Abe, the banjo player we met in the pottery shop, invited me to come play some music. Abe lives in an apartment overlooking the river in Shelburne Falls and he catches trout from his window.

We sat on stools in the back of Molly’s pottery shop while she worked at a nearby table, drawing patterns on a vase. Abe strummed on his banjo, the bright twanging notes echoing on the high walls of the workshop. In his resonant voice he sang his songs: “Ruby,” “Before the Autumn Rains,” “Cheese in My Pockets,” “Dehydration Blues.”

I played along on my violin, improvising, and the two instruments blended while passersby peaked in from the street.