I spent most of this past weekend at the fiddler's convention, which is getting to be an annual occurrance for me.

The music seemed as good or better than ever and there surely was a crowd of campers on hand. I haven't been camping there for the past few years, choosing instead to stay until around 11 p.m. and head home to a nice soft bed.

I tried it one year in a tent and a couple of times in my camper. However, the most interesting times by far were the times when I went entirely without my own campsite. I usually ended up sleeping in my truck, or once, on a spare couch in an under-utilized camper. Most people at these things are very friendly and the entire event has a kind of unnatural friendly kindness. If you break a string, someone will give you one. If you are hungry, chances are someone will share their breakfast with you (or at least a cup of strong coffee).

I always enjoy seeing my old friends at these things, folks that I can recall from year after year of attendance. Sometimes I notice how much these folks are aging, so I try not to look in the mirror too often myself.

One guy who makes mandolins has talked with me every year since I started going. This year, for the first time, I noticed that his hair went from brown to white. However, he still had his impatient air. He was always the kind of fellow who couldn't sit still very long. He and I played music until sometime after 3 a.m. one year, he on mandolin and I on guitar. The songs ranged from classic country and folk music to bluegrass and old time tunes. I think about that night and how we never ran out of songs the entire time whenever I see him.

Another fellow was on a cane this time, a decline in health from what I can recall. I remember him dancing on a piece of muddy plywood a few years back. He didn't seem to be taking it badly, just moving a bit slower and more cautiously. He still had the same mirthful look on his face as he listened to the music float through the cool night air. Some of the old familiar faces weren't there at all. Does that bode badly or well? I suppose it depends on who you ask.

The talent level at a such a small event never ceases to amaze me. Nearly everyone you see is an expert at playing or singing. Every campsite has a circle of musicians. The musicians always look inward, as if each is sharing the sound of his or her instrument with the others in a more intimate performance. Who cares if the audience is listening or not? Let's make the best music we can and enjoy it for ourselves.

Since I am a guitar player, I always like to watch them and see how they are doing. I used to think I was good enough to play with most of the little groups I saw. Now I leave my instrument at home, knowing that I am better suited to listening at such an event.

Lending to this opinion, I saw a guitar player Saturday that was the best I have ever seen. His calloused hands obviously were very familiar with his old guitar, the divots in the neck bore testimony to their passage. He was an unassuming old fellow, not proud or cocky in any way. He also sang, with a high-pitched bluegrass voice that I could never come close to imitating. I'm always surprised when a rough-looking farmer type opens his mouth and puts forth such a smooth and sweet-sounding voice.

Since I did leave my instrument at home, I also spent more time around the stage area, listening to the performances. Despite having attended the convention for at least the past seven years, I had never watched an entire band competition.

I was usually busy making my own music, wandering around and looking for a friendly group to sit in with. However, the stage was full of groups that had obviously spent more than an hour or two rehearsing. For the quality, I could have been at any paid performance at any venue. These men and women were professionals. By Saturday night, only the best 15 bluegrass and old time bands were left.

I also enjoy watching the individual competitions, during which the talent levels vary greatly. From the consummate professional to the absolute novice, the fiddler's convention has plenty of variety to offer.

Just a week earlier, temperatures had been in the 60s at night, but during the convention, the night-time temperature fell to near 50. People had come prepared, it seemed, with jackets, sweatshirts and blankets appearing from nowhere.

Friday night, several folks were talking about how dry the fairgrounds were. "It doesn't seem like a fiddler's convention if nobody gets their shoes muddy," one fellow said with a laugh.

Several people from off the mountain commented about how cold it was Friday. "Y'all sure are lucky to have such cool weather all the time," I heard more than once. I didn't bother explaining how I had to run my air conditioner every night for the entire two-week period prior just to cool off the house enough to climb under a sheet and go to sleep. By Saturday night, the jokes had ended about the cool, dry weather and the rain had begun.

It sprinkled for awhile and then it poured. And it poured, and then it poured some more. But the show went on and the crowd didn't seem to be much smaller than normal.

Once the rain got under way, I saw lots of umbrellas and rubber boots come out, the same way the jackets and blankets had the night before. I think I was the only one who didn't bring an umbrella, a rain coat or a poncho. Through the entire downpour, the music went on and the crowd stayed mostly dry in the stands. Since the wind was pretty calm, it didn't blow in too badly.

A special presentation was given for Bobby Johnson and David Sturgill. Both were fine men and musicians, but I had spent much more time with ‘Uncle Dave.' I heard an interesting line from a friend of Dave's about how he made a deal with a man in Piney Creek. That fellow had complained about too many hippie-types being drawn to Dave's instrument-making school. "Let's pull out every piece of U.S. currency and I'll give you a dollar for every man's picture with short hair and you give me a dollar for every one with long hair," Dave told him. I thought about that during the presentation as I looked at the drawing of Dave that was presented to his family.

As you look around the fairgrounds, there are hair styles and lengths of every description, outfits ranging from tie-dyed shirts and bell bottoms, to preppy dress shirts and slacks to bibbed overalls.

I will always miss the common-sense wisdom of men like Dave Sturgill and the joking happy faces of men like Bobby Johnson.

Even so, no matter how many times I go to this convention, I always feel like it keeps getting better.

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