The Mockingbird Special

Hindman Settlement School Photographic Collection/Berea College Southern Appalachian Archives The Mockingbird Special by Kim Douglas I threw my banjo down in disgust, vowing never to play it again. Here I was, a moderately successful Nashville musician, right in the middle of a massive playing slump; no inspiration, no innovation , nothing. It seemed as though my playing had become dull and uninspired. My fingers were limp, and I had no desire to hold a banjo ever again. Larry, one of the fellers in the band, attributed my playing slump to my just turning thirty; the pain or old age and unfulfilled promises. He said that I had a much too normal life for a Nashville musician-good marriage, kids, the works. He told me to go back to Red Creek, have a little heartache, do a little living. But underneath all that success was more living and heartache than I knew what to do with, and since Larry was a mandolin man and from Cinci, I ignored him. But somehow, no matter how much I tried to deny it, it just seemed that memories from Red Creek followed me around like a stray dog. It only took the thought of a banjo to bring back the memory of Uncle Matt. At thirty, I was the same age of my Uncle Matt when he had started making the homemade banjos that had given me 29 the love of music. Uncle Matt had been my inspiration to learn to play, but now he was gone and I was far from Red Greek. Tile inspiration was gone. Nothing I could do would bring Uncle Matt back. But as I rolled my situation around in my brain, a thought hit meThe Mockingbird Special, Uncle Matt's last banjo. Having that banjo would bind up all the ties between me and Uncle Matt, and I knew that having a legacy from the mountains would bring back all the inspiration that time and change had erased. Getting that banjo would be the reward for making peace with Uncle Matt's memory. Uncle Matt had lived with my family on Red Creek when I was a boy. He had black lung, and since he couldn't work, he helped my daddy pay the bills by making instruments to sell to the tourists who passed through the mountains. It always made me bitter to see him have to depend on tourists for a living, but he would never admit that it bothered him. Matt was a born actor, and he seemed to derive a certain perverse pleasure out of outwitting outsiders. Uncle Matt would sit on our front porch in his favorite western shirt, and he'd put on his act-he'd sit and spin the most wondrous tales of a magic banjo that sang like a mockingbird and would bring unending peace and joy to its owner. He'd get so absorbed in his tale that his eyes would snap, his black beard would wag, and his feet would tap so rapidly that he'd cough so hard that I'd have to slap him on the back. But what I lived for was to hear him play the banjo. He'd situate himselfjust so in a lawn chair; and he'd start out with a simple tune, adding chords and licks until the melodies chained together and the banjo hummed like a mad bee. The tourists, convinced that they'd heard the magic banjo, would be cheerfully led by Uncle Matt to his workshop, where they'd buy handmade fretless banjos. Yes, I loved to hear him play, but after the sale, he'd be worn out and pale, and I'd stand breathless and silent, cursing the tourists. To me, it always seemed like they could never see behind Matt's act; they could never see the musician behind the unemployed coal miner. The fact that Uncle Matt would never admit that he was desperate for recognition made me worship him; the older I got, the more I wanted him to love me. I wanted to play the fretless banjo better than anyone in Nashville. I wanted to stand up to the outsiders and...