PREV: Part 4 - The Tour

In the days leading up to the banjo delivery, Michael joked about all the things that could go wrong in the handoff. They might just open the door, give you a hundred-dollar bill, take the banjo, and shut the door in your face. They might live in a mansion and have ten fancy cars in a huge circle driveway. What if you saw the banjo for sale on eBay the next day? He enjoyed flinging his imaginative scenarios at me. 

I assured him none of those things would happen. He said there was no way I could know that. I said I met them and knew it was not in them. He countered, saying I only talked to them for a few minutes and could not possibly have any idea who they really were. At some point, I said it was going to be fun to get updates about the instrument's travels and all the places it will go; who knows, maybe it will go on to great fame. Michael scoffed at this, asking if I seriously thought these people would ever talk to me again. I said I thought they would. He predicted that once we left their house, it would be the last time I ever hear from them. 

Our conversation reminded me of a moment I shared with my other best friend, Matthew, years earlier. Matthew and I are co-founders of a business. We were working with a lawyer to create a partnership agreement. We were on a Zoom call, and the lawyer asked me a question, which I honestly can't tell you what it was about. Money. Insurance. What happens to my shares in the company if I die. Matthew interrupted the lawyer, saying he couldn't ask me that. The lawyer was struck by Matthew's objection, saying it would be highly unusual for Troy not to express his wishes here. To this, Matthew said, "I agree with you, but what you need to know is our job here is to protect Troy and his family. For all his gifts, he is like a child in this regard and cannot make these decisions, so we will make them for him to protect him, protect his wife, and protect his children." I felt Mike's caution skirted these waters, and I spent some of the next few days thinking about how sucky it would be if Michael was right. 

When we arrived at the house (that was not a mansion), the dad was packing a travel van for a trip they were taking the next day. He met us warmly, and we were catching up in the driveway. After a few minutes, the boy appeared on the edge of our circle, looking at me expectantly. I turned, said hello, shook his hand, and asked if he had ordered a banjo. He grinned and nodded his head. I pulled the case from the back of my car and presented it to him. He took it carefully, turned, and walked briskly into the house. We resumed our conversation with the father. About ninety seconds later, we heard the first signs of life from the banjo. One of us commented on how little time that took. The father spoke of how excited the boy had been about this moment. We moved inside. 

The boy was seated. We watched as he plucked individual strings in turn, bending his ear towards the instrument and adjusting the tuning knobs at the end of the neck. I commented that the banjo had been sitting in my living room for the last six months, so it was probably well out of tune. After visiting each string and returning to some for fine-tuning, he raised his head, straightened his back, and lit it up. Before getting there, I asked Michael if he had ever seen a good banjo player first-hand. He had not. I turned to look at Michael as he experienced this spectacle for the first time. We all then watched the boy's articulating fingers, of both hands, move in their hard-to-fathom choreography. 

After a minute or so, the boy paused and looked directly at his father. A full-body grin crossed his face, a grin that only parents typically get to see, and usually only see a few times in a child's life. I asked if it sounded like he remembered. He nodded, still smiling, and was off again, lost in the sounds. We watched and listened some more. The father thanked me for doing this. He said I couldn't really understand what it meant to his boy and to he and his wife, and how he couldn't believe this was happening based on a chance meeting years earlier. As he spoke, tears welled in his eyes. 

After a bit of listening to the boy play and chatting with the parents, I said we should be on our way and let them continue packing. The boy stood to say goodbye. When he shook my hand, he transferred a folded-up hundred from his palm to mine. I smiled at the sly move. I told him and his parents that, as far as I was concerned, their boy bought this banjo through his many thousands of hours of practice. I said that when I saw the boy coming back again and again and again to play it, and seeing the way he could play it, from that moment on, I considered this his banjo, and I was just holding onto it until it could be properly turned over. 

Our exit was rich with hugs and smiles. When we slid into the car, I turned to Michael and asked, "So, do you still think that is the last time we will ever hear from them?" A bit sourly, he replied, "No, I do not". And before we got out of the neighborhood, I received a text from the father with the picture he took of me and the boy. Since then, I have received multiple updates and photos of the banjo's travels, and each one leaves me grinning, grinning almost as big as the boy did when he first held his new banjo in his lap. 

Fin.

PREV: Part 3 - The Gun

Most people I told about my trip had things to say. Those things ranged from thinking it seemed like a stupendous adventure to thinking it seemed stupendously moronic. The most common feedback was, "Wait, you're doing what?" Or "How much is the banjo worth? Why are you giving it to a kid for a hundred dollars?" Or "Do you actually know how far away Oregon is?" 

When I told my best friend Michael about the trip, he responded with near reverence, saying it sounded like a fantastic road trip. I told him he was welcome to join me if he could get the time off work (and family). Weeks later, I received a message saying that if we could stop in Salida, Colorado, his favorite place in the world, and visit his aunt and uncle, he was in. Done!

Our initial plans were fluid. Aside from visiting relatives in Salida and passing through my hometown of Fort Collins, it was all a wonderfully free-form itinerary. Below is what ended up happening:

Mon	Mike flies from Charlotte, Nc to St Louis, Mo
Tue	Drive from St Louis, Mo to Hays, Ks
Wed	Drive from Hays, Ks to Salida, Co with lunch atop Pikes Peak and where we gave a ride to a priest, a pharmacist, and a dentist who were travelling together
Thu	Full day with aunt and uncle in Salida, Co including a personal tour of the valley from Aunt Sandy
Fri	Drive from Salida, Co to Cheyenne, Wy via Estes Park and the Stanley Manor via Fort Collins w/ a Troy childhood tour capped w/ dinner at Panhandlers Pizza (my 2nd favorite, remaining, meal in America)
Sat	Drive from Cheyenne, Wy to Jackson, Wy via the Vedauwoo Climbing Area and along the Great Tetons at sunset and again at sunrise
Sun	Drive from Jackson, Wy to Burns, Or Burns being a modern-day oasis where the nearest gas station, dentist, or Walmart was more than 200 miles away
Mon	Drive from Burns, Or to Depoe Bay, Or where we saw no whales but did dip our fingers into the Pacific this was the first time either of us had ever seen the Pacific Ocean
Tue	Drive from Depoe Bay, Or to Eugene, Or for the banjo handoff
Wed	Drive from Eugene, Or to Portland, Or via a bunch waterfalls & Mount Hood capped the day with a few hours at Powell's Books (my favorite bookstore in America) and stuffed salmon at Jake's seafood (my favorite meal in America)
Thu	Mike flies from Portland, Or to Charlotte, Nc.  Troy drives from Portland, Or to Missoula, Mt after spending 3 more hours at Powells and eating stuffed salmon for lunch before heading out
Fri	Troy drives from Missoula, Mt to Badlands National Park, Sd taking my Bronco to visit its namesake
Sat	Troy drives from the Badlands home to St Louis, Mo After watching the morning sun rise over the ridged terrain

Michael and I spent 61 hours in the car and only played ten songs (not over and over but just one time, on day five). And the only reason that happened was Michael had to hear the main song from the Anatomy of a Fall movie because he could not fathom what a German Caribbean band sounded like playing 50 Cent's PIMP. Well, his true interest was piqued when I said the same German Caribbean band also covered Crockett's Theme from Miami Vice—that is what truly ended the music fast. 

I spent an additional 35 hours going from Portland to St Louis. The benefit of this final leg is that I still got in some personal reflection time, though I found I didn't need it as much as I thought I might. Grateful for that. 

One thing not mentioned above is the shooting of the gun. To retain its Guns and Banjo designation, I told Michael that before we turned the banjo over, we had to find a place to fire the .22 rifle. I assumed that while traveling through the western states, we would see a gun range we could stop at and pop a few rounds off. While we passed several ranges, none seemed inviting in that way. 

Then one day, while traveling on a winding and rutted Wyoming road, we found ourselves in the middle of nowhere, though we did pass two guys skinning a deer a few miles back. I came upon an even more meager set of tracks that led off into some hills. I took the hard right, and we disappeared into the landscape. The road naturally terminated after a bit at some fencing that marked private property. 

I'm not going to detail how long it took Mike and me to figure out how to load the gun. All that matters is we figured it out. There were some hills in front of us that we could safely shoot into. I initially worried about the gun's recoil, but it turns out the kick isn't what I needed to fear. It was the remarkably huge sound the weapon made when fired. I had no idea that such a tiny bullet could make such an untiny sound. I was expecting a tad more than a BB gun pop, but instead got a grenade-grade explosion.

After this surprise, Mike and I looked at each other, eyes wide. I pushed the gun at him and told him to hurry up and shoot because I'm sure they heard that back in Cheyenne, and the authorities were already saddling up. Mike took the gun, lined up his shot, and squeezed off the round. He pushed the gun back to me. I pulled the clip, threw it in the case, hurled it into the back of the Bronco, and we raced Dukes of Hazzard style to our seats. On the run, we scanned the horizon for the law, laughing about and reliving our tale of lawlessness for the next two states. 

NEXT: Part 5 - The Delivery

PREV: Part 2 - The Banjo

I did have one other bit of estate business to deal with.  For as long as I can remember, a cousin of mine from central Pennsylvania has commented on how much he loved one of my dad’s hunting rifles. I called this cousin to ask which gun it was so I could set it aside for him. 

He first expressed his condolences at my father’s passing and then said it would not be necessary, as my dad brought him the gun a year earlier when he was up north. My father told him his eyesight was failing and he couldn’t shoot it anymore, so he wanted to pass it on now to make sure he got it. While they were not often public knowledge, I came to learn and was glad to hear that my father had a surprising number of thoughtful and generous moments on his life’s ledger.

I was thankful my cousin had the gun, but it created a small problem for me. In my mind, I had already worked out that after my father passed, I was going to get this gun to my cousin and then deliver the banjo to the boy. My working title for this endeavor was the Guns and Banjo Tour. The structure of the campaign was this. I was going to drive from Saint Louis, Missouri, to State College, Pennsylvania, to give my cousin the gun. I was then going to drive from State College to Eugene, Oregon, to give the boy the banjo. And then, of course, there was the return to St Louis from Eugene. 

All told, this was going to be about eighty-five hours of driving. My plan was to use this time to ruminate on this new parentless chapter of my life. Keep in mind, both of my parents have now passed, I have no siblings, and reasonably distant relationships with my extended family, as I grew up in Colorado and they all lived on the East Coast, which means I only saw them a handful of times. Given the sum of this, I thought I might need a minute, or eighty-five hours, to process my new place in the world. 

But now that my cousin already had his gun, it wrecked my multi-year vision. Realizing this, I scanned the other guns in my dad’s collection. I knew he had a .22 caliber rifle because my kids shot it once while my mom and dad still lived in the woods of Missouri. I located this gun and told the estate accountants this was the one thing I wanted of my fathers.

My modified plan was now, instead of driving a hunting rifle to Pennsylvania, I would find a place somewhere on my drive to Oregon where I could shoot this .22 rifle and, in doing so, save the Guns and Banjo Tour.

NEXT: Part 4 - The Tour

PREV: Part 1 - The Boy

In March of 2025, my father passed away while working on a John Deere tractor in the front lawn of his home. Marty and I drove south to help my father’s second wife and her family deal with the estate. Upon arriving, I found the home full of activity. I believe this is in part because my step-family has an unenviable amount of experience with death, and they were doing, once again, the things they knew had to be done. Further, I’m confident they were trying to be helpful to me, who has thankfully little experience in these matters. 

The banjos I feared would be mine to deal with were not. A family friend, the same I would have called for help, had already arrived and was knee deep, literally from his seated position, in stacked instruments, cataloguing the collection to be sold.

I dashed a quick email off to the boy’s father, asking if his son was still playing the banjo or if he had discovered girls yet. No girls. All banjo. I said I may be looking for a home for the boy’s banjo and wanted to see if he was still interested. He was. I explained that it would not be free and that his boy would have to come up with, one way or another, one hundred dollars to buy the instrument. With a smiley emoji, the father replied, saying he was confident the boy could make that happen.

I pulled the select banjo from the line and said I had a buyer for this one. Oh great. Who? A family I met at IBMA a few years back. Excellent. How much are they buying it for? $5,000. A note was made in the ledger tracking the sale of the instruments. I was next asked when I would have the money. Later in the year, after I delivered it. And with that, the banjo’s fate was set.

When I wrote the father and told him his boy was on the clock to raise the hundred. The father said they travel quite a bit from their home in Oregon in support of the boy’s playing and could meet me somewhere closer to my home in Saint Louis. I said that would not be necessary and I would personally deliver it to him because I was going to be in the area later that year. It is true that I was going to be in the Pacific Northwest, but what I held back was that I was going to be there with the sole purpose of delivering the banjo to the boy. 

While sorting the collection of instruments, I learned two more things about the banjo. First, I learned that of all the banjos my dad had, this banjo, labeled #5 on the inventory, was his favorite of them all. He said, and others, including the boy, seemed to agree, that it was one of the finest bluegrass banjos you will ever hear. The second thing I learned is that it was priced high because my father didn’t want to sell it. This insight helps explain my father’s earlier offense at my suggestion that he give banjo #5 to the boy years ealier. 

NEXT: Part 3 - The Gun

My father played Bluegrass music for over fifty years. In the late eighties, he played professionally in Branson, Missouri. In the aughts, he leveraged his training in tool & die to become a luthier specializing in the restoration of pre-war Gibson banjos. At times, he had as many as twenty of these coveted instruments in his collection. 

For the last several years, he hosted a booth at the International Bluegrass Convention, held annually in Raleigh, North Carolina. Before the 2022 affair, he told me he was not able to go because his helper had a conflict, and he, my father, being in his late eighties, was not able to set the booth up on his own. 

Given his age, I know he fretted every year might be his last. Feeling for him, I volunteered to help get him there and set up so he could attend the event. Two things came from this offer. I was struck at the childlike joy this ellicited from my father when he learned he would not miss the event. And, I did not expect to, but found I enjoyed watching people discover my father’s collection. If you’re into 1930s Gibson banjos, which a surprising number of people are, and unexpectedly stumble upon this private horde, well, watching a person take this in offers a unique pleasure.

Amongst the banjo-lovers was a standout. It was a 14-year-old boy, though you had to look close to confirm this as he stood well over six feet tall. This boy loved banjos, like next to his mother, and possibly his father, I would guess he loves banjos more than anything else in the world. You can imagine the thrill he experienced when he rounded the corner and took in my father’s booth. 

He entered the cramped space and eyed each instrument with deep curiousity. After asking if he could try one, he cautiously lifted the first in the line and sat in the chair reserved for trials. The cacophony of organized sound this boy pulled from the instrument seemed impossible to my ear and brain. He played the first for a few minutes, put it back, and after getting approval, selected the next from the stack and sat with it for a few minutes. Like that, he worked his way down the line, sampling each banjo. After trying them all, he returned to one in the middle and played it until my father shooed him away, saying he had to make room for others. 

The next day, the boy was back. He selected “his” banjo and sat oblivious to all until my father chased him off. This dance played out over and over for the remainder of the event. On one of his visits, I commented to the boy that he seemed to have found his favorite. Not realizing I had watched it all unfold, he explained to me that he had played each instrument, and this one, the one he was playing now, sounded the very best of them all. 

I asked the boy’s father, who was always standing nearby, about buying the banjo, and was told it was not in the cards. After my dad ran the boy off the fifth or sixth time, I told my father he should give that kid the banjo. Appalled, my father said that if he had six thousand dollars, he could buy the banjo. I said he was a kid and surely didn’t have 6k. My father, sans emotion, said it looked like he wouldn’t be leaving with the banjo then. 

On the last day of the convention, I got the father’s contact information, explaining that as my father’s only child, I may one day be tasked with finding homes for all of these instruments, and I might have an inkling where one of them belongs. The conference ended, and as is often the case with my father and banjos, he went home with more instruments than he came with.

NEXT: Part 2 - The Banjo