After the Grand Masters Fiddler Championship concluded, word had it there was a Texas Fiddle jam session in a filthy dark parking lot at a motel on the south side of town, so that’s where we headed. We drove up, I grabbed the old white painted fiddle out of the truck and went to work on some “Tennessee Wagoner”. It’d been a while since I had pulled up a seat at one of these, oh maybe a quarter century, but in no time I was feelin’ like that young teen in my memoir again, Crossing Bridges. Long r