Deliverance

At work this morning, a coworker/friend was talking about his weekend in Hauser Lake. Another coworker expressed some distaste for Hauser residents and mentioned their bursting population of rednecks. (For my Seattle area friends, Hauser is to Coeur d'Alene what Granite Falls is to Everett.)

"You know you've reached Hauser," he said, "when you hear the banjos playing."

That reminded me of the guy that lives across the cul-de-sac from our old house that picks at his banjo from the steps of his front porch throughout the summer. As soon as good weather permits outdoor instrumentation, he'll be there every evening, playing a bluegrass tune. But that's in Hayden, not Hauser.

I explained the scenario to my coworkers. Frankly, that's one of the things I'll miss now that we've moved. I enjoy the sound of a good banjo player, as long as they're not plucking out the melody of Dueling Banjos.

I told them, "The fist sign that warmer weather arrived is when my neighbor would sit out on his porch, playing his banjo."
My coworker replied, "That would be the first sign of me moving."