Bud's been singin most his life and he covers the gamut from old style country and bluegrass to show tunes and torch songs. One afternoon years ago, the shop was full of sawdust smells, lacquer fumes, sandwiches and beer. The small crowd of pickers got Bud started on sad songs. Each time we thought we had heard the saddest song there ever could be, he'd sing about a brave dog that died or a small boy that cried. There were young men who'd broken promises to their mothers and cowboys who'd frozen in the snow saving a lost foal. We were laughin to hide our pain as he spun a web of tortured lives and rueful times. The sadder the song, the more we laughed to hide our tears. It was when a poor drunkard's son was found weak in an attic that we finally could ask no more. Ol' Joe stumbled to the bathroom and lost his sandwich. Paul wiped his eyes shamelessly. I turned away and pretended some dust got in my eye. We try not to goad him like that ever again.

I ask Bud once if "Fretwell" was his stage name because he played the guitar so well. He looked at me kinda quizzical and said, "No. It's been my family name as far back as anybody knows." History can congeal in interesting ways.

Well Bud taught me most of what I know about guitar that's of any use. He likes to say I taught him something, but Bud's just like that. I've seen many fine pickers listen to him show forty different ways to do most anything you're trying to do, and he somehow always makes you feel like he learned something from you. I've found it best to just ignore that and keep taking notes.