I purchased you at a party several years ago. A woman walked into the kitchen, where I was conversing and asked if anyone wanted to buy a banjo. I shouted without thinking, "yes!" and pulled out my checkbook from my purse. She asked for $35 and told me that it had once belonged to her step-father who recently died of diabetes. He loved that banjo. A sad story but, I knew that I could provide a loving home for you.
Yesterday, we noticed that the gorgeous wood around your drum was white and sandy to the touch. Mold. I stood holding you, stunned, unaware of what lies next for you.
This is not the first time the Demon Mold has tried to take a musical instrument from us. You are not the first casualty. It has happened to us before.
We, Chicagoans, have not acclimated well to the Southern climate that chooses to grow mold whenever and wherever it chooses. And, we're all left spellbound in its path. We have lost things along the way; shoes, purses. But you, banjo, were a stunning discovery.
Robert once opened a show with you and he playing Black Sabbath's War Pigs. The audience loved it. And, when Robert picked your strings during the first interlude, you made the melody somehow beautiful.
It's not fair. You are too young. There are so many more choruses you can pluck.
I will apply grapefruit seed oil to you in an attempt to save your beautiful appearance, your dignity. I will place you in front of a dehumidifier. But, I do not know how hard your wood grains are willing to fight. Only time will tell.
Rufuah shlema.
