Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Let's Git To Shuckin' The Corn

While navigating to a YouTube video posted on Jeff Tone's blog The Liberal Curmudgeon, I happened upon the Sleepy Man Banjo Boys. Whether or not you fancy bluegrass music, you need to watch and listen to this bedroom practice session, and then ask yourself, "What was I doing at age 9, or 14, or 15?" Well, these brothers from the bluegrass capital of the nation, New Jersey, are burning the proverbial house down.


  1. WOW! Thank you for the share. I love the looks of concentration and their collective skill.

    1. Hi Tina,

      So, what were you doing at age 9? I think the best I could do was play 45 rpm records. I was born to be a disc jockey.

    2. Jon, at age nine.....hmmm. Can I remember? Oh jeez, I was a book recluse most of the time. I hid from social interaction and would avoid family at all cost. Momma would beg me to join her for 'The Waltons' or similar family show and I would retreat to my flower power bower and read. And I listened to Caruso instead of the Monkees. Yes, I was a weird child. I did try to skate on my sister's 45 rpm records. I laid them end to end and side by side in the hallway and attempted to skate over them. I very nearly did not survive that stunt. Any more than building forts out of palmetto fronds near the alligator pond. I did get kicked out of Lake Maggiore Park for smoking in the Old Mother Hubbard shoe......Yes sir, I was banned for life. Shortly after that episode I got caught breaking into a Rutenburg model home and playing house with the Mastry boys. Mastry Bar and Mastry Bait and Tackle.....I doubt they remember. And the kids from Embree Marina used to play Cowboys and Indians with me. Amazing that I'm so circumspect at this age, giggle.

    3. My, my, were you ever the wild child.

      My 9-year-old claim to infamy was a caper with a buddy of mine. Every so often, we would raid a storage facility behind an old folk’s home and sneak away with a couple of metal crates of empty glass milk bottles. We'd trade them for the five cent deposit at a local dairy store.

      On our third raid, a resident spotted us and the alarm was sounded. We each had two cases of bottles as we ran from the scene and down one of those steep alleyways in Atlanta. Moments later, headlights appeared at the crest of the hill. It was the cops! We tried to run faster and tripped, dropping our booty. Those flat-sided bottles went flying. Those that didn't break went clattering loudly down that hill. The cacophony those bottles made as they bounced end over end was truly memorable.

      We made a successful escape and vowed from that day forward never return to our outlaw ways.

  2. Jon, my friend, thanks for the mention! Glad you came upon some good music.