The Banjo Practice

My dad is a man of eccentric and short-lived hobbies, he hits them hard and them puts them away forever. During this time in our lives and somehow entwined in the power struggle ritual of nightly scripture reading and quite time was my dad's new hobby of practicing the banjo. Every night my dad would open his bedroom door pull out the old five string and start plunking away for about an hour. Some times he would yell at us to be quite or to turn off that noise. That noise was any radio playing anything anywhere in the house. I don't know why he was drawn to the banjo or why he had to have absolute silence throughout the house to practice it but I think it has something to do with his southern upbringing. The genetic makeup of southerners predisposes them to produce and enjoy music made my tinny and piercing instruments. The Ulster-Scott and German blood in my dad's veins made him at turns monomaniacal and fickle. As far as his desire for a irrational amount of control I think that come from just being a full blown butt hole, which he came by honestly. I was about to write that a rational person who wanted to learn to play the banjo would do such and such like finding a secluded spot free from interruption and distracting noises and not expect the whole world to grind to a halt at your whim, but then I realized that no rational person wants to learn the banjo. It is entirely unnecessary. After three or so years of not getting any better and trying to command silence from the family from his Lay-Z-Boy banjo throne, the fancy passed and my dad was done with the banjo. Not knowing the future I can still with confidence say he is done for good.