I have seen it happen in front yards in Charlotte County and Patrick Springs, both in VA.  It is a regular occurrence every first Friday of the month at my church.  It is spontaneous, no planned number of participants or list of songs to play.  It's having one's musical instrument(s) - usually plural - in the pickup truck, stopping by and playing.  And maybe carrying a notebook of lyrics, each page lovingly placed in plastic protective sheets, added onto along the years.  It is called a bluegrass jam and it is popular in the South.  Truth be told, it may happen in a lot of states and venues across this country, spreading out from the South.

I fall in love every time I hear the familiar bluegrass, old time country -and yes, there is a difference - and hymns passed down through the centuries .  This particular Friday night at church, as the musical veterans examine each other's instruments, they tell stories of how they acquired them.  One fellow states he traded a pistol on the internet for the Blue Ridge guitar he now handles with reverence. 

It pains me to think that they are dismissed as rednecks that talk funny and can play a tune or two.  They are proud and intelligent, sharing their talents.  They are happy to do it for free and it is what they love, to boot.  Women are welcome to join in the circle, too.  Realizing everyone has different musical tastes, I don't bemoan those who dislike this kind of music.  But sometimes I think,  "They don't know what they are missing." 

Three young boys arrive and are invited to sit down and participate.  One, about 16, keeps his eyes on the old timers and absorbs every word they speak to him, teaching him new guitar techniques which he quickly masters.  Another boy around the same age pulls out a dobro. " Dobro man," they dub him.  He grins and also listens to each word spoken to him, eager to learn.  When they tell him to "start us off" he seems astonished.  He's that good.  "Come on son, we ain't got all day," one man teases him.  The youngster holds his own as he picks the dobro.  His brother, looking about 14, falls in behind him with his guitar. 

Three teens, barely speaking a word but playing with meaning and curiosity.  I sit and want to ask them questions about their motivation after reading daily of so many in their age group going astray.  I wonder silently if they play in their school bands.  They are playing with a passion that starts only in the soul.  It makes me proud of and thankful for youth such as they.   

I marvel at this sight, loving every familiar note of music in my blood.  I am happy that 3 young boys choose to show up to the jam instead of roaming into trouble.  They are at an awkward age and it takes a lot of confidence to sit with the veterans.  They are carrying on the history of the Carter Family and Bill Monroe, Little Jimmie Dickens and Flatt and Scruggs.  And thus continuing the cycle of purely American music, influenced by celtic sounds and dancing. 

Those who dismiss such an experience as "redneck" will never know what follows the familiar, "Start us off boys," command.  I smile continuously and I'm glad I'm there to listen and experience pure joy in an old country Presbyterian church.   It just doesn't get any better than this.