After traveling down some back roads and winding through the hills of Virginia, we began climbing a mountain, leaning into one hairpin turn after another. Finally, we arrived in the town of Monterey, only to drive at an even slower pace poking through a street festival already in progress.
We squeezed around bumper-to-bumper SUVs and festival-goers on foot fingering funnel cakes and puffs of cotton candy. Then we eased away from the noise of crowds and mufflers to find The Highland Center and a grateful plenty of free parking right in front of the building.
Inside the quaint venue, a makeshift stage had been set up -- two mics; two straight back chairs. We beelined to the front row, sat down in folding chairs and awaited guitar picker/luthier Wayne Henderson.
In a little while, he appeared in all of his guitar glory, dressed in standard uniform of ball cap, faded blue jeans and plaid shirt, looking like a farm hand instead of an accomplished musician and builder of guitars.
I was surprised to see a woman walking alongside him. He introduced her as Helen White, and I am sure that others in the room, like me, wondered about the relationship between Henderson and his music partner.
I had seen him before and knew him as a man of few words, and true to form, he went right to work brushing his fingers across the frets. I sat mesmerized as he made guitar pickin' look as easy as sitting in a chair watching him. He played the Rags and more, with the accompaniment of Ms. White who fiddled with several stringed instruments and sang songs like Tennessee Flat Top Box while Wayne pinged his magic.
After the session ended and he put his picks in his pocket, I fell in with the others heading toward the stage to mingle with the musicians, and I heard someone blurt out a question I never would have asked.
"Are you a couple?" someone pried.
Ms. White responded, "Yes." Then she added, "But we don't live together."
After telling Wayne I enjoyed his mighty fine pickin', my husband and I moseyed out the front door and drove back down and around the same hairpin turns, more than satisfied that the uphill climb had been worthwhile.
Not too long after that concert, I received a newsletter in my inbox which mentioned that Ms. White had suddenly passed away from a heart attack. I was shocked. At the concert, she looked as fit as the fiddle she played.
That was a few years ago and sometimes I wonder how he is moving along after losing not only his music partner but his companion in life. No doubt he has plenty of musicians to pick with, but it just seemed like the two of them had found the perfect way to whittle away the rest of their years.
I have not seen Henderson in person since, but I did see him on TV, so I know he's still pickin'. And he's still playing the rags -- Steel Guitar Rag, Black Mountain Rag, Blackberry Rag, but I imagine that sometimes, when he's away from the stage, he's probably playing the blues.
Copyright © 2022 by Mary Frances