And-Greet BBQ, the first person who introduced himself was a banjo player.  He was also an airline pilot who travels with a folding, portable banjo so he can practice in hotel rooms.  He and his banjo-playing fans were staying at the Lodge, too.  They were all very enthusiastic about being at camp again.

OMG.

I would meet a lot of banjo players over the next six days.  They were easy to spot.  Most of them were between 60 and 90 years old.  Male.  They like to practice, and they like to jam.  They love their banjos.  They love the sounds their banjos make.

Nick Hornbuckle.

Sigh.

He calls himself “Spider Monk”.

I later counted the number of students in the five banjo classes:  35.  There were teachers, which brought the count to 40.  Plus others who simply brought along their banjos and took classes in dobro or guitar or singing.  I’m guessing there were easily 55 banjo players bouncing and twitching and plucking around camp.

They are a cheerful, friendly, energetic group of musicians.

It took me several days to get over Banjo Shock, though.

Sunday afternoon we met our instructors and had a one hour introductory class.

Note to self:  next time you sign up for Old Time Fiddling classes, learn a few Old Time Fiddle tunes ahead of time.

There were nine of us.  Three of us were over 55.  One of us (ahem) had never heard “Angeline the Baker”.

Among other songs.

I was clearly in over my head.

DMP was having the exact same experience in her Intermediate Mandolin class.  The two of us compared notes at 6:30, assured each other that we could do this, then headed off to the initial camp meeting and the “Beginners Jam”, where DMP got behind the mike and led everyone in “New River Train” and I actually played “Midnight On The Water” (because I was one of three people who knew it, thank you Carrie Rodriguez).

Our fellow beginners looked impressed.

It would be the last time we impressed anyone, unless you count coming up with three bags of microwave popcorn from the dobro player down the hall for Thursday night’s jam in the Lodge.

Yes, there would be a nightly jam in the Lodge’s living room, on the other side of the wall from our room.   The guys were really happy to be playing together again.

 We put in ear plugs and went to bed.