“Hey Mr. Banjo”
Stan Pocock Way Enough p. 286
I was resting on the bank of the Seneca River at Syracuse, enjyoying a respite from te h goings on around the boathouse. Far up the creek , I saw an eight coming my way. The mishmash of blade colors told me it was a pickle boat. For a pickup crew they were going along quite well. I became aware of someone in the boat singing, “Play Mister Banjo”. As the shell approached, I saw that the singer was my dad, who was riding in the cox’n’s seat. The crew were swinging along in perfect time, I ran back to the floats to assist them in landing. The stroke was a fellow named Bob Thaomas, whom I had coached as a freshman. Bubbling over, he bounced out of the boat saying, “That was the best boat I ever rowed in!” Again, it was the music that did it..