My Mom...The Felon.

       I have to beg your indulgence on this one. The events that I am about to relate are true. They happened after I was a boy, but not yet married. I apologize in advance to my mom and a few other people for dragging this out of the closet. If you see Miss Rita after reading this, try not to tease her too much.

      I come from a long line of famous-in-their-circle musicians. My great-great grand pappy was a fiddle player who is often credited with composing Soldier’s Joy during the Civil War. His boy taught his boy (Melvin Wine) who influenced my mom, who raised me. I learned all sorts of cool stuff from mom: gardening, milking cows, music and a directness with people that is sometimes to our detriment, which is a big part of this story.

      In 1991, my Grandpa Melvin was honored by the National Endowment for the Arts as a National Heritage Fellow for his lifetime of work at playing and preserving Appalachian Folk Music. It’s kinda a big deal…http://www.nea.gov/honors/heritage/fellows/fellow.php?id=1991_16&type=bio   The award came with a big poster, some pocket jingle and an invitation to play a tune at the Kennedy Center. Not too shabby for one of the most humble and peaceable men I have ever known. Seriously, he could have taught Gandhi a thing or two.

      The Wine family being what it is, we loaded up a tour bus and went along with Grandpa for his visit to the big city. If you are hearing the theme song from The Beverly Hillbillies, then you are on the right track. As a brief aside, if you ever have the chance to ride 6 hours in a tour bus….don’t. Seriously, trust me on this.

      So we roll into D.C. and check into the hotel with the admonition from mom not to raid the mini-bar. It’s a Friday and not much else is going on. My little brother and I, along with our girlfriends, decide to take in some of the sights. Walking along the Mall and seeing the spotlighted Vietnam Vets bronze statues appear out of the gloom of a summer evening is a vivid memory that I hope sticks with me forever. That and The Wall, and the Lincoln Memorial, and….well, you get the picture. Of course, the P.O.W.M.I.A. people looked at us askance, it being dark in D.C. and we being very white on the Mall. They feared for our safety and made us call a cab to get back to the hotel.

      The next morning we boarded the bus to go to a reception for that year’s honorees in some Federal building. Milling around in the lobby, I was a bit starstruck to note B.B. King was also being honored that year and we would later get to meet him. So imagine the scene: A hundred or so people in a Federal building, waiting to go thru the metal detectors and hang out with various Senators and fellow honorees with their families…when all of a sudden, momma Rita turns to me and says, “I’ve got a gun in my purse.”

      Let that sink in.

      Gun. In. Her. Purse…..Federal. Building….Washington, D.C.

      Holy. Crap.

      I quickly offered to take it back to the tour bus, but whipping out a pistol seemed a poor idea at the time, given the crowded venue with looming guards and men with ear-pieces who were talking into their sleeves. So mom and Melissa went back out to put her purse on the bus and be done with it. Of course, the bus is gone. Of course, they can’t come back in and face the metal detectors. Of course they decide to toss the little .22 caliber pistol in the bushes….outside a Federal building….in Washington D.C. ….in broad daylight….within a couple hundred feet of a police box.

      No. I am not making this up.

      So mom comes back in, just as cool as a cucumber and rejoins the tour group. All is well. We pass the detectors and meet the other honorees and marvel at the cool artisanship of their work. The quilts were stunning. B.B. King was gracious to anyone who wanted a picture. The displays of traditional artwork were impressive, as were the men in suits who eventually accosted Miss Rita.

      Just as a public service, let me point out that when approached by D.C. police it is never a good idea to spout off, “Oh, I see you found my gun.” It is a weak opening gambit that leaves you little room for debate or discussion. This we learned from mom’s example. We also learned that the D.C. police and the Federales despise each other and love nothing else so much as a good pissing match over jurisdiction, which is exactly what we had since mom’s clever repartee had been heard by representatives from both forces.

      So my mom, 50-something widower from the hills of WV, who wouldn’t say “poo” if her mouth was full of it was caught up in the machine of D.C. justice. She was booked and searched like a dangerous felon. I’m sure a few of you understand what that means. Not Fun.

      Also not fun was the pre-cell phone era chase around town trying to catch up with her and bail her out. Eventually, Senators Byrd and Rockefeller got involved to expedite the process. So my mom was convicted of weapons possession and run thru the system in record time. She managed to make it to the concert at the Kennedy Center just in time to see her dad play.

      Overall a pretty standard trip for my family.

      If you would like to hear a few of Melvin's tunes, here's a link...http://www.myspace.com/melvinwine ... Cold Frosty Morning is a personal favorite. Pretty sure mom is a big fan of I'll Fly Away.