16 years ago on a muggy summer evening at a log cabin on a remote lake located in the far North woods, somewhere between Isabella, Minnesota and East Jesus, a light knock was heard on the front door. Inside, the Lord of the Manor - musician, yet to be published author, bon vivant and raconteur, known by his family and friends simply as Bob - was strategically located in his favorite spot in the house on a frayed, somewhat ratty, red corduroy covered couch.

He had just finished picking walleye bones out of his teeth and was engaged in trimming his toenails, or “hooves” as his wife was wont to refer to them, with a chainsaw raker file. Hearing the knock, he grunted and arose from his plebian throne to answer the front door. Upon opening it he was confronted by a young man of perhaps 35 years of age.

The gentleman had a rather scruffy appearance. He was tall and lanky, approximately 6 feet in height and weighed in at about 170 pounds soaking wet. He had a rather long, untrimmed mustache, and scraggly hair sticking out from underneath a paint-stained baseball cap of dubious origin. As Bob's gaze wandered downward, he came upon the gnarled and callused hands of a working man - under whose fingernails was lodged an ample supply of 30 weight oil. His legs were encased in a tan pair of Carhartt pants of such an indeterminate age and condition, that Bob was led to silently surmise that the last time they had been laundered, Charlemagne had, in all probability, still been walking the earth. An ancient pair of work boots, which were unintentionally hinged at the heels and seemed to cry out “replace me now” with each forward step, completed the outfit.

“Howdy, my name’s Gordy, Are you Bob?”

“Yes,” Bob tentatively replied. He wondered at this juncture - what kind of backwoods nut would venture down a mile long logging road, pock-marked with rocks and mud holes, at this late hour of the evening? His curiosity having been piqued at this point, he invited the rather circumspect young man to enter his Sylvan Fortress of Solitude.

Upon crossing the threshold, Gordy proceeded to state the purpose of his unheralded visit: He had heard through the grapevine that a retired blues musician named Bob Bingham had built a log house out here in the woods, and since he was building a house in the neighborhood too, as he was a carpenter by trade, he thought he would stop by to chew the fat.

He pointed to an old beat up Harmony six string guitar leaning against a chair and asked if he could play it. Bob replied “suit yourself.”

Suddenly it was if the ghosts of Blind Blake, Mississippi John Hurt and Big Bill Broonzy were swirling through the musty cabin air. After several minutes Bob felt compelled to join in, and pulled another guitar out from a corner of the cabin and enthusiastically plucked along.

And so began the friendship and musical collaboration of Bob Bingham and Gordon Thorne

To be continued......