In the fall of 1962, folk music reached its peak. Joan Baez, the Kingston Trio, Brothers Four, The Limeliters, The Chad Mitchell Trio, The New Christy Minstrels, The Highwaymen, and Peter, Paul and Mary filled the airways with their folksy music and sold albums like they were going out of style. I was a freshman at UNC and by the time Peter Yarrow, Paul Stookey and Mary Travers came to Chapel Hill, I was hooked. I had to have a guitar so I could play folk music and I bought one. It was about $35, not much money for an instrument today, but a nice sum back then.
I knew nothing about guitars and could barely read enough music to sing a little tenor during hymns, but I bought an instruction book and set about learning to play the guitar.
I played and played till the tips of my fingers were bleeding from pressing down on the steel strings. Eventually I developed callouses so thick that I could pick up the tip end of a live cigarette with the four fingers on my left hand and it didn’t burn.
One of the first songs I learned, or tried to learn, was “Stewball Was a Racehorse”, a monster hit from Peter, Paul and Mary. I practiced and practiced until I nearly drove my suite-mates at Carolina nuts.
“Can’t you please play another song,” they implored.
So then I’d play a few chords from “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”, then it was back to Stewball.
I played it so much, that everyone I knew and some that I didn’t know called me Stewball Brewer. I’ve been called worse.
But it’s sorta’ cool when you play the guitar and can actually play something someone requests. I remember sitting in the sand at Cherry Grove, north of Myrtle Beach, and strumming away while folks were singing along with “Michael Rowed the Boat Ashore”.
I can still play the guitar, but I’ve lost my callouses and it hurts like a son-of-a-gun when I strum even a few chords, so I leave that task to others.
But every now and then – usually in the shower – I sing a little Stewball. After all, how can you forget a song you’ve played a million times? It goes like this.
Oh Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine.
He never drank water, he always drank wine.
His bridle was silver, his mane it was gold.
And the worth of his saddle has never been told.
Oh the fairgrounds were crowded, and Stewball was there
But the betting was heavy on the bay and the mare.
And a-way up yonder, ahead of them all,
Came a-prancin’ and a-dancin’ my noble Stewball.
I bet on the grey mare, I bet on the bay
If I’d have bet on ol’ Stewball, I’d be a free man today.
Oh the hoot owl, she hollers, and the turtle dove moans.
I’m a poor boy in trouble, I’m a long way from home.
Oh Stewball was a racehorse, and I wish he were mine.
He never drank water, he always drank wine.