By RAHN ADAMS
It was thirty-seven years ago this very weekend / when the late Arthel “Doc” Watson became my friend — / well, if I can say that about a guitar god / whose talent I had long worshiped from afar.
He was picking at Sims Country Bar-B-Cue that Friday evening, / and he agreed to sit down and talk to me / before that Saturday night’s last show with the Blueridge Ramblers, / a string band from Boone.
“I’ll do the interview,” he told me, / “but only if you have your questions written down.” / Naturally, I agreed and I did intend to follow through / until, shucks, I worked the Oyster Festival at Seaside.
The festival was that Saturday as well, / and I had to cover it all day, everything from oyster shucking / to bullshooting — a nice way to say telling lies, / a skill at which even Presidents now excel.
So when Doc asked if I had questions in hand, / I could have lied and said, “Yep, got ’em right here,” / but I told the truth, that I’d been very busy. / Doc just nodded “OK” and talked to me anyway.