south of here

Les spent a week tooling around West Virginia and Kentucky in mid-April. It was nice to get away from the snow in my backyard, catch the redbuds in bloom, and feel a little sun on my shoulders.

I met some nice folks with some nice ways of talking ("You say yer frum Maysachoositts?"). I ate grits. I saw dogs bound with log chains in bare yards and fighting cocks shackled in rows of little wooden teepees in a ratty yard off a state highway. I saw churches that made no sense to me and sizeable pickup trucks coated with coal dust. I saw sunken-eyed white boys with dirty hoodies and the shakes hanging on street corners waiting for nothing. I saw no end of hand-painted signs warning me about eternal damnation. I saw people smoking in convenience stores (and while they pumped their gas). I saw mountains and forests that rival anything breathtaking you've ever seen. I drove on curving mountain 2-lane roads with 55 mph speed limits followed by impatient kids in one-eyed Fords held together with bondo and baling wire who managed to keep a more considerate tailgate distance than the average New England soccer mom in her 8 cylinder SUV.

I want to go back.

The Lesbanjo!

Isn't it fine?

The lesbanjo has now spent a year and a half living with Les and the lespets. In that time, Les has even learned how to play a few songs on it. While Les could never be mistaken for an actual banjo player, she can play the banjo.

You'll also see, there behind the lesbanjo, the lesguitar. This is not to be confused with a "Les Paul guitar," which is another thing altogether. The lesguitar has quite a few more miles on it now and, frankly, gets played a heckuva lot more than the lesbanjo does...in much the same way that, until Les mastered a few recognizable tunes on the lesguitar, the lespiano held sway. Now, of course, the lespiano sits in its corner, gathering dust and fur, played only by Betty Lou the lescat.