Find the Thing That Makes You Stupidly Happy (and Do It Anyway)

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I was twelve the first time I rode the Rotor at Six Flags — that human centrifuge that pins you to the wall, then drops the floor. My friends and I rode it eighteen times in a row, stumbling off each time laughing like lunatics, begging for one more spin. Six years later the same ride left me green and praying for death. Bodies change. Bliss doesn’t have to.

We all know that electric feeling: the first kiss that stops time, the song you figure out on guitar that makes the room disappear, the blank page that suddenly isn’t blank anymore. It’s the moment you forget to breathe because something inside you is breathing for you.

Too many of us file those moments under “childhood” or “someday” and get on with the grown-up business of paying bills. Shelter, clothing, food — non-negotiable. But as someone wiser than me once pointed out, man cannot live by bread alone. I’ve tried. It’s a dry, crumbly existence.

I could have taken the safe route: steady paycheck, 401(k), a life that looked responsible on paper. Every time I edged toward it, the road seemed to shift under my feet. Jobs dried up. Opportunities in acting, music, and writing appeared like bread crumbs leading somewhere else. I finally quit pretending I hadn’t noticed the trail.

Has it been easy? Not even close. There were years I measured success by whether I could afford both rent and guitar strings. But every time I finish a book, record a song, or step off stage, I’m twelve again — dizzy, alive, certain I was born for this exact second.

Creating is the only high I’ve found that doesn’t fade with age or punish you the next morning. Better yet, when someone hears a song I wrote during my own dark night and tells me it carried them through theirs — that’s a relay race across generations. Beethoven’s still running laps around us 200 years later. Shakespeare won’t quit. Even the cave painters at Lascaux are still whispering, “I was here, and it was beautiful.”

I won’t pretend my work will outlive me by centuries. Most art doesn’t. But even if every note I’ve played and every word I’ve written ends up deleted, recycled, or lost, I will have spent my days doing the thing that makes me stupidly, embarrassingly happy.

That’s not a bad epitaph.

So here’s my question to you: What makes you forget to eat, forget to check your phone, forget the clock even exists? What would you stay up until 3 a.m. doing if money were no object and failure were impossible?

Whatever it is — pottery, poetry, welding, welding poetry out of scrap metal — do it today. Do it badly. Do it with gusto.

The world has enough sensible people.

It will never have enough people who are fully, recklessly alive.

Go get dizzy.

Echoes from King’s Mountain: Ancestors, Sacrifice, and the Songs of Freedom

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As we draw nearer to the 250th anniversary of American independence, I find myself reflecting on the ancestors who answered the call to arms, ordinary frontiersmen who became heroes in the fight to free the colonies from British rule.
My fifth-great-grandfather, Charles Kilgore, was one of five Scotch-Irish brothers who heeded the Revolution’s summons. Born in 1744 in County Clare, Ireland, Charles traced his roots to the Kilgours of Fife, Scotland. Family lore connects them to Clan Douglas, fierce warriors who battled for Scottish independence and stood with the Jacobite risings of the 1700s.Around 1763, Charles and his brothers—Hiram, Robert, William, and James—crossed the Atlantic, settling first in North Carolina before pushing to the Virginia frontier. There, Charles married Martha McIlhaney, raised eight children on a 600-acre plantation, and joined the Washington County Militia under Captain James Dysart in Colonel William Campbell’s regiment. His four brothers enlisted alongside him. They were part of the legendary Overmountain Men, rugged settlers from beyond the Appalachian Mountains who embodied the spirit of the frontier.

In late September 1780, these men mobilized after British Major Patrick Ferguson threatened to “march over the mountains, hang their leaders, and lay waste the country with fire and sword.”
The brothers joined hundreds of others in a grueling 330-mile march over rugged terrain, enduring rain and hardship for two weeks to confront the Loyalists.
Their defining moment arrived on October 7, 1780, at Kings Mountain—a rocky, wooded spur on the North Carolina-South Carolina border that proved a pivotal turning point in the Southern Campaign of the Revolutionary War.
Roughly 900 Overmountain Men encircled about 1,100 Loyalists perched atop the ridge. Unlike traditional European line battles, the Patriots employed guerrilla tactics suited to the terrain: advancing uphill under cover of trees and rocks, using their accurate long rifles to pick off enemies while dodging bayonet charges.
The Kilgores’ militia charged from the north, pressing through thick smoke and the crack of musket fire. Hiram fell in battle; Robert and Charles were gravely wounded. Yet, they helped secure the summit as Loyalist leader Major Patrick Ferguson was slain, his forces crumbling in just over an hour.
From the southeast, my Sherrill kin—fourth- and fifth-great-grandfathers Adam and Samuel Sr., along with uncles

Uncle Col. John Sevier

Samuel Jr. and George—fought under my uncle Colonel John Sevier, their rifle fire converging with the Virginians’ assault.
On the southern flank, my sixth-great-grandfather Captain John Weir’s “South Fork Boys” pushed forward despite early losses, tightening the pincer that broke the Loyalists.The toll was stark: Loyalists suffered 157 killed, 163 wounded, and 698 captured—nearly their entire force—while Patriots lost only 28 killed and 62 wounded, a testament to their superior marksmanship and resolve.
In the aftermath, nine Loyalist officers were hanged for alleged atrocities, underscoring the war’s brutal, brother-against-brother nature.
This victory demoralized British forces in the South, boosting Patriot morale and prompting Lord Cornwallis to abandon his invasion of North Carolina.
Thomas Jefferson later hailed it as “the joyful annunciation of that turn of the tide of success which terminated the Revolutionary War with the seal of our independence,” paving the way for the decisive siege at Yorktown a year later.
Amid the chaos, my Loyalist-turned-Patriot ancestor, fifth-great-grandfather Captain Billy Green, initially defended the hilltop. Captured and sentenced to hang, he escaped and later realigned with the Patriots. This meant I had family on both sides—an experience echoed throughout history, from Scotland’s clan wars to civil conflicts worldwide.
On that fateful day, all five Kilgores stood shoulder to shoulder, shedding blood in a clash that shifted the war’s momentum. Charles, shot through the body, survived only because Martha and their young daughter Mary braved the wilderness in a wagon to retrieve him and bring him home to Virginia. Robert also recovered from his wounds, but tragically lost his life to Mingo Indians on December 31, 1782, during a hunting expedition. His family then moved in with Charles’s for a time.
Charles earned a pension in 1809 and passed away in Greene County, Tennessee, in 1823. His daughter Rebecca married Adam Sherrill in the 1790s, uniting two families of Kings Mountain veterans in bonds forged through shared sacrifice.

 

The Carter Family

Randall Franks (right) with Johnny and June Carter Cash and Bill Monroe in 1984.

Charles and his kin remind us that the Revolution was won by everyday men and women—farmers, brothers, and families—who rose to extraordinary heights. The five Kilgores symbolize the unbreakable ties that compelled them to leave their homes and fight side by side for freedom. Because they did, generations since have lived without bowing to distant monarchs.
On a personal note, I am privileged to descend from these men. Through the Kilgore roots, I share them as grandfathers with notable figures in Appalachian music: All three original Carter Family members—A.P., Sara, and Maybelle—are my cousins. Sara and Maybelle descend from Charles, like me; A.P. from brother Robert. Thus, connecting me also to the Johnny and June Carter Cash clan. These ancestors’ lives truly gave us all something to sing about. 

 

The Fiddle’s Enduring Tune in American History

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The fiddle has an amazing history in the American experience. It first crossed the Atlantic with European settlers, where violins played the music of both upper classes and common folk, uplifting and entertaining through hard times.

Whether in a seated concert with a string quartet or kicking up heels at a cotillion or barn dance, the fiddle became the centerpiece of American music for much of our nation’s first 200 years. It crossed the Appalachians with early frontiersmen and traveled waterways with trappers and explorers.

During early conflicts like the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, the Mexican-American War, and the Civil War, it wasn’t unusual to hear a fiddle sawing away beside a campfire as soldiers recuperated from battle. Fiddlers often provided rare moments of uplift amid gruesome experiences. Tunes like “Soldier’s Joy” weren’t just melodies—they reflected how the fiddle’s sound boosted morale.

The instrument journeyed west in Conestoga wagons and on horseback, providing the soundtrack to settlement after settlement. It remained at the heart of dances well into the 20th century. As music ventured into recording and radio, fiddlers led the way, with the first country stars often being fiddle players or string bands.

Randall Franks hosts the Grand Master Fiddler Championship at the Turner Theater. (GMFC Photo)

As a fiddler myself, I’m proud of the music passed down from my great-grandfather and those before him. I learned from Appalachia’s early stars and carry a bit of them with me. Over the years, the fiddle has adapted to regional styles, reflecting the lives and tastes of its players.

I’m honored to be in my 18th year as celebrity host of the Grand Master Fiddle Championship, carrying on the tradition of Grand Ole Opry legends like Porter Wagoner and Roy Acuff.

Dozens of fiddlers of all ages gathered just outside Music City in Franklin, at the Mockingbird and Turner Theaters at the Factory, to test their mettle. Classic fiddling sprang from their instruments, delighting spectators. Competitors traveled from across the U.S. and Canada to vie for the coveted Grand Master Fiddler title, originally created by the Grand Ole Opry in 1972. Past winners like Tristan Paskvan, Tristan Clarridge, and Bobby Taylor (2025 Dr. Perry Harris Award recipient) made a special appearance during the Opry’s 100th anniversary celebration, enthralling the audience.

The Grand Master Fiddler Championship on stage at The Grand Ole Opry. (GMFC Photo: Randall Franks)

On Saturday, young fiddlers—from about age 4 to 15—showed off their hot licks. Many overcame nervousness to deliver amazing performances and rack up high scores. Tristan Paskvan of Southlake, Texas, claimed the Youth Grand Master Fiddler title.

Sunday shifted focus to adults, with 14 competitors vying for open spots by playing breakdowns to secure a place in the Top Twenty. Around six joined champions from around the country. The top fiddlers then performed their best breakdown, waltz, and tune of choice to narrow the field to the Top 10. Those finalists went bow-to-bow again for the top rankings. Jesse Maw of Asheville, North Carolina, emerged as the Grand Master Fiddler, edging out multiple-time winner Tristan Clarridge as runner-up.

Grand Master Fiddler Open Champion Jesse Maw (second from left) receives his award, from left, GMFC Directors Howard Harris (third from left) and Ed Carnes (left) and Host Randall Franks. (GMFC Photo: Tyler Andal)

The 54th Annual Grand Master Fiddler Championship was a tremendous reflection of the American fiddle experience! Support its ongoing success by donating at www.GrandMasterFiddler.com. Learn more about my fiddling history at www.RandallFranks.com/Fiddling/ .

Check out Randall’s Visit to the Grand Ole Opry with the Grand Master Fiddlers:

 

Milestones and Markers

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How we determine if we are successful in life and careers is often marked by milestones and markers that indicate where we are and how well we’ve done our jobs. We strive for them throughout our lives. I often pull out a suitcase that contains bits and pieces from my late father’s life. We filled it after he passed away at 54, unable to part with the certificates of achievement, the small pins marking his years of service, and the awards he received. Medals and insignia from his time in the Army are also there. I remember one time when my father came home floating on air after receiving recognition for saving his employer an immense amount of money.

Beyond the love I still carry for my dad, these mementos from his life mean little in the grand scheme of things. I’ve probably opened that case five times since he died 38 years ago, taking the pieces out, reading, remembering, and repacking.

In contrast to my father, who spent his life working for companies and the government, my life has been spent either behind or in front of a film or television camera, or driving from town to town, stage to stage, as I spoke or performed my music and comedy. My milestones and markers are much different from my father’s. They are achievements generally granted by organizations that focus on the crafts in which I perform my gifts. Awards come in all shapes and sizes and at all levels these days, generally selected through nominations and voting processes by industry professionals or sometimes by fans. Chart songs come through radio stations and whichever authority compiles the data.

As entertainers and actors, we do our work, and at times, we’re blessed when it rises into the view of our peers, fans, and organizations—enough so that our names are set alongside those considered the very best in the business. Those nominations sometimes even grant us the unusual distinction of becoming award winners.

I’m blessed that there have been seasons when I’ve seen the blessings of nominations and awards. God has allowed 2025 to be another one of those seasons, with a mixture of 16 nominations or honors in various areas of my creative endeavors from a variety of organizations.

Other milestones are markers of passing time—anniversaries. The last 12 months have been a series of markers for me, many starting with the number four. The longest is 45 years since I hosted my first ticketed concert with my youth bluegrass band—The Peachtree Pickers. This, in many ways, was the beginning of my professional career, aside from my earliest TV appearance at age six. Time also allows many folks to look upon your list of achievements that come with time and decide you need to be honored with career-capping distinctions, such as induction into halls of fame. My career has managed to accumulate five of those thus far, but I have yet to put a cap on my career. In fact, I’m doing everything I can to ramp up my opportunities to allow me to create and perform for the next two decades.

I don’t know who might sift through my awards and nominations 38 years after God calls me home, but it’s my intention to give them plenty to look through. I certainly hope I leave behind several trunks’ worth.

What achievements are you leaving behind? Whether in corporate offices, on stages, or elsewhere, we all chase these markers—but what truly endures? While the things described above are important to me, I’ll refer to something one of my performance mentors taught me about what we leave behind. My bluegrass mentor Doodle Thrower used to say, as he left the stage after the final show of a festival: “When they dig my grave, it’ll have to be several feet deeper than normal to house all the wonderful memories of good friends and the great moments shared with those in the audience.” I’m hopeful that for me the same will be true, but instead the extra depth will be needed for those who have stood in front of my stages or watched me on a screen.

Track: The Dog Who Listened

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I stepped out the back door and plopped down on the top step. Our back stoop had just three concrete steps leading down to the sidewalk, which ran along the rear of the house to the gate.

There, my faithful, hairy companion Track arrived and rested his head in my lap. He was a cross between a beagle and a peekapoo and looked like the movie dog Benji, but with darker hair.

As a child, I was allergic to animals, so I wasn’t always the loving master Track deserved. My father made up for my shortcomings, I think. Still, there were many times when my childhood world seemed to be crashing down around me, and Track would lay his head in my lap for a heart-to-heart.

I often paint with the brush of idealism when I write—because we all prefer the polished version of the past. But there were times when the gleam didn’t reflect well on us.

Life isn’t easy, and the daily grind can wear us down. Parents sometimes share intense “fellowship” with each other. Sometime kids push the envelope saying or doing things they should not. In my experience, though, that rarely ended well for the child. A meeting of the minds often came with the crisp whir of my father’s belt slipping through its loops—a sound every kid recognized as the line being crossed. We’d bolt for cover: the bedroom, the den, or—on occasion—behind my mother’s kitchen chair. Sometimes she’d come to our defense, but mostly the two tall grown-ups were united on discipline. For me, the licking wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was transitory. The lesson lingers decades later.

When the stress peaked—whether from my parents’ arguments, my own misbehavior, or a friend’s betrayal—Track was always there. His brown eyes gazed up into mine, listening to my complaints as tears ran down my cheeks.

He listened. He consoled. In some way, I know he understood my hurt. Compassion knows no bounds between humans and our furry friends. For me, Track was a constant. Our playtime was limited, but he entertained himself with fierce intensity in his enclosed backyard domain. He’d bark insistently at any passersby who dared approach the fence, claiming his territory. The garbage men endured it every Tuesday as they grabbed our two metal cans, hauled them to the truck, dumped them, and returned them. Service was personal back then. Track would bark at our cans, follow them to the truck, then race to the neighbor’s in-ground can to bark some more. I assume he relished the weekly ritual.

For all his bravado, Track wouldn’t hurt a fly or snap at a person. I recall one adventure when we harnessed him and the neighborhood dogs to wagons with wheels and raced them down the street. Oscar, a huge dog, always won—and if he broke free, we’d chase him endlessly. Track excelled at pursuit, shooting down the block like a bullet from a gun. I’d usually find him at Oscar’s fence, the two running back and forth, one on each side. He did the same with Herman, the elderly next-door dog who preferred not to run.

Except for a few months while I earned my animal husbandry merit badge, Track led a solitary life, broken only by brief visits from neighbor dogs. During that time, we brought home Lassie from Raymond, the janitor at my elementary school. She and Track had seven puppies, which we placed with families—including some back with Raymond, who hunted with them. Lassie eventually went to another home, too.

Track was my confessor, my friend, and my steadfast companion through childhood.

When he passed, I built him a small coffin and laid him to rest between a peach tree and a crab apple tree—his favorite spot. It was a sad day for my dad and me as we said goodbye. I haven’t had a pet since, and I don’t plan to.

Make the Most of Today

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Life is a stage, and as we play our parts, we face the sudden and lingering exits of those we hold dear. The first loss we experience is often a relative, sometimes a friend.

As a young child, I was deeply affected by the death of my Great-Uncle Jadie Harris, though I don’t recall the details—only the weight of grief I was told I carried.

Last week, an unexpected lunch with childhood friends Pam and Bob Padgett brought back memories of another loss: Pam’s sister, Nancy Burgess, who succumbed to kidney failure. Our mothers were close, and we spent countless hours playing board games while they laughed and talked. Nancy’s death, the first of a playmate, shook me as a youth. Until then, death had been reserved for older relatives—great-great-aunts and uncles whom I adored, blessed as our family was with longevity.

In seventh grade, I recall a season when funerals seemed constant. When someone passed, our world paused. My parents consoled grieving families, helped with arrangements, or simply sat with them in silence. We children did our part, distracting younger cousins with games to shield them from sorrow.

As years passed, I noticed losses arriving in waves, marking generational shifts: first my great-grandparents, then grandparents, then aunts and uncles. Over the past decade, I’ve watched my own generation—and even some from the next—begin to depart. Just this week, two unexpected losses struck: a hometown friend whose dedication transformed our community, and a film industry colleague with whom I worked for over a decade to create opportunities for others.

Soon, I’ll attend one friend’s funeral to offer condolences and share memories with those who loved him. I’ll also call another friend who recently lost both his brother and wife, hoping light conversation might lift his spirits.

When we leave life’s stage, our role ends. Loved ones may mourn, but the world moves on. God doesn’t promise us tomorrow—only today, a gift to use well. Are you living fully in this moment? Are you lifting those around you?

Even a life as long as my friend Violet Hensley’s—109 years as an Ozark entertainer—passes in a blink from cradle to grave. So use today. Love with kindness, bless others, and live with purpose. Then, when your final curtain falls, the applause will echo.

How do we leave behind something worth remembering?

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Oftentimes in life, we concentrate our efforts on paying the next bill, dealing with a loved one’s problems, or chasing the next goal.

I recently saw a meme of a man in three stages of life pursuing money flying through the air: In the first, he has none; in the second, an armful; and in the final, an enormous amount clutched in his arms. But that third panel shows a cliff with a sign: ‘The End.’ He’s reached his goal—and the end of life.

While this is simple commentary, for many it’s true. In the meme, no children or spouse stand with him, so I assume he ran alone.

As someone who’s done the same, this can be a stark awakening: We’ve wasted our lives chasing elusive dreams, clutching at meager successes—power, money, or things we see as prizes.

But is there a way to run that race—even alone—and leave something that outlasts us, giving meaning to our efforts?

I think of people in ministry: D.L. Moody influenced Billy Sunday, who inspired Billy Graham—all rooted in the Word of God. Their work endures through the millions they touched, and the millions more reached in turn. We may not trace the seed of faith we encounter back to Moody or even the twelve disciples, but it still has impact. Those who carried it forward left something worth remembering.

For history lovers, we wander through museums, castles, and old homes named after long-ago philanthropists who built in stone to endure. We glimpse their lives through artifacts, staring into paintings or photos to capture their essence. Sometimes, a story inspires: how someone who died with millions started as an orphan or street waif and rose through hard work. These tales encourage us to improve our own lives. They might have left their money to family or causes that changed others’ worlds, creating a memory beyond their time.

Are they aware? Some believe they watch from heaven. I think once we cross over, old things pass away; while we await loved ones, God shifts our focus beyond the earthly realm.

None of us is promised tomorrow, but we have today. Use it to make a positive impact—through service, mentoring, or giving away accumulated wealth. To see the change, create it now. Touch hearts with your time, knowledge, and gifts; change worlds one person at a time.

This is the only way to leave something worth remembering. One person a day adds up over a lifetime. Go out and change the world!

Bluegrass Brilliance: Pickin’, Grinnin’, and New Horizons

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One of the standout banjo players at Chattanooga’s 2025 IBMA World of Bluegrass was Gena Britt, a founding member of the powerhouse band Sister Sadie. With a stellar solo reputation spanning over 30 years, this acclaimed picker—nominated again for IBMA Banjo Player of the Year—has teamed up with Mountain Home Music Company for her first solo album in nearly six years. Streets, Rivers, Dreams & Heartaches delivers her signature virtuosic banjo work and soulful vocals, but it also showcases an artist evolving, blending traditional bluegrass with fresh creative edges.

“I am so grateful to Mountain Home for believing in me and allowing me to create this music that I’m so very proud of,” Britt shares enthusiastically. “The musicians and singers I assembled for this project sound so good together! We first played in an all-star configuration at the Station Inn, and it was so much fun that I wanted to continue that in the studio. These guys and gals truly poured their hearts and souls into these songs, and I cannot wait for the world to hear them!”

The album features award-winning fiddler Jason Carter and his former Travelin’ McCourys/Del McCoury Band mate Alan Bartram (acoustic bass, harmony vocals), alongside singer-guitarist John Meador (Vince Gill Band) and rising mandolin star Jonathan Dillon. Additional contributions come from East Nash Grass’s Jeff Partin (resonator guitar), Dillon’s Red Camel Collective bandmate and award-winning singer Heather Berry Mabe, Balsam Range’s Caleb Smith, The Isaacs’ Ben Isaacs, and old-time banjoist Tina Steffey.

This collection paints a vivid portrait of an artist rooted in authentic bluegrass she’s mastered and shaped for decades, yet bold enough to push boundaries. Streets, Rivers, Dreams & Heartaches proves Gena Britt is hitting her musical prime—pre-save it now ahead of its November 7 release. Get it here: https://clg.lnk.to/gb-SRDH

Speaking of IBMA triumphs, my friends in The Kody Norris Show are riding high after winning the 2025 Video of the Year for “The Auctioneer.” Hot on its heels, they’ve released their latest music video for the single “Silver Eagle” from their new album Highfalutin Hillbilly. Bursting with personality and charm, the clip follows Kody and his sweetheart Mary Rachel on the road—until she eyes greener pastures (all in good fun, of course). It even boasts a surprise guest appearance by Grand Ole Opry member and country legend T. Graham Brown. For more bluegrass flair and tour info, head to thekodynorrisshow.com.

Chattanooga’s Bluegrass Bonanza: IBMA’s 2025 Triumph

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Chattanooga, Tennessee, transformed into Bluegrass Central, the ultimate destination for pickers, stars, and fans. The city buzzed with the ring of banjos and a sawing of fiddles as the International Bluegrass Music Association (IBMA) brought its World of Bluegrass to its new home at the Chattanooga Convention Center for a five-day celebration. Unless they were performing elsewhere, musicians of all ages flocked to seminars, jam sessions, shows, and lessons covering every facet of bluegrass.

Billy Strings visits with attendees in the exhibit hall.

Every day, attendees and locals spotted icons like Steve Martin, Billy Strings, Del McCoury, Doyle Lawson, and newly inducted Hall of Famers Hot Rize and the Bluegrass Cardinals grabbing a bite at local eateries or strolling between events. The energy was electric—riding up an escalator, I overheard a young fiddler excitedly recount jamming with a legend the night before, a moment that captured the festival’s magic.

The IBMA World of Bluegrass was a resounding success in its 2025 debut at the Chattanooga Convention Center. The Soldiers and Sailors Memorial Auditorium hosted the annual Bluegrass Awards, emceed by Steve Martin and Alison Brown, featuring unforgettable performances. Standout winners included Fiddle Player of the Year Maddie Denton with East Nash Grass, and Jason Carter and Michael Cleveland, who swept Song of the Year and Collaborative Recording of the Year for Outrun the Rain, plus Album of the Year. Authentic Unlimited won Vocal Group of the Year, The Traveling McCourys took Instrumental Group of the Year, and Jaelee Roberts earned Gospel Song of the Year for He’s Gone. Kristin Scott Benson, Gena Britt, and Alison Brown claimed Instrumental Recording of the Year for Ralph’s Banjo Special.

Jam sessions were the heart of the event, with the convention center’s hallways alive with music. Every twenty feet, young players—from toddlers clutching tiny fiddles to teens wielding banjos—jammed alongside seasoned pros, their melodies echoing through the halls. After 9:30 p.m., when the convention center closed, diehards like members of the Tennessee Bluegrass Band migrated to the nearby Marriott, jamming into the early hours.

The Tennessee Bluegrass Band

Across the city, venues showcased talents like Wyatt Ellis, Becky Buller, Little Roy and Lizzy Long, and The Kody Norris Show, which won Video of the Year for The Auctioneer. Fans mingled with heroes, snapping photos and shaking hands.

Exhibit halls hosted global band showcases and youth performers debuting skills honed in dedicated workshops. Seminars highlighted bluegrass history, including a tribute to Hazel Dickens and a panel with legends Paul Williams, Doyle Lawson, and Male Vocalist of the Year Greg Blake. Dom Flemons led a session on African American Hall of Fame inductee Arnold Shultz’s influence on pioneers like Bill Monroe.

Billy Strings, Entertainer of the Year, wondered through the exhibit hall, picking up guitars and whipping out a tune including on Jimmy Martin’s guitar—available for anyone to strum, thanks to Martin’s son—and joining Junior Sisk and New Artist of the Year Red Camel Collective for a tune before his keynote address.

On Friday and Saturday, thousands filled Miller Plaza, where four stages, including one for youth talent, showcased acts like The Infamous Stringdusters, Carter and Cleveland, and Sister Sadie. Local Chattanooga stars, including Mountain Cove Bluegrass, the Landon Fitzpatrick Band, Carl Towns and Upward Road, and Emerald Butler dazzled international audiences with their homegrown flair.

Mike Bub and Randall Franks

I was honored to direct the Special Industry and Distinguished Achievement Awards alongside producer Chris Keenan and an amazing production staff, spotlighting talents like Missy Raines and Ron Thomason. Five-time Bass Player of the Year Mike Bub served as our host for the show. One unforgettable moment was watching a young guitarist, barely taller than his instrument, beam with pride as he played alongside a bluegrass legend, a reminder of the genre’s vibrant future.

Celebrating its 40th anniversary, the IBMA has made Chattanooga its home for the next three years. If you love bluegrass—or want to discover your new favorite band—mark your calendar for October 20–24, 2026, and October 19–23, 2027. Visit IBMA.org to plan your trip and join the celebration!

Treasures of Forgotten Lives

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The musty scent of old books, vinyl records, and mothballed clothes greets you at an estate sale, where the remnants of someone’s life spill across makeshift tables, counters, and shelves. Clothes, tools, knickknacks, furniture, jewelry, even leftover cleaning products and unused hardware—each item whispers a story. I’ve spent many pleasant afternoons rummaging through these sales, piecing together the lives of strangers through the things they left behind.

In the garage or basement, you often find the “men’s domain”—a workshop brimming with neatly stowed tools, screws, nails, and bolts. I’ve snagged bargains on hardware I might use someday, like a box of screws for a future project or a half-used can of paint. These items, carefully organized, hint at hobbies, repairs, or dreams of building something new. The living room, by contrast, is often the woman’s realm, adorned with porcelain figurines, Christmas villages, crystal, and delicate artwork. The kitchen overflows with dishes, pots, pans, and utensils—testaments to meals shared, holidays celebrated, and daily routines now stilled. I love visiting on the final day, when prices plummet and overlooked treasures, like a quirky teapot or a vintage record, become fire-sale finds.

Yet the saddest discoveries are the photo albums, brimming with smiles from birthdays, weddings, graduations, and vacations. These moments, once cherished enough to frame or tuck into sleeves, now sit abandoned, their owners likely without children or grandchildren to claim them. I’ve flipped through these albums, marveling at the joy captured in faded Polaroids or black-and-white prints—families gathered around Christmas trees, couples dancing at receptions, kids blowing out birthday candles. Once, I found an album with a familiar face, perhaps a distant acquaintance or neighbor from years past. I couldn’t leave it behind; it felt like rescuing a piece of their story. Now it rests in my home, where those faces are known, if only to me.

Sadder still are boxes of framed photos or old slides, relics of a time when families gathered to watch slide shows, sharing stories of vacations or funny mishaps. These visual memories, so carefully preserved, meant everything to someone. When I see them discarded, I can’t help but feel their song will no longer be sung, their names and faces lost to future generations. For years, I found comfort seeing similar photos on the walls of Cracker Barrel restaurants across the country. Strangers’ faces, frozen in time, gazed out at diners, their images preserved even if their names were forgotten. Now, with corporate remodels stripping away these tributes, another layer of sadness settles in, as if the past is being erased once more.

In today’s digital age, our memories face a new threat. Photos and videos, stored on old computers, hard drives, or forgotten cloud accounts, may vanish faster than dusty albums. Unlike physical photos, which can be stumbled upon at a sale, digital files are often inaccessible without the right device or password. I’ve wondered about my own collection—decades of snapshots, concert tickets, and mementos from a life immersed in music. I’ve earmarked some for music-related archives or museums, but even then, they’ll likely sit in a box or filing cabinet, deep in storage, rarely seen.

Estate sales teach us that our treasures are fleeting. The albums and keepsakes we cherish may end up unrecognized by our children or grandchildren, who may not know the faces or stories behind them. Only a handful of memories make it to their piles, the rest discarded or sold to strangers. As I browse these sales, I’m reminded to plan ahead.