imagining that dog jumping off into traffic.”
Stef smiled and her face looked dazzling. Jackie noticed an acoustic guitar propped against the living room wall. “Do you play?”
Stef nodded.
“Me too. I can play guitar, but it isn’t my main instrument. I play the banjo, mainly.”
“Banjo?” Stef looked taken aback.
“I know, it’s an unusual instrument, but not for bluegrass.”
“Bluegrass,” Stef stated with a flicker of interest. “So you’re into hillbilly music?”
Jackie was used to this sort of reaction from people who were unfamiliar with bluegrass, thinking it was a simple and haphazard barn dance phenomenon or, even worse, the same as country western. “Bluegrass is a legitimate music style,” she objected, “and not just a bunch of yahoos banging on a wash basin.”
Stef started to speak, but Jackie, having started, cut her off. Stef seemed to resign herself to Jackie’s impassioned defense of bluegrass by leaning casually against a wall and giving her complete attention.
“It’s just as important and varied as jazz,” Jackie continued, “an entirely American style of music with roots in the traditions of the Scots and Irish immigrants, with some African-American influences, gospel and blues. It has very specific elements, a truly unique character, and is appreciated all over the world. To call it hillbilly music is to completely dismiss it as trivial.”
Stef regarded Jackie with a look of wry appreciation. She leaned over, picked up her guitar, put the strap over her shoulder and produced a pick. She held it between her thumb and forefinger to show Jackie before launching into a thoroughly bluegrass version of “Rocky Top.” She played through the first chorus, flatpicking in true bluegrass style, looking up once to grin and wink at Jackie, then finished with a short, improvisational breakdown.
Realizing Stef had been teasing with the hillbilly music remark, Jackie nodded apologetically and said, “That was great.”
“I’m more of a classic rock fan,” Stef said, “but I like a good hillbilly stomp now and then.” She put the guitar down and pointed to the basket. “What’d you bring me?”
“I thought you might like a taste of Stillwater Bay. You can really get to know a place through its produce, the local specialties.”
“Who says I want to get to know the place?” Stef asked.
“It can’t hurt.” Undaunted, Jackie pulled a bundle of asparagus from the basket. “This grows all around here. One of our major crops. And these strawberries, I picked these myself.” She put a box of berries on the table.
Stef approached and picked up one of the berries, putting it between her lips to take a bite. She ate slowly, her eyes locked on Jackie’s. Stef said a lot with her eyes. Or maybe it just felt that way because she said so little with her mouth, so you were forced to read her some other way.
“That’s good,” she said. “Really good.”
Jackie pulled a plastic bag full of ice out of the basket. “I also brought you some crawdads. Our claim to fame. You can’t live here and not eat an occasional crawdad.”
“Crawdads? They seem to be like a local mascot or something.”
“Have you ever eaten one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just grill or boil them and eat the tail meat like a lobster.”
“Did you catch those too?” Stef smiled, creating dimples in her cheeks.
“No. I’ve caught them plenty of times, but I got these from a local guy who supplies the restaurants.”
Jackie felt quivery all over just standing in the same room with Stef. She did her best to appear casual, to keep her flustered thoughts to herself, but the way Stef cocked her head to the side, regarding Jackie with cool amusement, took her completely off her game and left her defenseless. The woman was projecting “come here” and “get lost” all at the same time. In her experience, some lesbians had a way of looking at other women, directly into their eyes with a
Stef smiled and her face looked dazzling. Jackie noticed an acoustic guitar propped against the living room wall. “Do you play?”
Stef nodded.
“Me too. I can play guitar, but it isn’t my main instrument. I play the banjo, mainly.”
“Banjo?” Stef looked taken aback.
“I know, it’s an unusual instrument, but not for bluegrass.”
“Bluegrass,” Stef stated with a flicker of interest. “So you’re into hillbilly music?”
Jackie was used to this sort of reaction from people who were unfamiliar with bluegrass, thinking it was a simple and haphazard barn dance phenomenon or, even worse, the same as country western. “Bluegrass is a legitimate music style,” she objected, “and not just a bunch of yahoos banging on a wash basin.”
Stef started to speak, but Jackie, having started, cut her off. Stef seemed to resign herself to Jackie’s impassioned defense of bluegrass by leaning casually against a wall and giving her complete attention.
“It’s just as important and varied as jazz,” Jackie continued, “an entirely American style of music with roots in the traditions of the Scots and Irish immigrants, with some African-American influences, gospel and blues. It has very specific elements, a truly unique character, and is appreciated all over the world. To call it hillbilly music is to completely dismiss it as trivial.”
Stef regarded Jackie with a look of wry appreciation. She leaned over, picked up her guitar, put the strap over her shoulder and produced a pick. She held it between her thumb and forefinger to show Jackie before launching into a thoroughly bluegrass version of “Rocky Top.” She played through the first chorus, flatpicking in true bluegrass style, looking up once to grin and wink at Jackie, then finished with a short, improvisational breakdown.
Realizing Stef had been teasing with the hillbilly music remark, Jackie nodded apologetically and said, “That was great.”
“I’m more of a classic rock fan,” Stef said, “but I like a good hillbilly stomp now and then.” She put the guitar down and pointed to the basket. “What’d you bring me?”
“I thought you might like a taste of Stillwater Bay. You can really get to know a place through its produce, the local specialties.”
“Who says I want to get to know the place?” Stef asked.
“It can’t hurt.” Undaunted, Jackie pulled a bundle of asparagus from the basket. “This grows all around here. One of our major crops. And these strawberries, I picked these myself.” She put a box of berries on the table.
Stef approached and picked up one of the berries, putting it between her lips to take a bite. She ate slowly, her eyes locked on Jackie’s. Stef said a lot with her eyes. Or maybe it just felt that way because she said so little with her mouth, so you were forced to read her some other way.
“That’s good,” she said. “Really good.”
Jackie pulled a plastic bag full of ice out of the basket. “I also brought you some crawdads. Our claim to fame. You can’t live here and not eat an occasional crawdad.”
“Crawdads? They seem to be like a local mascot or something.”
“Have you ever eaten one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Just grill or boil them and eat the tail meat like a lobster.”
“Did you catch those too?” Stef smiled, creating dimples in her cheeks.
“No. I’ve caught them plenty of times, but I got these from a local guy who supplies the restaurants.”
Jackie felt quivery all over just standing in the same room with Stef. She did her best to appear casual, to keep her flustered thoughts to herself, but the way Stef cocked her head to the side, regarding Jackie with cool amusement, took her completely off her game and left her defenseless. The woman was projecting “come here” and “get lost” all at the same time. In her experience, some lesbians had a way of looking at other women, directly into their eyes with a
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