I started to enter an editor’s note in this space, something like: Due to perennial sloth, the column that usually appears here has been vacated to a restful environment.

But, since I had trouble believing that such a restful environment could be found or afforded, I opted instead just to write this column.

That’s the funny thing about a column. It often seems that there isn’t enough time to get all the things done I need to do and then also find time to tell about them. However, it is love-hate relationship.

I sometimes think of it as therapy; getting my thoughts out and on paper makes everything seem better. In fact, even if you don’t write a column, I suggest that you find a way to express your thoughts in written form.

When I was in college, I remember taking notes in classes and later discarding them without even reading them again. Just the act of writing something down was enough to help me remember the most of it.

The connection between the mind and the written word is every bit as real as the connection between pen and paper — or fingers and keyboard, these days. I used to do the same with my instrument of choice, the guitar, using the fretboard to express my thoughts and feelings the way only music can. Although I still play, I spend more time listening these days.

Since I spent a few days at the Alleghany County Fiddler’s Convention, it would have been difficult to relate all the things I did and saw there. But one thing is for sure, being there took much of my time away from doing the things I would normally do.

In fact, I would equate spending a few days at the convention to spending a few days on vacation. With the obvious exception of the fact that I still had to go to work every day. Who needs a vacation like that?

I noticed something odd this year, more than any other time. While the crowd continues to maintain large numbers of ‘mature’ faces, many over 50, there was an influx of younger pickers this year. There are always young people at the convention, but never as many actively playing the traditional music of the region as I saw this year. One of the event’s organizers even commented on it.

I saw one boy who was no older than eight playing “Rounder 21,” a hard luck song about a rough and tumble youngster. Hearing the words come out of the mouth of a child seemed very odd, indeed.

Not only were the musicians young, they were also talented. Even though I have played guitar on and off for about 20 years now, some of them easily have already surpassed my meager abilities.

I can recall sitting for hours as a youngster, learning to play a new song or practicing ones I already knew. I would sit in the room that housed my music equipment each day, most often alone, and exercise my passion for music.

Obviously, these youngsters are doing the same thing, but with better results.

At one time, I had looked around the crowds at the people playing the music and thought, “They’re all going to be dead and gone and nobody’s going to be there to take over for them.”

The song by George Jones sums up that way of thinking by asking, “Who’s gonna fill their shoes?”

Now I don’t worry about that anymore. Now I wonder, “How did these kids get so good so fast?”

You can’t throw a rock in this county without hitting a guitar player. I don’t know if it will always be that way, but you can be sure that there is a new crop of talent coming up every year to replace those of us who fall by the wayside. Maybe there is hope for me having someone to play the songs of my youth for me when I am hobbling around on a cane in a few years.

But will the children’s children continue the tradition (and so on)? Obviously, we have very little to worry about in that department. The musical heritage was nearly visible as it hung over the fairgrounds like the clouds that dropped rain every day. It’s all music to my ears.

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