Right in the middle of Aucilla, there’s an old gas station. White paint is peeling off, windows are dusty, but two columns stand proudly upright, on either side of where the gas pumps used to be. That’s where we first met Pat, years and years ago. My cousin and I were traveling to Tallahassee from Madison one afternoon. We stopped and went inside for Coca-Colas and a bag of peanuts. He got us two colas from the old chest cooler and grabbed the peanuts from a small stand on the counter. He was wiry and almost bald, with a stub of cigar sticking out of his mouth. Right when I was fixing to dump my peanuts into my drink, Pat picked up a banjo.
“You play that thing?” I asked.
“Dern right!” he replied and immediately launched into a spirited rendition of ‘Bully of the Town’. How he enunciated each word so clearly with the stub of cigar still in his mouth was beyond me! We stayed for a hour that day, not caring if we ever got to Tallahassee or not. He knew all the old tunes by heart, and then some more. His fingers flew over the strings and he never missed a beat. Everyone that came in to pay for gas that day, stayed until he finally wound down. From then on, I took the Aucilla road when traveling through, and always stopped to hear a song or two from Pat. He knew some good ones, like ‘Columbus Stockade’ and ‘Miller’s Cave’.
One of the best times I had with Pat was one sunny fall afternoon. Several of my cousins and friends who played instruments, followed me to the station. Pat was pleasantly surprised at having so many folks come to hear him and play music with him. “It’s been a long time since I been in a hootnanny!” he declared. We had a fun time and learned some new songs that day. When we were leaving, we saw that nearby porches were filled with people who were sitting out there to hear the music!
Well, years passed by. Some of the musicians who played music with Pat that day went on to achieve fame and fortune in the music world. Others still play music here and there around the area. I mostly remember the ease with which he touched those banjo strings. There was love in those fingers. It was almost ten years later when I saw him again. Stopped right there at the gas station and went in to see how Pat was doing. No Pat. “Where’s Pat?” I asked the man who stood behind the counter.
“He don’t get out no more,” came the reply.
“Well, where’s he at?” I inquired.
“Oh, he’s probably home. It’s right down the road. You ort to go by and see him. I think he’d like that,” said the fellow. So, I set out to find his house.
Went down a sandy dirt road with ditches on each side. Oak trees formed a canopy and wild plums grew from the roadside. And, sure enough, his house was right there where he said it would be. It was a wood frame cracker house with a big garden full of greens out back. I hoped he’d recognize me, it had been so long. Knocked on the door. Knocked again. And suddenly, he was there. “Remember me?” I asked.
“Not rightly,” he answered, then added, “Come on in.”
“Are you the one with the tape recorder?” he asked when we’d gotten seated.
“Not me, but I wish it was.” I replied wistfully.
He still had the cigar stub in his mouth and his banjo nearby. After we’d gone out back and picked some greens for me to take home, he sat on the sofa and picked up the banjo. He played just as good as he ever did. Only this time, he played some original tunes - something he rarely did. Songs so fine, I almost cried.
It was a couple of years later the next time I went by to see Pat. This time I was too late. “He’s passed. But it sure don’t seem like he’s really gone. Sometimes I think I hear those banjo strings, but it’s just the wind blowing,” said the young woman.
“Sure am sorry to hear it.” I replied.
“I keep that old banjo around in case one of the grandkids gits interested,” she said. Then she added, “Are you the one with the tape recorder?”
“Nope," I responded sadly, wishing one more time that I was.
