Bound to Ramble, part 2

Harold returned to Polk County that fall a new creation. That Banjo had changed him deeply, now he could travel to that special place, somewhere like heaven, whenever his heart desired. Harold loved that hollow-back banjo so much, he gave it name, Verne. The name didn't mean anything in particular, Harold just thought it fit. Harold would sprint the mile and half between the bus stop and their old home place every afternoon so that he could pick on Verne. Sure their were chores that need to to be done, but Harold couldn't help himself, he was born to pick.

Harold's chops got pretty fine, pretty quick with all that practice. Anytime their was a singing downtown, Harold and Verne were there ready. Harold even started playing at church, although he hadn't been in a while, the temptation of getting to play more was greater than his sense of religous guilt. And despite how cold that old Baptist church felt, Harold's spirit would soar when Verne and him took a turn at "I'll Fly Away."

Those two were inseparable. Some evenings they would play on the porch and all creation seemed to join in the tune. The lightening bugs would float on the breeze, the willow tress would sway in rhythm and the stars sometimes seemed to jump with delight as Harold and Verne explored "Uncle Pen," embodying the chorus proclimation, "You could hear it talk, you could hear it sing." It wasn't long before Harold's reputation began to spread, folks who wouldn't dare step into a church were washing there Sunday bests to hear Harold and Verne give new life to the Heavenly Highway Hymnal. The Saturday night singings got so big that they had to move them to the park so everyone could hear.  While all this seemed like a dream come true, Harold became uneasy with his newfound fame and so did his family.

Its hard to nail down when things started to go wrong and especially why. Maybe from the moment the kids started listening to Harold over their Pa's stories, the root of jealousy struck. Harold's old man had struggled all his life to make a living for his family, he worked odd jobs around town, fixing fences, cutting wood, and of course he had been traveling to the delta every summer sense he was sixteen. But nobody ever come to see him do nothing. That boy put a piece of drift wood on a cigar box with leather laces and all of a sudden  Pa didn't matter so much. Unintentionally Pa began to drive the family against Harold, blaming him for everything. Secretly, he justed wanted his boy back, he was scared where all this would take him. Fear and jealously birthed a rift between the two that seemed near impossible to fix.

"Where you off to tonight son?" His Pa inquired.
"I'm gonna play with the Dickerson boys down in the next holler."
"Is that so?"
"Well, I reckon I ain't gotta."
"You dern right right you ain't gotta, there's plenty needs to be done round here fer you go off runnin round."
"Yes sir."
"Just cause you can pick the blasted thing bettern most don't mean you can do whatever you want."
"No sir, I didn't..."
"Don't talk back to me boy," his Pa interrupted, "I reckon it'd been far better had you never started on that old cigar-box."

These exchanges increased in frequency and intensity. What had once been the greatest blessing of his life had begun to drive a wedge between Harold and his family, especially his Pa. All he ever wanted was to escape, to find that place that made him forget his troubles but now instead he just found more trouble. If it weren't his Pa's nagging, then Brother Lee was telling not to stand out too much on Sunday's; they were for the Lord after all not bluegrass, or the ladies down at the auxiliary who thought he should play more jigs, or even Sally, his sister and a good singer in her own right, who thought she oughta to get a chance to shine like Harold. It seemed to him that he hadn't took anyone with him to that place but drove them all away. Of course that wasn't so, the town loved him to death but to Harold all he seemed to do was disappoint.  He wondered where that place had gone to, that place like heaven, it had been far too long since he'd had a visit. Now, whenever he plucked on Verne, his heart twisted in pain. The thing that had once been so good, now seemed broken, maybe it was him, maybe it was luck, but it just didn't work no more.

Harold remembers that night just as clear as any in his life. The pressure of everything had finally gotten him. He lay sleepless in his bed, a bit deranged. His chest felt as if an ox were sitting on it, he found it hard to breathe. And all he could hear in his head was "Man of Constant Sorrow." The words reverberated in his mind, he felt bound, like he was caged in.  The words became him, he wasn't born to pick but bound to ramble. He had no friends to help him now, so he sat up, packed a sack, grabbed Verne and left the town he was born and raised. He left home and with a purity of confusion determined never to return again. Heaven wasn't there no more and he doubted he would ever find it again.