When Jack was a kid, about twice a year, his family would drive from their home in Dade County, in the north-west of Georgia, to his grandparents’ farm in Seminole County, in the very south-western corner of the state. This trip meant three small boys sitting in the back seat of a 55 Chevy for over three hundred miles, travelling on fifties roads through Georgia and bits of Alabama. It was before the government built the Interstates and the journey was often interrupted by roadworks and low-speed limits through numerous towns so small they didn’t appear on maps in those days. It was a long, miserable trip: seven or eight hours of brothers’ elbows, mother’s scolding and potholes testing the suspension of their dad’s car.

Colquitt was the last town they went through before reaching the farm, meaning it was only about ten miles to go and their father would often stop to get some refreshments and relieve themselves of other burdens. The town was always a welcome sight and they would sit for half an hour in the shade of the Colquitt Tower Hotel on North Main Street, mama sipping her peach tea, their daddy downing a root beer and the boys arguing over their ice-cream sodas.

“Y’all be quiet, now,” mama urged them, “you boys please quit being ugly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the boys would chorus, then lower their bickering to near inaudibility.

That year, the summer sun was relentless and the hot air had a tangible weight, which seared the back of their throats and drove rivulets of sweat across their backs. Sitting and dreaming was the only thing Jack could bring himself to do as he stared across the street at an incongruous clump of four red cedars, perched majestically between the Methodist Church and the Miller County Library.

Through the heat haze, he could just about make out a tall black man, his back to the nearest cedar, and a guitar strung around his neck. The man started strumming aimlessly and the sound of sliding chords carried through the still air to Jack’s ears. Never before had he heard such a wonderful sound.

“Please mama,” Jack said suddenly, “can I go listen to that man play the guitar?”

His mother looked up, following the line of Jack’s sight, and frowned.

“Why honey, I’m sure he doesn’t want to be bothered with you,” but it was too late, Jack was already scampering across the empty street. He reached the clump of trees and sat down in the dust near the man.

“What are you playing?” he asked after a few moments.

“Why,” said the man, his voice a deep drawl, “that’ll be the Blues, boy.”

“What’s the Blues?” Jack asked.

“The Blues,” said the man, “ain’t nothin’ but a good man feelin’ bad and singing it long.”

“Can I play the Blues?” Jack asked him.

The man chuckled and said, “Why sure y’all can. But you need to get some things.”

“Things?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, things,” the man said, “you need to get that thing that hurts deep down inside your soul, and you need to get that history thing. The one that puts you in a time and place where no-one wants to be.”

“Can I get these things?” Jack looked at the man, sincerity glinting in his eyes.

“You sure can, boy,” the man said, “but I’m not sure you want them.”

“How did you get them?” asked Jack

“I’ve travelled far,” said the man, “and picked them up along the way.”

Jack looked at the man, unsure if he was just humouring him or telling him the secret to the Blues. Just then, his mama arrived, panting and sweat breaking out on her face.

“Jack, Jack,” she called. “Stop bothering that man.”

She turned to the guitarist and said, “I’m so sorry, sir. Jack has a mind of his own, I’m sure.”

“That’s okay, ma’am,” he replied, “I’ve just been telling him the secret of the Blues.”

“He told me you have to travel far and pick up things along the way,” Jack said to his mother. “I’m going to play the Blues, too.”

“Is that what you did?” Mama asked, her curiosity piqued. “Travel far?”

“I sure have, ma’am, thank you for asking. It’s been a long journey,” he said tipping his hat, “along a winding road.”

Jack said, “Thanks, mister. I’m going to play the Blues. Just like you.”

With that, he took his mama’s hand and took his first step on his own long and winding road.

Author’s note: The open two paragraphs were inspired by a friend’s Facebook post. The remainder is entirely fictional.