“Yes ma’am,” I said, because it was the easy response. But I also knew if Aunt Margaret were in my place she would do exactly what she was telling me to do. Ben had inherited that forgiving nature. I had not.

Randall and Jeff started into “Mary of the Wild Moor,” so we turned to face the porch as Jeff began to sing.

It was on one cold winter’s night
The winds blew across the wild moor,
Mary came wandering home with her babe
Till she came to her father’s door.

After the second verse Randall took a solo. I watched the blur of his fingers as they plucked and bent the strings. I tried to imagine what it would be like to know something as well as Randall Alexander knew that guitar without being able to see it, to know it only by feel. As I watched the old man lean his head toward the strings as if in some private conversation, I wondered if sight would be just another distraction, a barrier to that place inside the music where nothing and no one could break through.

Allen joined us, two long-necked Budweisers in one hand and a bag of boiled peanuts in the other. I introduced him to Aunt Margaret and Joel, but it was hard to talk over the music, so we soon turned back to watch Randall and Jeff. Aunt Margaret and Joel sat down in their chairs. Allen and I moved closer to the porch to sit on the gas island.

“I’ve heard some of these ballads date back to Elizabethan times,” Allen said, when the song ended. “Some of the language up here as well.”

“That gets exaggerated a good bit. People come up here expecting to wander into a Shakespeare play. But there’s some truth to it. Some of the old words and ways have held on.”

Randall and Jeff began playing again, a faster song. More people had arrived, their vehicles parked up and down the road. Billy never advertised these gatherings. There was no need.

“They’re good,” Allen said, when Randall and Jeff took a break. “Especially the father.”

“He used to do some session work in Nashville. But he’s about given that up now.”

I set my empty bottle beside Allen’s.

“You want another?” he asked.

“Sure, if you’re having one.”

Allen looked at the mound of peanut shells at my feet and smiled.

“I’ll get some more peanuts too. But I’m holding the bag this time. That way I might get to eat a few.”

Allen went into the store as Billy stepped off the porch to talk to Aunt Margaret. It took a couple of minutes, but he finally got her up to join Randall and Jeff, who were back on the stools tuning their instruments.

Allen handed me my beer and sat down, closer, his leg touching mine as Randall and Jeff played the intro to “Omie Wise.”