BANJO MAN

I pulled a piece of curly maple from a stack at the specialty wood shop. I checked its color, its grain, its sturdiness. This would be the neck of the banjo I was building. It needed to be exactly right. To feel right in my hands, right from the start.

I’d built dozens of banjos over the years, but this one was different. You could say my life’s story would be in this banjo. A lifetime of mistakes, selfdestruction and redemption. I wanted this banjo to tell that story, to share my truth, every time it was played.

At last I found the perfect piece. I loaded it into my truck and headed for my workshop at home.

I grew up outside Washington, D.C., not far from where I now live in Virginia. It wasn’t a happy childhood. My dad was a quiet man, a hard worker. But when he drank, he became mean.

I was terrified of ending up like him. As soon