Today’s nonsense word is Banjoher.
Although I take part in the Tale Weaver every week, I think I’ve only written on the nonsense theme once (OK, I hear you shouting that’s a matter of opinion and admit some of my postings can be a little bizarre 🙂 )
So, my take on Banjoher follows.
It was magic. Totally magical in fact.
She had never played an instrument before in her life, not even as a kid, yet she’d picked up this tatty discarded stringed apology of a guitar in the junk shop and was producing the most wonderful music from it.
‘You have to have it,’ the proprietor said. ‘ It obviously likes you.’
‘For you little lady, nothing. I’ve had people in this shop try to get a tune out of it, but none have. Mind you, the fact that they were all men may have had something to do with it if the story is true.’
‘Oh do tell,’ she said. ‘I love a good yarn, it’s so much more interesting than a sales pitch!’
‘I’ll put the kettle on then!’
Over an hour later, Lela was going home with the instrument in her possession.
Lawrence, the shop owner, had told her that it was actually a five-stringed banjo from the early 19th century. It had remained in the Kestrel family for years, always a favourite with the female members who enjoyed making music for their men to dance to, instead of the other way round.
According to the guy who’d sold it to the shop, only women could play it. Should any male try, they would end up with cut fingers and broken strings, without so much as a single melody between them. It had therefore been named as The Kestrel Banjoher, and as the last remaining member of the family, he had decided to get rid of it which is how it came to be in Lawrence’s shop for three years!
As if to prove his point, he picked it up and tried to strum. It came out as a tuneless noise sending the cat for cover, and a drop of blood oozed out of his thumb for his trouble.
Lela of course didn’t believe a word of it, but it had been a good cup of tea and he’d also rustled up some biscuits.
As she took her prize out of its casing, a single piece of paper fell out.
Though faded with age and worn fibrous against the creases where it had been folded, she could just make out the words ‘Her Banjo’ and settling down on the bed, began to play.
She may not be George Formby, but she and her Banjoher were going to be famous.