Wednesday, June 13, 2001

Bean Blossom. It's a tiny unincorporated village straddling State Highway 135 in the rolling hills of Brown County. Its peculiar name is rivaled only by another Brown County village, Gnaw Bone.

But for a few days each year, the population of Bean Blossom increases dramatically, to about 20,000, as visitors from every state flood in, to partake of the old-time music at an event known as The Bill Monroe Annual Bean Blossom Bluegrass Festival.

Formerly known simply as the "Brown County Jamboree," there stood on the site at which the Bluegrass Festival takes place a large and rickety old barn with a stage at one end. There was another building that passed as a public restroom, but which was rivaled in cleanliness by most portable toilets.

The old barn had a perpetually sagging roof, a concrete floor, and old-fashioned wooden theater seats. It was heated by coal-burning stoves that had to be stoked throughout the performances if they were held in cold weather. But, more importantly, it was a place where many friendships were forged among those who shared a common musical interest.

Every Saturday night, local bluegrass bands would perform while square dancers tripped the light fantastic on the newly-poured cement floor. Every Sunday, a "big name" band or personality from Nashville, Tennessee would grace the old stage.

Bill Monroe, who died in 1996 at the age of 84, purchased the barn and the property on which it stood in the 1960s. Monroe is known as the "Father of Bluegrass Music." He invented the genre during the 1940s and '50s. Although it never became a mainstream music genre, it developed a huge cult following, and it influenced what would eventually become Rock 'n' Roll.

One of those followers of Monroe was my father, Bryant Wilson. He was a budding Bluegrass musician in the 1950s and became one of the staff bands at Bean Blossom even before Monroe bought it. He remained as one of the staff bands at the Brown County Jamboree in the 1960s. I can vividly remember making the trip from Edinburgh through Trafalgar and Morgantown en route to Bean Blossom every Sunday, and many Saturday nights. Dad was the opening act for the more famous Bluegrass and Country stars, such as Ralph Stanley, Jimmy Martin, the Stoneman Family, Loretta Lynn, and Monroe himself. Occasionally, he would be one of the highlight acts when no Nashville star was booked. He and his "Kentucky Ramblers" were the main, and sometimes only, band to play at the square dances on Saturday nights.

Dad and Bill Monroe became well acquainted--even friends. Naturally, he got to know most of the popular Country stars of the day. In fact, it was Ronnie Stoneman of "Hee Haw" fame who spent an appreciable amount of time backstage with one of my little brothers, helping him overcome a nagging speech impediment which she, herself, had once shared.

I even played a few shows myself at Bean Blossom, with my dad's band. I played the upright bass, mainly to square dance music. I deluded myself into believing that I might actually become a musician. But to me, it was only a passing fad; to my dad, it was a passion.

Thirty-five years ago, when Bill started his annual Bluegrass Festival at Bean Blossom, Dad was there to play with the rest of the bands. But sometime thereafter, a rift developed between Dad and Bill. Dad could never really pinpoint the cause, though he had a working theory.

Years later, Dad even drove down to Nashville to set things right with Bill. I went with him, just for the diversion. He drove down, talked to Bill, then drove back. It was not what one would call a vacation.

Although Bill was cordial to him, Dad came away not knowing whether their friendship had been rekindled or not. He never heard from Bill again until December of 1992. Dad was bedridden, suffering from emphysema due to years of smoking cigarettes.

Just days before Christmas, Dad called my mom into the bedroom and told her that he was dying. Mom sat him up at the side of the bed. Then the phone rang. Mom answered it to discover that it was Bill Monroe, asking to speak to Dad.

Mom told Bill that he was dying, but Bill asked her to put the receiver up to his ear. There was a hint of recognition in Dad's face; then it was over.

Nobody will ever know what Bill Monroe said to him as my dad was drawing his final breaths. But it is a safe bet that both Bluegrass musicians died knowing that each was the other's friend.