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Chapter 4

Susan

Apalachicola, Florida, July 2009

Handcrafting musical instruments in the early part of the 1900s was a means to a livelihood for some of the mountain people. They lived with the basics. Harry’s banjo, if not built by her grandfather as she believed it was, was definitely one of those beautifully crafted mountain banjos.

After Susan and Mac left Harry to go to whatever pressing matters he had, Susan was troubled. She brought Mac up to speed on her family connection with the banjo and the music, and explained the jolt she had experienced.

“Mac, I have little doubt that banjo was made by my grandfather. I have been trying for twenty years to locate one of them since I first learned that he made them for peddling and took them south into Florida. Daddy was sure there were Luther Willson banjos and fiddles floating around South Florida, if none could be found in the North Carolina High Country. They have been as elusive as wind. Some of his fiddles and dulcimers are still around but not the banjos. But this banjo is the first one I’ve seen that adheres exactly to the pattern he used, and I know there has to be more. I memorized that pattern. After Grandpa died, Grandma had the three sketches of his instrument plans framed and placed over the fireplace. I know that banjo by heart!”

“So you are certain it is one your grandfather made.”

“Yes. That banjo is in great shape and despite the fact that it was built ninety years ago. I was lousy at it but plays like a dream. I want one now more than ever.”

Mac laughed heartily. “I knew about your family and music but not that someone was actually a luthier and balladeer. You probably told me, but it didn’t sink in. Even though we have known one another for over a year, I love that I am going to get to know more and more about you. You are a good musician, I know, but I didn’t understand about the ballads and folk music. I used to go to old-time jam sessions, but I know very little about the folk music scene. Now if it was the pipes, I might have gotten as excited as you are.”

“Oh? Are your bagpipes a family instrument?”

“Yeah. They were my uncle’s. He was really good at it, including the marching competitions.”

“I want to hear you play. Promise me.”

Mac gave her a big grin as they strolled hand in hand back toward their hotel, turning heads of those watching seventy-somethings as lovers.

“Mac, I want to hunt this Harry up again tomorrow. I think there is more to his story that he was reluctant to share.”

“You may be right, Susan, but let’s enjoy our honeymoon and get ready for our dinner tonight.”

Back in their hotel room, they changed out of shorts to blue jeans and polo shirts. In Apalachicola, no one overdresses for dinner, even when making reservations. Laid back. Casual. They looked fine.

As they entered Tamara’s, they were surprised that Harry was there to entertain, having moved up the street from the little storefront where he had been earlier. The hostess took them to a table in a quiet spot, Mac having suggested that this was their honeymoon.

“Miss, could we have a table near the banjo man? Would it be too much to switch?”

She eyed Mac and then smiled when he nodded his approval.

There was a table directly in front of where Harry was playing. He barely acknowledged them and went on playing and singing. “Crawdad,” “Johnson Boys,” “Little Maggie,” and song after song from Willson’s Cove. Susan noted that he had another banjo, one with frets. It looked like a Vega White Ladye, open back. Not a cheap instrument. She knew she could play it every bit as well as he played the fretless. Do I dare ask? Since the weather has cooperated with my arthritis this week, I think I can play.

They ordered their dinners of the surf and turf Mac had wanted. Susan wasn’t hungry and only ate the redfish. She gave her steak to Mac. Nothing shy about his appetite. Amazingly, his waistline did not reflect his hearty appetite. It paid off for him to routinely work out.

When Harry took a break, she made her move. “Harry, are you going to let me play your White Ladye?”

“White Ladye, eh? You really do know your banjos, don’t you? Yeah, maybe you won’t scare the customers away, but after your performance on the fretless—” He laughed, but it was more derisive than joyful.

“Try me.” It was a beautiful instrument and only needed a little tweaking to tune it. Despite age-related hearing loss, Susan Willson Reese McBride still had perfect pitch.

She started in playing “Barbry Ellen,” even singing along. Mac loved it. His favorite. The song that hooked him when he first saw her. He hadn’t heard her sing much since that night over a year ago at Jones House and never with the banjo. She claimed that her voice had aged too much to sing in public. He had never heard her singing with the banjo.

She went from one tune, to another, to another, singing with some of them. She never repeated those Harry had played. Her style was much different from his, more Southwest Virginia than North Carolina. Yet she still sang the Willson’s Cove songs the Willson’s Cove way. It seemed that finding what she had no doubt was a banjo her grandfather had made had given her a renewed voice. Harry was both surprised and fascinated, as were her audience. Mac was captivated. Again.

After dinner, they lingered, listening to more of Harry. He sang some of the songs she had done, but with the fretless, it was different. On his next break, he offered for her to play the White Ladye again, but she declined. “No, thank you, Harry, but I have arthritis too bad to keep at it. I may need for my husband to doctor my hands.”

Harry shrugged.

“But, Harry, can we get together again to talk about your banjo? I’d like to know a bit more about your family and how they got the banjo in the first place.”

“Breakfast. Eight. Caroline’s.”

Susan looked at Mac and rolled her eyes. A little terse! “Done. Caroline’s. Eight. Breakfast.”

Back in their hotel room, Susan told Mac what she knew about her grandfather and his banjos. “Grandpa, back as early as 1900 made his mountain banjos, fiddles, and lap dulcimers. He would sell them in the mountains and over the mountain in Johnson City, Tennessee. I doubt if he made enough money to cover his costs. But around 1910 or 1911, the story goes, somebody from Florida had gotten hold of one of his instruments and wrote to him. Evidently, he offered him more money than he ever made before, and the letter was something to the effect that he could make money by peddling them in Florida. He had the connection and made arrangements to go to the vacation destinations of America. St. Petersburg, Miami, or Key West. He settled on St. Petersburg.

“Up until right before World War I, he would make his trip right after Christmas, stay through January, and come home the beginning of February. In October of 1916, he changed his pattern and stayed in Florida longer, six months. I always heard that he claimed the cold weather in the mountains was bad for his health. He got home just a few days before the US entered World War I. Meanwhile, Grandma had her eighth child, Aunt Delphy. Despite f the war, he continued his trips, but he helped Grandma with her gardening and chopping wood for the fire for the winter. Then as soon as the leaves turned, he left again for Florida. That is what my daddy told me.”

Mac shook his head as if to shake the notion of a man who could leave his growing family and stay away for months at a time. “Gee whiz! It was really big of him to help her chop wood and follow the mule! Susan, I think he must have had a girlfriend in Florida. Had to.” Mac snickered. “Sounds like he was a man of passion, given that he left your grandma pregnant each time he left.”

“Well, maybe not every time, but that’s the rumor.”

The honeymooners forgot about Grandpa Willson as they pursued their own passions. The next morning, they were up early for a walk by the bay and then to meet Harry at the Chowder House for breakfast.