Pickin' on the Banjo Picker

 Bill and I were a pair of sneak-ers. Not tennis shoes, but people who sneak new treasures home and hide them from each other. For years I stashed fabrics at the back of a deep closet and Bill hid books. 

My buddy can’t sneak in his new banjos, which he buys more often than I buy shoes. He already has five banjo cases leaning against the living room wall like soldiers at ease. His wife is certain to spot an addition. He buys on impulse, and then justifies it, saying he will “probably” sell one. Or he lends one out making a little room for the next instrument.

The other fiddler and I tease him about the lack of self-control. In the south we’d say we're just pickin'. His excessive attraction to banjos rivals that of some men and fishing poles, or guns, or cars. We tell him how patient his wife is, that her tolerance deserves to be rewarded because we’d never put up with it.

 

He says he’s learned to wait for her to be in the right frame of mind before he announces a new arrival. When he told her about the latest purchase he offered her a substantial prize. I would have wanted a new fiddle, but apparently a new vacuum was on her wish list. 

I told him that sucked as a consolation prize. Yes, indeed, he said. It sucks very well. 

She came to rehearsal last week and thanked us for sticking up for her. I told her she deserved something that would give her pleasure, not an appliance. But she was delighted that it vanquished dog hair. A thrifty woman, she recounted that the bags were ridiculously expensive. As compared to a banjo? 

I figure he owes her at least 120 boxes of vacuum cleaner bags.