“… He glanced over at Rosenbaum, who had plopped into a wicker chair on the porch, completely at ease. A faded gray vest hung over his belly and an old baseball cap was pulled down over his pale, dumpling features—his white hair stuck up around it as if charged with static. A minute ago, he’d knocked on the door and been told that Sweet Petunia was indisposed—she was still digesting her breakfast, her son David said. But Rosenbaum was happy to wait outside. A folklorist, a painter, and a professor of art at the University of Georgia, he had spent fifty of his sixty-nine years travelling around the South and the Midwest, recording folk musicians. …”
Read the entire article at The New Yorker Magazine.