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Ronnie stood, slouching a bit, wearing a faded green Texaco shirt with his name on it. His black banjo strap seemed to fit perfectly into the bend in the back of his neck. He seemed pretty quiet and unemotional, but every now and then he would smile with his brown eyes underneath his sharp dark brow and twist his mouth into a grin. He had slightly wavy, greying black hair, a longish face, and in his left cheek he had a big wad of chewing tobacco.
Ronnie: “The picking parties started out some years ago with R.B.’s (fiddle player for the Freestate Ramblers) brother Jack Fraser. He played guitar and he also was a great help to me as far as getting my timing. We used to get together here two or three nights a week and then different musicians would come in. Next thing, we had a whole bunch of pickings. Then we decided that Thursday night was the best night of all because it didn’t interfere with a man’s fami’v Thursday night, there's nothing much going on. Friday night they go get groceries: Wednesday night is choir practice; Monday, choir practice; Tuesday night, the kids or something. Thursday night seemed to be the sweet medium and that's what we used, Thursday night.
“Him and I grew from just two on sometimes to twentyfive. We kept it going. Rain or shine or snow, there is always someone in there ,„i picking.” The shed was now swinging. R. B., the fiddler, was leaning toward the center of the circle, playing his heart out. It was as if the music was a fire and everybody was Facing toward the center of :he flame. The music warmed he corners of the room, oehind our backs and spun iround the spittoon in center. I noticed that there were a 'ew young fellows there that :vening. A bright-eyed tall 'ellow with an army cap on olayed the standup bass, and
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