Jim and Ronnie Dee James L. Cowles (c) Copyright 2026 by James L. Cowles

Ronnie, Gramps, and Jim in Boonville, North Carolina.   Photo courtesy of the author. (Click here... to listen to some of the music.)

For those of you who love reading these short stories, you have no doubt noted the writings of my dear friend, my old pal, Ronnie Dee. I knew there was a wealth of stories up there in his brain, and I was anxious to get him to open the recesses of said receptacle, get his life adventures out, dust them off, and put them in writing for us all to enjoy. I am happy to say my gentle nudging has met with remarkable success. Look him up!

Richard has dubbed us, his “Kentucky boys,” and has even suggested that we may be quietly competing with each other. Although that is not entirely true, having a close friend submit stories has become a motivation for me to write more, and I am enjoying it immensely. I have to imagine there are others like Ronnie and me, but if you do not have a friend or friends who are submitting stories, I would sincerely encourage you to contact them, and encourage them to share their stories. First, you will learn much more about them, and second, your own writing will improve. Suffice to say, Ronnie and I have learned more about each other these past few months, and although I have known him for many years, I am enjoying reading the treasured trove of stories about his life. Hey, I couldn't love my old friend any more than I already do, but I think we have learned things about each other that make us appreciate our friendship even more.

I met Ronnie when we were both in our thirties, fifty or so years ago, and we were drawn together by our love for music, primarily folk, but certainly not limited to that genre. Our mutual friends, Bob and Janey Robertson often had singing parties, and one Saturday night, my wife Teresa and I were invited to our first one. Bob had recently come to work for my Company, and I was given the responsibility of training him. That led to a lifelong friendship, as well as a chance to share one of my hobbies, singing. I have always been a singer and in fact, I learned to sing as soon as I learned to talk. I was fortunate to have three older sisters, two of whom played piano, and all three who sang beautifully. They thought it was cute to have their baby brother sing with them, and of course, I loved the attention.

They had all the latest sheet music of the ‘40s, and they taught me vibrato, and a little harmony, and I must have bugged them every evening to play the piano so I could sing. Along the way, I took lessons on the Cornet, where I learned to read music, and in my teens, I joined the Church choir, where I really learned to read and sing the tenor line. Church music is no doubt the best way to learn “parts,” and understand how to blend the music, and I have sung in several church choirs over the years, as well as sung solos from time to time. Once, I was even a choir director for a brief time.

The Robertson's had created a party room in their basement, made for singing and playing music, and as soon as we entered the house, we heard the music, so we headed right to the basement. As we walked down the steps, I heard the unmistakable sound of a banjo… No, two banjos. One, played by Janie, which was what I would call a “Pete Seeger Banjo,” with extra frets, and an extra-long neck. She had picks on her thumb and first two fingers, and she was “picking” the strings in bluegrass style. Ronnie was playing the other banjo, and he was playing in a fashion know as, “frailing.” He was playing the heck out of his Vega banjo. Now, frailing is an old-fashioned strum using the thumb and first two fingers, without picks. Ron was most likely performing an Irish song—perhaps a classic like "Whiskey in the Jar"—giving it his all as the whole room joined in singing, with several people playing different instruments alongside him. Bob was playing the “Gut Bucket,” which is a bass made from a washtub. I was mesmerized. These were my kind of people. I'm telling you, there was a smile on every face, and it was obvious everyone was having a ball.

Janey and Bob were the only ones who had heard me sing at that point, and Janey had been encouraging me to learn to play guitar, and this inspired me to do so. I knew quite a few folk songs already, but I did not play a stringed instrument. So, the first chance I got, I chimed in singing high tenor, and I sang loud, because I needed to match Ronnie’s voice. The rest is history. Janey convinced me to buy a guitar, and Ronnie went with me to help me find one. He became a fast friend almost immediately. Learning to play a steel stringed instrument like a guitar is a little difficult, initially, but that’s only because you must work to build calluses on your chording fingers. Janey suggested I contact, Happy Traum, who with his wife, Jane, had formed a company in their attic in Woodstock, New York, where Happy produced “Homespun Tapes.” He taught folks to play stringed instruments by tape, and I immediately sent away for his beginning guitar series. Six tapes that taught guitar by playing and singing familiar folk songs. Most people are unaware that three chords in the same key allow you to play and sing hundreds of songs; I flew through the learning process in 90 days. I was thirty-nine years old, and I was excited to learn. The reason was simple; I wanted to be able to play music with my new friends.

I want to stop here for just a minute to tell you, if you want to learn to play an instrument, the best way is to do so by tape. Today, CDs and CDRs are the vehicle for teaching, but I still prefer recordings simply because you can play something you don’t quite understand, over and over, until you get it, and not feel stupid. Although Happy passed away in 2024, I am pleased to say that his son, Adam, is still providing Happy’s products, along with the teachings of many other artists, and it is still an inexpensive way to learn to play. One last thing. You are never too old, or too young to learn to play. I took beginning, intermediate, flatpicking, fingerpicking, and playing 12-string guitar, all from Happy. You can too!

I have written lots of music over the years, and during the latter part of my life, for a little over twenty years, I have had a bluegrass band, and with myself as guitar player and lead singer, along with a Fiddle player, Dobro-Harmonica player, Banjo player, and Bass player, we have played in over one hundred venues in the region. I must tell you, I have enjoyed every blessed minute of it. I have made many musician friends during that time, and for almost nine years, I was the business manager for a public radio traditional music program, during which my band, “The Potluck Ramblers,” played several times. I have been blessed to play and sing music all my life.

Although Ronnie and I have not performed together for many years, I will never forget our musical affiliation during the earlier days of my picking and grinning. I have had friends ask why Ronnie did not play banjo with my bluegrass band, and the reason is easy for musicians to understand. Ronnie is not a bluegrass banjo picker. Instead, he is more of a “Kingston Trio” type musician, or “Peter, Paul & Mary,” or the “Limeliters.” I will only say, Ronnie is pure Folk, and that means traditional music. In a sense, so am I, but I look at Bluegrass as traditional, while Ron might say the musicians are racing through the music to see who can reach the end first. He has a point, and although he has kidded me from time to time, he has also been a big encourager.

I end this writing with more about Ronnie and myself. First, for many of my early years as a guitar player, Ronnie and I played in a local folk trio with our friend, Ed Adams. We were known as the Riverfront Ramblers. Ronnie helped get me that “gig,” and I encourage you to read more of his stories about that. From the late 90s, until about 2015, Ronnie and I travelled to Boonville (that’s how Daniel Boone spelled it until he learned to read and write), North Carolina, the first Saturday in December, to attend a function known as “The Gathering,” during which neighbors attended a singing of folk and Christmas tunes at the home of “Gramps & Muggins” Comer. Their son, Tony and I, worked together for many years, and he had invited me to stay during one of my business trips, and come to his mom and dad’s home for the Gathering. I finally did exactly that, and I knew right away that my friend Ronnie would absolutely love it, and I convinced him to come with me the next year. I was exactly right about Ronnie loving it, and my, oh my, did they ever love him. Together, we became the “out-of-town” entertainment for the Gathering, and were even written up in the local newspaper as such. Thus, the title of this story, JIM & RONNIE DEE, came to be because a local who reported it to the paper thought Ronnie and I were brothers. Bob, I do not recall his last name, was what one might refer to as, “A piece of work.” He was a real character, and he wanted the small town to be aware that Kentucky talent had visited their fair city, so he took it upon himself to become the paper’s reporter for an evening of music. We loved everyone at the gathering, including Bob of course, especially after we heard the story of him riding his lawnmower to the grocery store. It seems his car had broken down, and he needed to pick up a few things at the store for his wife, so the lawnmower was his only means of transportation. The Sheriff stopped him, of course, and said, “Bob, you can’t ride that thing on the road. You know better than that.” Bob told the Sheriff that he only lived about a mile away, and he would stay on the side of the road going back. I can’t remember how it ended, but I think the Sheriff followed behind him as he rode home, with lights flashing. There is nothing like a small community. The small town of five hundred could have easily been named, Mayberry.

And there is nothing like a good friend, one who would do anything for you. Jim and Ronnie Dee are no longer touring, instead, we are writing. Not necessarily together, but certainly because of each other. Love you, brother Ron.