"This here, this is the sound of the Deep Dark," my Daddy said, the summer I turned 7. He was teaching me how to pick, showing me where to squeeze on the banjo's neck with my pink, tender fingers. "An old, powerful sound. It's a piece of them trees. Wherever you play it, it'll conjure 'em up." I never did know what he meant by that. Until the mining accident took him.
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