It seems that God doesn’t want a banjo in our band. The signs are very obvious.
On Wednesday morning we happily loaded the musical gear out of the Mississauga Stage West hotel and into our rented van. The show the night before was delightful. All hands were on top shelf as we rolled west along Dixie and on to that ribbon of misery, the 401. We had gone no more than 2 kilometres en route to Port Hope when a man in a SUV sped up side by side with us and gestured strongly for us to pull over. He looked like a trusting soul so we complied. When both vehicles came to a stop on that narrow, unsafe strip of no man’s land he came running towards us.
“Your banjo just fell off the roof of your van”, he sympathetically declared.
It was then that one of us (how kind of me) realized that he had placed the poor creature up there while loading and neither of us had seem it prior to departure.
So, dear friends, the banjo is no more – kaput, roadkill, falttened, pancaked, completely plucked and rendered eternally useless. In a matter of seconds she was passed over by a multitude of wheels and unmistakably trampled. Yes, she will duel more more.
Get this: that was our second banjo crisis. The last one got destroyed a month ago en route from Ft McMurray by the gentle handlers at West Jet.
Now I’m sure, dear fans, that some of you are crying as you read this disturbing news. Like us you probably can’t get her last moments off your mind. We therefore ask that you join us in our grieving by sending us condolences, poems, jokes, odes or any other fitting tributes. We need closure in a bad way.
She was a marvelous little plucker. May she rest in pieces.