Summer 1959. The concert under the stars in the Wellfleet, Massachusetts, town parking lot was over. Pete Seeger was packing up his banjo as I approached him gingerly—I was 6 years old. I stuck out the notepad I’d been careful to bring. “Can I have your autograph?”
Towering over me, six-three to my three-eight, Seeger said in exasperation, if not outright coldness, “I don’t give autographs. I’m not some goddamned star.”
Terrified, I stood my ground.
“Oh, ,” he said. Pete Seeger was a talented draftsman. In seconds, he dashed off a perfect cartoon of a
