Watts Line

The hubster goes Banjo

I am now the anxious wife of Banjo Boy.
Yes, Banjo Boy.
The Hubster has made a left turn at the law books and has taken up learning to play the banjo. In earnest. I'm talking about hours a day.
About 28 years ago, the Hubster said he'd like to learn to play the banjo. We were living in Germany at the time and he was an Air Force JAG in an era before it was cool to be a JAG. (And I'm pretty darn sure he never flew a jet like his recent TV counterpart did.)
Anyway, I bought him a banjo back then and he picked around at it a bit. Mostly it sat in the closet of whichever house we were living in at the time. For the next two or so decades it lay dormant. Silent.
Then about six months ago, the banjo bug bit my dearest and out came the instrument from the closet and into his itching-to-get-twanging hands.
He practiced endlessly. First off I'd just like to say that as instruments go, banjos are LOUD. Very LOUD. The dogs run from the room when he unsnaps the banjo case. They know what's coming.
A few weeks into his latest obsession, I suggested he try a practice space less central to the rest of the house than the living room.
He chose the back room that I'd taken over as my office space when our Surfer Dude manchild had vacated the premises for the West Coast. It took the twanging out of earshot, but put him in with my stuff so every time I need something I have to crawl over his banjo case, music stand, liquid refreshments and assorted little tools associated with the care, maintenance and tuning of the banjo.
A few weeks after BB started his new obsession, suspicious packages started showing up in the mail.
First they were small, about the size of music books or tuning instruments.
Then one day a big package showed up. It wasn't too hard to figure out that it was about the size of a banjo. A really big banjo.
"Whatcha got there?" I asked.
"A banjo."
I nodded knowingly.
"What happened to the other one?"
"Wrong kind. Needed this kind instead."
"There's more than one kind?"
He looked at me as if I was somewhat music dimwit. (Which really isn't that much of a stretch. Hey. I had no idea. They all look pretty much the same to me.)
He pulled the new banjo out of its case. There was a flower power sticker on it, leftovers from the summer of love. It had a really long handle...excuse me...neck. It was some kind of folk music variety of banjo called a Vega.
A few weeks later I had to retrieve something from my special room, now BB's practice room. I walked in to find him surrounded by not one, not two, not even three, but five banjos. "Opening a store?"
"Nah. I'll sell a couple of them."
Okay.
So, now he's down to four banjos. The twanging has escalated and he's making comments like "a little string band." I'm already saying goodbye permanently to my office space.
I've purchased a new supply of earplugs.
Last week Banjo Boy came home with a violin - a fiddle that his great-grandfather had played at barn dances back in the late 1800s. BB'd had it restored. I figure it's just a matter of time before the squealing strains of fiddle music begin to emanate from the back room.
Where are those earplugs?

Contact Judy Watts at jwatts@journalscene.com or 873-9424, ext. 17.

The Hubster's at it again

It's summer, and that can mean only one thing: The Hubster is at it again. At least once a year, apparently provoked by heat and humidity, he becomes obsessed with a project.
This year it is "the limb."
"We have a dangling limb," he announced months ago. And the thought has festered since.
There's this massive big tree limb hanging from a tall old pine tree in our backyard. It's been there for at least a year from the looks of the weathered and ragged partial break. For all I know it could have been there for years.
But nevertheless, this is the year he has decided it must come down. And not by the hand of someone who is skilled in the art and science of tree removal. It must come down by his own scarred-from-past-household-obsessions-hand.
This particular project has taken on an outdoor sports theme.
About two weeks ago, he hauled out his fishing rod -- a rig more suited to catching a three-pound black bass than a pine tree -- and tied some kind of weighted tag to the end of the line where a lure would normally be.
"Going fishing?" I asked innocently. I knew he wasn't, but didn't really have a clue yet what he was actually up to.
"Nope," he said, not bothering to explain more.
I watched as he fiddled with his tackle for a few more minutes, then he headed to the back door.
"Going to pull down that limb," he said. "I'm going to cast this weight over the limb and give it a yank."
Okay. "But it's still pretty well attached to the tree," I said.
"Not for long," he answered over his shoulder as he disappeared into the yard.
About half an hour later he came stomping back into the den, fishing pole in hand, a wisp of bare line dangling from the end. The weighted tag was obvious by its absence.
"Any luck?" I asked. I saw the look on his face and already knew the answer.
I couldn't really understand what he said, but let's just put it this way, it didn't sound happy.
Fast forward to this past weekend. He came trooping through the kitchen with a bow and arrow.
"Whatcha' doin,'" I asked.
"Gonna get that limb down," he answered.
I had an opinion but really didn't feel like sharing, 'cause a guy's gotta do, what a guy's gotta do.
Now I have to say that I was getting a little worried because, as I mentioned earlier, he likes doing these home chores himself, not always with great results. Like the year he sharpened the lawnmower blade to save the $25 dollars it would have cost him for an expert to do it. The emergency room bill totaled $897. The place where he nearly cut his thumb off still hurts on rainy days.
So the bow and arrow was worrisome.
"Be careful," I called after him as he once again ventured into the backyard.
An hour passed and he returned with only the bow.
He was not a happy archre. I waited for the explanation.
"The arrow and line are all up in the tree," he said and headed for the garage. I didn't see him again for another hour, but I think he's actually considering hiring someone to come take down the limb for him.
But in the meantime, I don't plan to stand under that tree. If the limb doesn't get me, the arrow just might.

For love of fish

I've had a lifelong involvement with fish. The live pet kind. My grandmother always had a goldfish and I'd always loved watching her feed it oatmeal flakes. The fish must have like it okay since it lived for years.
When I was old enough to earn a few dollars of my own by babysitting, I bought two fantail goldfish. They needed a place to live so I also got this cute little bowl and a ceramic bridge for them to swim under. They had real fish food instead of oatmeal. I liked the little can it came in.
And they did fine until we went on vacation to the lake and I took them with me. We'd been there three days when I awoke to find them floating awkwardly in their cute bowl turned coffin. I was devastated in the way only a 12-year-old girl can be.
But somehow life continued and my next fish were a little more exotic and lived in a five gallon aquarium. I nursed them through Ick (a fish malady), created nurseries when they had babies and just had a big old time with my fish.
Until recently, it had been years since I'd a fish and on a whim one day while I was still working down at the PandC, I went to the big box store pet store and got a fish for my office. This time the bowl was interesting, the fish a colorful beta. They are the ones hanging forlornly in the water inside tiny ittle round bowls. They look pretty bored. (They are all males and you can only have one at a time since they will fight each other to the death. The females, a much smaller and less frilly version of the males, don't fare much better.)
So I installed the fish and enjoyed it for about a week and half until I came in one morning to find him in his last throes. I didn't take it as hard as I had the goldfish since I'd only had him a week.
I got back on that horse and headed down to specialist fish store and talked to the guy that ran the shop, got a little expert advice, and got a new fish. I named him Rainbeau, Beau for short.
This fish has faired better than his predecessor. I got him a plant. He swims around a lot. Apparently the ones in the little round bowls don't swim around much because they don't have room to.
Rainbeau did so well, I decided I'd get one for our house. I named him Rosco. They seem content and energetic in their respective glass houses. A few little dried blood worms every day seem to be their favorite.
Rainbeau had a happy couple of months on my desk downtown. The folks in our department checked on him when they came in to chat.
He lived happily there getting lots of attention from everyone.
When I announced I was leaving that job for this one, the folks in the department had just one question:
"But what about Beau?"
"Well, I plan to take him with me," I told them.
"You're taking Beau?" (It was pretty obvious whom they were going to miss!)
"Yep. I'm taking Beau."
So now Beau is installed in his bowl on my new desk. He swims around, comes to the top when he sees me pick up his can of food, eats his dried worms and minds his own business. Every now and again, someone comes by to look at him and see how he's doing.
I realize I've gotten attached to this fish. So, how long does a beta fish live? I have no idea. I don't want to know. I'm sure it's a really long time.
I'm way too old to fall apart like a 12-year-old.