I remember sitting on the floor in a girlfriend’s living room in San Gabriel, California, in front of a sofa on which sat Doc Watson and his son Merle. They did a private concert for us that lasted roughly an hour and a half, or maybe two hours. It was a remarkable privilege.
That must have been about 1969, though it could have been 1970.
Mary Z. and I were the only two members of the San Gabriel Valley Bluegrass Association that we knew.