RAY SLONE plays old time mountain music, a hobby which will, hopefully, help mountain music to survive in the future.. Several of his ancestors played banjo, fiddle or guitar.

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Interesting blog, thank you

I loved my homemade banjo
I loved my Daddy more
- like this poetry

Blog master: This is the lyrical version of the story of Ray Slone's homemade banjo, referenced in a newspaper column I posted here.
The Groundhog's Tale:
Daddy wouldn’t waste the groundhog’s tail
When he tanned the groundhog’s skin
Daddy wouldn’t waste a scrap of iron
He had a blacksmith shape a rim
Daddy wouldn’t waste a chestnut branch
The neck came from our own tree
And Daddy wouldn’t waste a little boy’s dream
When he made that banjo for me

And that groundhog’s tail was wagging
When I strummed the banjo strings
Trying hard to hit the notes
Of a song I’d heard him sing
“That’s it,” was all my Daddy said
After "Going Down to Town" he'd heard
When it come to paying compliments
Daddy wouldn’t waste a word

2. I’ve got a granddaughter who plays upright bass
Another plays mandolin
There are three in the middle who all play fiddle
And another one loves to sing
My grandson just turned 10 years old
He’s starting on guitar
When I hear the children’s music
I tell them they’re all stars

When that groundhog’s tail was wagging
I learned a thing or two
Daddy taught me thriftiness
And what a man can do
But when it came to putting smiles
On a young’un’s face
I wish someone taught Daddy
Those are words you never waste

Coda: Times were hard on Caney Creek
We were kinda poor
I loved my homemade banjo
I loved my Daddy more
I know why he didn’t talk too much
It went with the life he led
But I’m 65 years remembering
A few words I wish my Dad had said:
“Good job”
“That was real pretty
“You’re on your way to Nashville”
That’s it?

Blog master: My apologies for the length of this. It's a column about Ray that appeared in The Sun Chronicle of Attleboro, MA, on June 24:
Headline: The groundhog's tale for a belated Father's Day
Now: A I’m a bit tardy with this Father’s Day column, but I ask for my readers’ indulgence. I was vacationing in Kentucky last week. One special treat during my stay at Folk Week at the Hindman Settlement School was the opportunity to sing a song I wrote for my old friend, Ray Slone, based on a true story from his life. It includes an observation about fathers’ behavior. You be the judge on whether the fourth Sunday in June, rather than the third, is too late to tell the tale.
Then: During the later years of the Great Depression, Slone was a boy growing up in the Caney Creek area of Knott County, Ky., and wanted nothing so much as a banjo.
His dad — a banjo player himself and a grandson to Fiddling Shade Slone, an old-time fiddler of historical significance — obliged by going out hunting. For a groundhog. Which he skinned and tanned to use as the banjo head, leaving the tail on the skin, a traditional treatment for children’s banjoes.
Dad Slone found an iron collar used for connecting gasline pipes and had a blacksmith fix it up to be used as the rim that holds the banjo head in place. He chose a piece of chestnut from the woodpile and whittled it into a neck for the banjo. And with other home-made touches, the fretless banjo was completed.
Little Ray was mightily pleased and set out to play “I’m Going Down to Town,” which he had heard his father strum. He learned the chords from another banjo player in the family and about wore out his little fingers practicing the tune.
“Dad, I’ve been learning ‘Going Down to Town.’ Would you like to hear it?” he asked his father one night as he was coming home from his job as a coal miner. Dad put his lunchpail down on the porch and leaned forward to listen. And when Ray was done, his father said, “that’s it” — not a word more — then picked up his lunchpail and headed into the house, leaving a disappointed boy behind.
In between: Ray grew up to become a science teacher in the Knott County, Ky., schools and to serve as county treasurer and in several other positions of public trust. As highly regarded as he is in Knott County for his public roles, he’s probably better known as a musician and music teacher.
Along with the banjo, Ray learned guitar. Fiddle. Bass. Mandolin. Dobro. Dulcimer. If it’s got strings on it, Ray can not only figure a way to get music out of it, but to teach someone else to play it as well.
Years back, his daughters joined him in a string band, which toured widely and were included in a family band lineup at the Grand Ole Opry. More recently, he’s been teaching his grandchildren to play. He has released two CDs featuring his fiddle and banjo playing and published a guitar instruction manual. He remains in high demand to play at country dances. In 2003, he was recognized as a national treasure when he played at the Smithsonian Folklife Festival on The National Mall in Washington, D.C.
Many of Ray’s former students have gone on to careers in Nashville or elsewhere in the music industry. More often, they’re Knott County youngsters who in Ray Slone have found the key to open the door to the music in their hearts. Sometimes he works with older students — I’m one of those and can testify that Ray’s as generous, patient and encouraging a teacher as you’d ever hope to find.
He told me the story of the homemade banjo several years ago. It stuck with me in part because I identified with the father, who had no problem in devoting a couple of weeks to the hunting, tanning, smithing and other work of making a banjo, but couldn’t find the words to encourage his son’s playing. In my case, there’s not much I wouldn’t do for my kids, but when they call home I’ve got a habit of asking “want to talk to Ma?” after I’ve been on the line for an excruciatingly long period of time — usually about two minutes.
It’s thoughtless, I know. But it has also occurred to me that Ray Slone has become the patient, encouraging, generous teacher that he is, at least in part because he never forgot the hurt he felt when his Dad said nothing more than “that’s it.”
If I’m right, Ray’s father was guilty of nothing more than inspired thoughtlessness. He deserves the thanks of all the hundreds who have learned from Ray Slone that they can, indeed, make a little music.
MARK FLANAGAN is Opinion Page editor of The Sun Chronicle. He can be reached at 508-236-0335 or at mflanagan@thesunchronicle.com.