A long time ago, music instruments in my backwoods valley were as rare as a two-toed turkey. In my four mile long valley, a young man had a Kay guitar. It was as black as a lamp-lighted room. A younger man had a Montgomery Ward fiddle. The fiddle's curly maple back was so pretty, it should have won a dozen blue ribbons. These men were brothers, yet, they never played together. The fiddler claimed the guitar player couldn't pick. The guitar player claimed the fiddler couldn't fiddle. Soon, the fiddler left my little valley to walk the pavement in the bright lights of town.
I would run through the summertime mud to get to the guitar player's house. He enjoyed playing and would tap both feet to keep time to the music. His wife danced. He said, "A banjo picker learned to play "Cripple Creek" first, and a guitar picker learned to play "Wildwood Flower" first." He would play the "Wildwood Flower". Then his wife would request "Carter's Blues".
The guitar and guitar player were the very best entertainment for the times. Now, the guitar and guitar player are long gone. Now, the fiddle and the fiddle player are long gone. No longer do I run through the summertime mud of my little valley to hear the whang of the Kay guitar.