Thanks

It's interesting that the more experiences you gain in life, be it your job, your relationships, your hobbies, the biggest constant is that elements are going to change. Usually it is an incremental shift, perhaps a skill you practice over an over you suddenly realize you can do it better and more easily, or the way you stand with your feet in the sand and watch the waves wash over them until you realize the water has moved the sand around your feet until you are no longer standing on top of the earth. Whatever it is, things shift and move forward. It seems I am at one of those points when I look down and see that my feet have been completely enveloped into the sand when I have done nothing but stand still.

This Thanksgiving, things felt different. So different. In order to help quell my anxiety with the missing people in my life, the new routines, I have been clinging onto past traditions that I love and that I can't let go of no matter how old I get. I'll always have my Granny's potato salad, even though I am the one making it now. I will be sure to slice the can shaped cranberry sauce into slices on a glass plate even though I don't particularly like it. I will always make the stuffing out of the box even though I am a skilled enough cook to make something from scratch. That is just how it will always be no matter what happens in between the holidays. This year, I summoned all the family I could find, my dad expressed interest in deep frying a turkey, we enhanced our Thanksgiving day traditions with prizes, and most importantly, I insisted we attend the annual Thanksgiving dinner held the Saturday prior to the holiday at the Rugby Rescue Squad.

Last year my dad got a ragtag band together to play as they had so many years past on the old Rescue Squad stage. The green astroturf stretching over its surface has worn over the years, the 'No Dancing' sign has been removed, though everyone still observes it, and the chairs and microphones might have been a bit more rickety, but getting to sit up there with him was one of the biggest highlights of my year. Of course, he had his regulars, the people who knew what they were doing: Gerald on mandolin and Helen on fiddle, but he also invited a couple of excited musicians who maybe weren't as well versed in their instrument's language; me on my #52 ukulele (the one that matches my dad's old guitar), and our family friend Gary Davis on the bass. (He usually plays guitar but helped round out our quintet with a nice steady beat). A memory from that day I hold quite dear is getting to sit between my dad and Gerald, Gerald telling me which chords were coming next, and simply feeling special, sitting up there on the stage where, growing up, I had aways watched from the sidelines. If you had told me that day that our quintet would only be a trio just a year later I wouldn't have believed you.

Rugby Rescue Squad Thanksgiving last year. Helen White, Wayne Henderson, Gary Davis, me, Gerald Anderson

We obviously didn't play for the Rescue Squad gathering this year. But I still insisted on going down to the gray metal building where all the emergency vehicles had been driven from their cozy garage and in their place sat rows of tables and chairs. Just like it was then I was 5. When I was 13. When I was 33. That's the thing about Rugby, and these dinners especially. Whether they are the same people from my youth, or others who have taken over the same roles, there are still the guy always in his 60s, taking the donations for dinner, grandmother aged ladies serving the potluck food everyone has brought and squished onto the long cafeteria counter, younger members of the community selling raffle tickets for the Henry shotgun door prize, the two or three young children choosing names from the bucket of tickets. The same people I have seen for years are always there, and while I probably don't agree much with their politics, things like that never really matter then. They'd still do anything for me and I them simply because they are my community. The loss of my family members this year has felt profound, but I think it was a healing experience for me as well as my dad to go join in our Rugby community of characters, maybe not in as big a way as last year, but just to sit among them and listen to the gossip and the new band, and eat the same traditional dishes mounded onto my plate that I couldn't forget the taste of if I tried.

Following the Squad dinner, I took it upon myself to host the biggest Thanksgiving our little family could muster at my dad's house. My husband's family drove up, my mom drove down, my cousins stopped by to catch up, and a few friends who weren't planning to travel for the holiday joined our party as well. I wasn't sure how my dad would feel given he had lost his partner just a month prior, but I think he enjoyed the distraction, offering to fry a turkey like he used to when I was a teenager, though that brought a twinge of sadness as we reminisced on how Gerald always came by on Thanksgiving day to fry a turkey or two for his family dinner as well. This year the frying process was just how it always was, the fryer not quite working, the men arguing out in the yard on how to fix it, trying to rig up some method to keep it going long enough to kill all the salmonella. Our turkey shoot was one for the books, with all three of our non (blood related) family members winning the prizes my dad made for the occasion. Our friend Sam won the first choice of prizes right off the bat. Though, if we were truly playing fair, my dad's first 'practice' shot had buckshot hitting almost exactly on the X drawn on his paper plate target. While the cutting boards he made were beautiful, everyone was especially hoping to win the little maple box with a tiny pearl and abalone fox I inlaid on it. When two plates were too close to call, we decided to give them both prizes only to find out they were owned by Frank and Barb Kruesi, respectively, neither of whom had shot many shotguns before.....I am still pretty skeptical of their collective win.

Measuring is serious business around here.

😑

The holiday was fun despite feeling the loss of our friend and my dad's partner of so many years. While things are shifting, some traditions of the holiday simply can't be quelled. If holiday recounting isn't really your thing, here is the latest in the guitar world:

It seems the sand around my feet is shifting not only in my personal life, but maybe in my instrument building world as well. I have noticed lately that people are calling me for interviews, focusing on my use of sustainable wood or how I work as a female luthier, and not stopping to mention my dad until I do. I am teaching inlay classes alone, I am doing demonstrations by myself, answering all of the questions  asked of me because I know the answers from experiences I have gone through, not just from regurgitating what I have been told or what I have heard my dad say. It is an odd feeling, thinking I might be good and knowledgeable at something, and I am excited to feel competent enough share it with other people who also believe I am competent at what I do.

A couple of weeks ago, my dad asked for my help. That role was an odd shoe for me to fill, seeing as he is always helping me, never the other way around, not really. Anything I have helped him with he is usually perfectly capable of doing, but I just happen to be able to step up in the moment. This time, because he is short a partner, there was no one else who could have done the job of taking him to address a medical issue. The nature of the procedure required him to stay at my house in Asheville for several days. I was worried that he wouldn't have a nice time or that he would feel severely uncomfortable out of his element. Luckily it seemed as though he didn't hate his time with me in my space. We fell into a similar routine as we do at his house. I woke up early and work, he stayed up late. I showed him how to watch Andy Griffith and the Beverly Hillbillies on our 'newfangled' TV, and he worked in my shop with my cheap, simple tools until he felt like stopping. He didn't bring anything to work on, so I let him make braces for me, glue ribbons and kerfing around my guitar rims, and fit the top and back onto my guitar while I worked on two ukuleles. I feel a bit guilty that one of my clients is essentially getting a Henderson guitar with my name on it, but working provided a sense of normalcy and ease to his visit so oh well, we both win. I ended up enjoying his time at my house with me quite a bit and for that time we had I am extremely thankful.

Getting free guitar help :-)

The guitar he worked with me on was completed right around Thanksgiving and I flew it up to surprise its new owner in Washington, DC last weekend. I enjoyed visiting with David and his family very much, learning more about the wedding of his son, the tree on the fingerboard symbolizing the tree under which he will be married this summer. David didn't seem too terribly sad about his collaboration guitar, and now perhaps after knowing how important and special the experience was for me it will make his guitar that much more enjoyable to play and love.

I enjoyed talking about how much David's wife Cheryl (my coconspirator who bought the instrument for David's birthday unbeknownst to him) enjoyed cooking and baking in her cozy, inviting, well loved kitchen. A passion we share. Experiences like these add exponential joy to my job and reminds me how thankful I am to be able to share something I love to do so much.

I wish you and your family the happiest of holiday seasons and hopefully I will get around to writing you a Christmas story before the end of the year! What would you like to hear about next? Guitar work, stories from my dad's childhood, stories from my youth? Please comment and let me know what you want to read about!

Dress Up

Another post that is too many months late. As usual, I'm sorry about that. I have been waiting for something exciting or at least happy to happen so I have something fun to write to you about but the last few months have been...less than ideal. I don't really want to focus on those events though, as there are always positives that can help outweigh the hefty hits my family has been dealt lately. Halloween is tomorrow, so it got me thinking. Perhaps I could tell you a story about Halloweens past, my dad's little known but actual superstitions, Shirleen's memories of bobbing for apples as a girl. But I decided to tell you a little bit about just me this time.

In kindergarten, our class visited the fire station. My class packed our little bodies into a tan trailer decked out to look like a living room and bedroom. The trailer was outfitted to simulate a fire emergency so we could see how smoke behaves and learn how to evacuate were we to experience such a thing at our own house.  I remember thinking, while I was stopping dropping and rolling along with my classmates, 'well if I were a firewoman this wouldn't happen at my house.' I then reasoned that if I were a police officer, no one would burgle my home. If I were a doctor, perhaps myself, and no one I knew, would get sick and die. I decided that a doctor would be the most useful profession to pursue. I mean since I already learned how to stop drop and roll, how hard could it be apprehending a burglar? Plus they make alarms for those other two scenarios.

For that Halloween, and the subsequent ones following, I dressed up as a neurosurgeon. My mom procured adult sized scrubs for me from UNC Hospital where she was currently in school. I proudly donned my surgery smock, mask, and sterile green gloves and ventured out to trick or treat in my neighborhood. When my interest didn't wane over the years and I continued to ask for the surgery smock on October 31st. my mom took me to UNC's brain lab to see a human brain. (I remember I was eight years old, but also I have a record of that day in my third grade journal I recently discovered in a tub of my school work my mom has saved for me.) I remember the brain to be folded into dense gray tissue filled with crevices, not a squishy, malleable mess you might expect given the many horror movie interpretations. As I grew, I kept thinking that is what I'd like to do, see what's in there, fix what's wrong. In high school, dissections in biology was my favorite time, my lab partners happily letting me do the worst (best?) of the exploration of the frog, shark, fetal pig. Their lab breaktime turned to concern when I went on, meticulously removing layers of matter in order to locate a shark's brain.

Sitting across from a friend at a downtown bagel shop watching her shaky fingers pull her bagel into pieces, I had a terrible urge to help her. I didn't understand why her hands were so shaky. Then I started noticing other people's hands as they focused on a task. What was wrong with everyone? Thinking back on the examples I was provided as a child of people working with their hands, all the jack-o-lanterns that were ceremoniously passed to my dad's expertise, watching his hands when he slowly and carefully shaved wood from a guitar neck. My mom's incredible watercolors and pencil drawings, watching her deft hands create and mold creative beautiful splints for her patients to recover in. They were as steady as mine so I never thought anything of it. After observing more carefully, I realized, perhaps the odd person was it me? Maybe my hands were the different ones, not those of my friends. I watch in terror each year as Nick carves his jack-o-lantern and I always regret handing him a knife, but to be fair, I cut myself with things significantly more often than he does...

In college, I worked in the biology lab cleaning and setting up for various lab experiments, pouring plates of agar for students to test various bacteria, mixing chemicals under the fume hood, running the autoclave to disinfect instruments. Oh also, one of my jobs was to feed the Madagascar hissing cockroaches, who's cages lined an entire wall of one of the prep rooms in NC State's biology building. They actually do hiss especially if they are annoyed you haven't fed them yet. Thinking back, I believe working in the lab was absolutely the highlight of my freshman year. Several times, when there were extra animals from a lab, say a student show up and the animal would have been wasted, my supervisor would allow me to do the dissection in my down time at work. I would take samples from various tissue, making slides to see what the cells looked like under the microscope. What fond memories....There is a little Halloween creepy for you.

Cut to now. I'm not a neurosurgeon. I didn't attend medical school. After switching my major from biochemistry, and earning a psychology degree with a biology minor (where my favorite class was neuropsychology, PS) I chose to take the LSAT instead of the MCAT. Fearing the extensive math section and that I wouldn't have time to draw out my equations in multi colored pens as I always had in all of my classes leading up to this test, I worried it wouldn't go too well. And harboring a strong love for the environment and enjoying writing led me in a different, seemingly easier, direction.

The point of that little history lesson is that things still seem to have worked out how they should. I don't get to dissect any animals or body parts, but I do get to use my hands and creativity to solve problems every day. My patients aren't necessarily alive, but a lot of times I feel that I am constructing a living being when I do my work. Often my tasks are tedious and difficult, and take a little bit of extra thinking. Like math, the socratic method of teaching and thinking quickly to spit out an answer is not my strong suit so I feel quite lucky to have stumbled into this job.

What does all of this have to do with guitars, other than to give you a little glimpse as to why I am here you ask? Good question. I will try to keep the rambling in check and give a quick anecdotal example. The other day I had to figure out how to cut a slot head peg head using my brand new milling machine. In my own shop. By myself. Without no one standing nearby to be sure I was setting things up correctly and cutting the right angles in the correct spots. The crux with a task like this is that at this point in the build process everything on the guitar is mostly finished. The guitar body is made, the inlays are inlaid, the fingerboard is glued onto the neck, the neck is fitted to the body and shaped to fit the owner's hand. There is little room for mistakes; in case of mishap, the only option is starting the neck over from a rough mahogany block.

Obviously I didn't want to make a brand new neck for my almost finished guitar so I knew I had to figure out how to set up my machine just so; set my router bit to the appropriate depth to keep the slots even and straight; drill the tuner holes exactly the same on each side of the peg head; file and whittle the edges of the slots to match each other; sand the slots smooth and clean. Though it took extra time, I decided to make a dummy peg head with the same dimensions as my guitar peg head. I practiced all of my measurements and set up on the prototype and tried them out. The results weren't as perfect as I would have liked, but I learned what I needed to adjust for the real thing.

When I was young and would ask my dad to help me make something in the shop on my visits on weekends, one thing that sticks is how long it took. I remember feeling frustrated because he would take AGES to actually do the thing I asked. I stood by and watched as he set everything up, eyeballing the placement of the fence on the table saw, then dissatisfied, scooting it a millimeter or so one way or another, patiently running through the entire project before ever cutting or gluing anything. I know now that he was teaching me how to truly, wholly make something.

The choices you make in life don't guarantee a certain outcome, but after awhile you can sit back and see where you've been and how you're shaped as a person because of those choices. I'm not a lawyer and I don't get to be a doctor. I don't get to know what it is like to fix a body and make someone better. But I feel like I have come as close to those feelings and actions as I will. After trying a different path I was still led back to working with my steady hands, seeing what is inside, and fixing what I am able. I learned from someone far more skilled than I, but now I can do similar work by myself; meticulously and with great care. Testing options and taking extra time to practice before just jumping in thinking I know what will happen. Now I have the knowledge and tools to be sure. And hopefully, as I keep working at this, I will be able to pass that part on to others wanting to learn. Not just the skills of guitar building themselves, but the artistry, passion, work and patience that goes into them.

Gerald

It is always so surprising to me when I go to write you a story and find out that it has been months since I have posted anything. In my mind I have been talking to you all along, which might mean I have a mental illness, but know that I am thinking of you and have all the intentions to write you a little something. It doesn't hurt to remind me if you're missing the stories. I never know who actually reads this anyway, or if I am just talking to myself. In the case of this entry, that would be alright.

This time I want to tell you a little bit about my Uncle Gerald. Before you think, wait, she has an uncle named Gerald? I understand he isn't actually my uncle by blood, but as soon as I was old enough to address him as anything, he was Uncle Gerald. I have always known him as such and that title was buttressed by my Granny's treatment of him as a son, and dad's treatment of him as a brother, and vice versa. He started out after college working as my mom's intern helping her enforce the newly enacted Clean Water Act at the Virginia Water Control Board. He would do her bidding and wade through polluted, dank coal mine runoff streams to collect water samples for her. Through her, he met my dad and has been working alongside him since. 43 years have passed since then, and I don't get paid enough to write you the whole history. I'll warn you now, I don't think I want to share any of my parent's stories in this post because, while it will be a far less entertaining entry for you, it is important to me that these stories are just mine.

On Thursday I got a call I never dreamed I'd get at this stage in either of our lives. My friend Spencer, who I consider the closest thing I have to a brother, and who Gerald treated as a surrogate son, told me Uncle Gerald had passed away. I don't want to go into the details of that day as it was extremely painful for me and I am sure all of my Rugby family so reliving won't be necessary for this story.  I use the term family because it best defines the circle of people who have come together in this tiny part of Southwest Virginia, in some of our cases due to DNA, but more likely just because we have found something beautiful and sacred here. Now I see, we have attached ourselves to each other and this community as tightly as hydrogen bonds with oxygen. I have always thought it was because of my dad, but I am sure now that is not entirely true. While my dad may be the atoms in the formula, Gerald provided the covalence.

Sitting here, I am at a bit of a loss for a specific incident or some humorous anecdote we shared that would help explain why this person is so special to so many of us. The memories that are running through my mind like a ticker tape are all banal, mundane situations that nobody would find special but me, and only in hindsight. As I grew up and would visit my dad on weekends ands school breaks, Gerald was always there but never stood directly in front of me, never demanding my attention or trying to win my affections as so many people hoping to please my dad would do. Where my dad has always been a pivotal star in the movie of my life, Gerald was always there in a supporting role. I didn't realize how perfect that term 'supporting' was until these recent events.

Every year during my dad's Christmas party which typically falls on or very near my birthday, usually as I retreated to the comfort of my room after feeling overwhelmed with the crowd, Gerald would quietly hand me a neatly wrapped gift and tell me happy birthday and Merry Christmas. I am sure my dad wanted to spend time with me on my birthday as well, but he was usually heavily surrounded by party goers so it was a rare occurrence I even saw him. (Same as Father's Day as his festival always falls on that Saturday.) Gerald's gifts to me were usually movies he liked, so if you ever wondered where my love of 90s adventure/disaster movies comes from, thank Gerald. (Men In Black, Independence Day, Jurassic Park to name a few have always held a special place in my heart, not necessarily earned simply due to their content...) My most prized bestowal was a VHS copy of the newly released weather thriller, Twister, which to this day keeps me company in my shop on more occasions than is normal for any human being. I always think of Uncle Gerald as I am cueing it up on my Amazon streaming list. I wish I had told him that.

Growing up, whether I was interested or not, my presence wanted by anyone else or not, I was always made to feel included in anything Gerald had going on. During his annual Easter Egg hunt, where he gently hinted at the location of the golden egg (finding it is a big deal) as I poked through the grass and searched under eaves, or letting me bet on a car during his NASCAR parties even though I didn't have money to buy in, or dealing me into my dad's occasional Tonk games where I was an annoyance to everyone else sitting around the table, and more recently, setting up a business account with Sherwin Williams for me so I can get half priced guitar finish, texting me throughout a trip he is on with my dad so I know he is safe and having a good time, and quietly buying my lunch or dinner at Sarah's where my dad and I would often meet him for a meal. It is no secret he loves gambling, so I will tell you this little story. About a year ago, he nonchalantly bought everyone at our table a lottery ticket, the kind I used to scratch at Vivian's store. That gesture shouldn't have mattered as much as it did, but those old feelings of excitement and the anticipation of good luck flowed in as he slid me a dime and I scratched away the top layer of the card. I anxiously waited for a proclamation of victory from my dad, Gerald, or Allison, all still diligently scratching too. When we were finished we went around the able taking stock of our winnings. Whomever won bought more tickets with their cash prizes and we continued buying and scratching more tickets until we ran out of winning tickets. He never asked for his money back. After the fun of that first time, I bought the tickets the next time and we kept playing like that the last few times I was up working and my dad and I met him for a low key dinner. Those little experiences that maybe shouldn't have mattered so much and aren't outwardly special brought me so much joy. I wish I had told him that.

Stories like mine are not the exception. Reading over people's notes posted on social media and listening to so many friends gathered for his final farewell it was evident that my memories, perhaps not exactly the same, are inherently shared.  Gerald's kindness has radiated through my life, and I think a lot of others, like a low and constant hum you can barely hear; gently reminding us that we are loved and that we matter. I know very few people who give so whole heartedly without any expectation of reciprocation. I am so appreciative of the kindness he has shown me where in the other supporting players in my life there has been far less.  I wish I had told him that.

The past few days I have asked myself and others, what are we going to do? Like a mantra, over and over again. Seriously, what [some expletives Gerald wouldn't use] are we going to do? Who will take care of me? My safety net, the one put in place by my parents when I was born and has grown as more people have come to stand behind me ready to catch me if I take a tumble is extremely important to me, but still, I think I have taken it for granted. I know as we age that net that ebbs and flows, and is meant to shrink as we take over holding that net for someone else, but with this loss, I feel my net has been significantly torn. Not just a little unraveling, I mean a giant hole has been ripped into its middle and I am not sure if it can be repaired.

I don't want to go too far into detail about the funeral other than to say I have never felt more proud of Spencer for delivering the most beautiful and perfect eulogy I am so sure Gerald would be proud of and seeing all of his friends humbly rise and walk on stage to play their Anderson instruments in a final farewell song. But I will say this, every face I saw there was someone I have known for many years. Some who have paid me little attention, and I them along the way, and some who are the closest friends I have. So many of us stood together in support of one another's personal and collective loss. Collected all together, we saw the good in each other that Gerald would have seen. To me, we all seemed a little bit nicer and happier to see each other and I am pretty sure that might be because we all aspire to be the kind human our friend was. Also, I think we all learned a hard lesson from losing someone so unexpectedly who we might not have realized was so deeply entangled with us all. Here is what I learned, so take it to heart: Don't forget to tell your people how you feel about them, it is important.

Late that evening, I sat outside the shop door, under a warm blanket of stars with my dad and several of his friends; no, correction: our friends, feeling like they truly didn't mind me being there when usually I feel like my presence might be taking something from their enjoyment of visiting with my dad. We shot some Roman candles, picked ripe full blackberries off the vine winding its way up the side of the shop wall, chatted about the events of the day. After a while, nothing was left to say so we all sat contentedly together just watching the sky. A bright shooting star raced low across the horizon. I wonder if we were all thinking it was something special and significant, or if that was just me.

Following the burial, after several days of mental and physical anxiety and discomfort, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of peace. I truly don't know if I have felt something so powerful in my body before and I don't really want to admit it to you, but I have to in order to make my final point. That mantra that I can't stop hearing, the 'What are we going to do? No, really. How can this be ok?' has quelled. People I don't spend much time with have come and sat down to chat so we can learn about each other, my dad's and Gerald's good friends have told me that if I ever need anything, please don't hesitate to call they would be happy to help with anything. Spencer promised to text me regular updates of my dad's trips. I asked our friend Greg to take care of my dad as I ducked into my car to drive home and he promised he would, whole heartedly knowing the size of the shoes he is attempting to fill. One of us won't be able to do it alone, but I think all of us together can. 

Today I know that we will be ok, because of all the people who are already stepping in to help repair my net.

Sunbursting

Someone asked me to explain how I do sunbursts, so I thought I would just go ahead and tell you all about it because maybe someone else wants to know too! I have always loved color, shading, drawing, creating something beautiful, so perhaps sunbursts were always in my future. Some of my earliest memories with crayons and colored pencil is that I figured out that you could change the shade based on how hard you pressed. I found could add depth and movement to the thick black lines of Cinderella's dress printed on the page of my coloring book if I faded the lines into ruffles. Looking over at the other kids struggling to stay inside the lines with their fat markers I had a feeling maybe drawing was something I could be good at. So think that is the first thing necessary for a good sunburst: the ability to see and appreciate colors and how they work together, and to shade them out evenly.

As I started this post, out of curiosity, I asked my dad how he started doing sunbursts, not having anyone to teach him. I expected him to say that he rubbed stain on like Lloyd Loar did for Gibson, but his response was, "You know, I did my first sunburst with a torch." ...Um, what? Some days he just says or does things you aren't quite expecting and you're left bewildered. Like once, Nick and I were making a bourbon cake and I had bought Old Crow bourbon because it was on the bottom shelf at the liquor store and I figured that was the baking stuff. My dad walked into the kitchen and says, "Old Crow, that was your Uncle Max's favorite bourbon." He then walked over to the counter, took a shot of the bourbon and walked back out of the kitchen. Or another time I was sending a set of wood through the thickness sander, and he said, "Well, that will probably turn out really nice. Or it'll blow up." And then he promptly walked away leaving me standing next to the sander wondering if I would benefit from a helmet. They come out of nowhere, so as I said, I wasn't expecting, "Oh I took a blowtorch to it."

So of course, I imagined my dad burning up his newly whittled mandolin and, of course, ending up putting on a beautiful burst with it. Normal people can't do what he does, I don't think. He said had seen a cabinet maker use the technique on plywood cabinets, making them look darker and thereby fancier than what they are and thought perhaps he could use it for shading. He said it actually worked beautifully color wise until he noticed the back seam of the mandolin separating due to the heat, and then realized that ivoroid, the binding we use, is extremely flammable so bringing a flame near a bound mandolin would likely send it up in smoke. He told me he rubbed on stain like Lloyd Loar after that. He also said he used to make his own stain by scavenging walnuts from Granny's fields and boiling their hulls. Apparently it makes a perfectly colored brown stain.

If you are rubbing your stain for your sunburst, it is suggested to do the lighter color first and work toward the darker color, but if you are spraying the dark stain comes first. So I will explain how I do it, but this in no way means it is 'the way' to do it. I am sure other folks have better, smarter methods. As I say in my inlay classes, I am showing you my techniques because it is what works for me, but as we have learned with the blow torch, there are no wrong answers (or are there in that case?) so whatever works best for you is what you should do.

The very first step to a good sunburst is to make sure you've sanded out all of the scratches in the wood. Seriously, all of them. If there are minuscule scratches left in the wood when you spray water based stain, the stain highlights them like the Vegas strip.  That part takes almost forever. I like to check for them in small quadrants within a surface and only focus on sanding each area before I move on to the next one so I am sure to clear every scratch left from heavier sandpaper. I do that until I can't find any more, then I wet the wood to raise the grain, let it dry and sand it again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Hm. I wonder why my shoulders hurt? I bet it's all that yoga. Anyway...

When all is sanded to my liking, I do a three part stain with the spray gun, first with stained water then with stained finish. I begin with the darkest color. I add enough stain to a couple of tablespoons of water and adjust the gun to spray the width of spray I prefer. After the gun is adjusted to my liking, not too heavy-it will bounce off of the binding and cause excess stain to ruin the color distribution, too little and you'll be sitting there for ten years, I start going over the edges. When the outside of the burst is dark enough, I will add a second color if that is what I am going for. Sometimes I add some reddish stain, such as with the Nick Lucas I did yesterday, sometimes I won't, like the light burst I just did on the paw print guitar. Then I go over the entire surface with the lighter, yellow color. When that has dried, I do the same thing with a finish coat. I prefer doing the water stain first because I think it adds a lot more depth to the burst and I can increase shading that way, but using the finish after the water based stain adds more opaque color around the outer edge. I spray the entire burst with the golden center color. Finally I spray a clear coat over the finished burst for good measure. After that has dried I scrape the binding and clean up the edges/purfling. That's it! Except for yesterday.

Starting out with some water based stain.

Started out fun....

I have never felt so defeated and bad at my job than I did yesterday. Usually bursts are one of my favorite things, though they are stressful and difficult to do, I typically enjoy the challenge and had expected to get this one done in a couple of hours tops so I was hoping I could get to finish work before the end of the day. I figured I would get done early so the guitar would have more time to dry before I sanded and buffed out the finish. But nope.

First off, I got started only to find my favorite stain, medium brown, was empty even though every time I come up to work in his shop, I ask my dad what materials are running low so I can be sure to bring or order them before I get to the middle of nowhere Rugby and we are out. Since there were three bottles sitting there he didn't think to tell me to order more, but as I went to fill my spray gun, each bottle had about half a drop in them and a scant amount in the other brown hues I use. I guess had I been resourceful I would have gone outside and scavenged for some walnuts...But I hadn't heard that story yet so luckily my friend Spencer had some that he sent to the shop just as I was trying to eek the last minidrop from our last bottle.

Less fun...

The water based spray worked pretty well, but when I had finished, thinking 'maybe just one more little touch right over here', the gun spat an extra uninvited blob or two of brown stain right in the middle of the finished guitar. That happened a few times which means I either didn't have the air adjusted just right, or it was in the mood to be an a******. Either way, it happened again and again, and the only way to fix said blobs is to sand them out. But how can you sand that out without also sanding the other stain you want to still remain on the guitar you ask? Practice and messing and maybe just sanding the whole thing off if you must because the more you tweak it the harder it becomes to correct it without visible consequences. After adjusting the gun, sanding, adjusting, testing, adjusting, sanding, and a little more testing, I finally got the burst how I wanted it only to have the same thing happen with the finish coat.


When I sprayed the bottom end of the Nick Lucas (where my short arms can't quite reach) I ended up with a big black overspray all over the finally beautiful top. So more sanding, spraying, adjusting, tweaking, spraying. At one point the messing got so intense that I ended up sanding the entire burst off the back and starting fresh. I had to bring in the big guns, 220 sand paper, to get everything off. As a warning, that water based stain really gets in there but I simply couldn't leave it so dark. I believe that even though bursts are wonderful they should enhance rather than cover the instrument because the beautiful flamed maple (or spruce, or whatever is being used) deserves to shine through.

As badly as I wanted to just stop, put everything down, and go inside and lay down with the lights off I had to keep going until it was finished, correctly. Mostly because I didn't want this task to beat me, but also because I didn't want the rumors that my dad does my work to be true. He knew I was having trouble with the job and I know that when he came home from his gig and saw a half done disaster he would take pity on me and probably work on it for me and I would wake up to a pristine work of beauty hanging in the spray room. As much as I appreciate Santa Wayne, I want to be able to fix problems myself, figure it out, take that blow torch to a beautiful curly piece of maple and find out it might not be the best idea for myself. (Pretty sure I already know that one but I hear torching purple heart makes it crazy purple and I definitely considered it when I was finishing that purple heart ukulele...just saying.)

Even though I hated not being able to do well on the first try, maybe messing up is what makes life interesting. One of my favorite teachers said once about a less than stellar kayaking trip we were on that we should really appreciate these things that are going wrong because we won't remember the trips that go well, but we will be telling stories about this trip for years so we might as well enjoy the ride. As usual, he was right and I often think about Ol' Guessepe making the literal worst pizza I have ever had at a random restaurant on Deer Key, Florida. Despite the difficulty, last night I was able to go to sleep happy that I had dealt with the issues myself, corrected my mistakes, no matter how long it took (I started spraying the burst at 1pm, finally hung it to dry at 8:30pm) and even though I might have stumbled a bit getting there, I made something beautiful that someone else will get to enjoy and love for years to come.

A Christmas Story

Shirleen waited. Her brother, Max, was supposed to be home to help her find a Christmas tree, but he was out somewhere with his cousin, Stanley. They were always getting into some sort of shenanigans together, and today was no exception, only it was time to get a tree! Absentmindedly she picked up her quilt square then sat it back down. She had been attempting to make her stitches as clean and concise as her mother's all afternoon. While quite skilled herself with a needle and thread, she never quite emulated those perfect stitches neatly dotting the edge of her mother's squares. Nobody could, really; her mom was unbeatable when it came to weaving needle and thread among the lattice of fabric. She removed her metal thimble, sat the brightly colored pieces down again and got up to get a closer look out the living room window, the one facing the road. Finally! There he was, slowly making his way up the gravel drive, just about to reach the closest edge of Mom's garden to his left. Christmas tree time! She ran to bundle into her mittens and boots before meeting her brother outside.

Their dad, Walter, used to accompany their trips out to the pine thicket, a little patch of earth down past Granny Ollie's house inhabited by stubby, scrawny pines haphazardly relaxing about the plot. These days the two siblings were strong enough to wield the hacksaw themselves, so they trudged through the woods alone. The trees were never the right size or shape, not like the tall stately triangular ones Shirleen would see when flipping through the glossy pages of her mother's magazines; the ones currently infront of her were squat little things, preferring to rest casually in a jumbled ball a few feet high rather than stand at attention proudly holding their cone heads high for a star to perch upon. The pines in the thicket were green, though, and as far as she and Max were concerned, that was enough to constitute a Christmas tree. So they chose one they could drag home and began sawing. Back and forth, back and forth, until the little trunk gave way and the pine unceremoniously rolled onto its side, submitting to be dragged home.

While the tree rested against the wall of the living room, Walter nailed two boards to the bottom of the cut tree, forming an X with the boards and stood the tree on its new base. Shirleen's mom set a bowl of popped corn kernels between them. They threaded their needles with a long strand of shiny black thread. They carefully strung the fluffy white puffs onto the thread until they had strands long enough to envelop the tree. Shirleen gingerly opened the box of glass ornaments her family had spent several Christmases saving up to buy and carefully hung them among the popcorn and pieces of silver tinsel woven among the branches. The glossy red bells were always her favorite, glinting in the light as she moved about the tree. While her dad had the nails and hammer, handy he nailed a set of their warm winter stockings to the mantle, ready to receive oranges and peppermint candy. Shirleen could hardly wait for the Christmas celebration!

Finally, after a week of being as good as Shirleen was able, Christmas Eve arrived. Every year it was a big to-do, and as evening fell, her house began to fill with family. Grandpa Orren and Granny Ollie came in, followed by Aunt Wanda towing Shirleen and Max's three cousins, Don, Imogene and Stanley. Her cousin Imogene was only three days younger than she, so Imogene felt more like a sister than a cousin. Max and Stanley were also very close in age, so they were always getting into some sort of shenanigans. Immediately they ran off to play together, leaving Shirleen and Imogene to ponder the options of what might be arriving inside Santa's Christmas bag this year. Suspiciously, as every year, Aunt Wanda had an excuse ready for why Uncle Frank wasn't joining in on the festivities.

After a while, Shirleen heard a scuffle outside. She and Imogene ran to the window to look. Nothing. She heard it again, this time on the side of the house! Everyone sat gathered in the living room, the only heated room in their house, listening intently above the hissing of the burning coal in the stove. They heard the window upstairs scrape open, and footsteps creaking the floorboards in the room upstairs. Filled with excitement and anticipation, Shirleen and Imogene squealed, knowing that Santa was finally here!

A red clad arm swung open the door hiding the stairs that lead to the second story of the house. A heavily padded, white bearded Santa Claus, who Shirleen suspected was actually her skinny Uncle Frank hidden in a suit stuffed tightly with pillows in the front and back, came blundering down the final few stairs. His big red bag, odd shapes bulging into its sides, rested on his shoulder. "Ho ho ho!" he yelled. "Merry Christmas!" Santa ceremoniously plunked down his gift bag, preparing to hand out gifts to the little group of children now swarming him. He rummaged around, jangling the items inside as his hands rested on each, drawing out the big reveal until he pulled out a prized toy and handed it to its recipient. Each child received one or two toys and a handful of hard candies. Shirleen couldn't wait to unwrap the cellophane wound tightly around the shiny purple and red candies she coveted from catalogue pages all year long. Uncle Frank, erh, Santa, pulled out a beautiful new doll, curls carved around her porcelain face, blue eyes blinking and handed it to Shirleen. She couldn't believe her luck! Max received a Radio Flyer wagon which he had been hoping for because he loved to go fast and had told her he had plans to make it go even faster as soon as the weather warmed up enough.

The toys and been delivered, the children excitedly played with their new loot. Along with the beautiful doll that she decided to name Elizabeth Anne, Shirleen was gifted a brand new coloring book and a beautiful pair of sun glasses. She could hardly wait to use both, so she donned her new pair of glasses, marveling at the new world she saw from their lenses. She and Imogene set up to color while the adults visited. Shirleen chose an image of a cow since she knew first hand what a cow should look like. Most of the pictures in the book were of things she had never seen in real life but finally, something she was positive she could do beautifully since she could make this cow look just like the brown cow out back who gave her family milk every day. She picked up her crayon, working hard to stay in the lines, only coloring the spaces that were supposed to be brown, no slips across the thick black lines on the paper. After what felt like an eternity of concentrating she was finally finished. She laid down her crayon and removed her sun glasses. As she studied her handiwork, a feeling of horror washed over her as she realized the colored lenses of the sun glasses had made her crayon look brown, when in fact it was purple! She couldn't believe she had colored a cow purple! What would Imogene think? Her parents were sure to think she was crazy. She vowed right then and there only to wear her beautiful new sunglasses outside and only when it was sunny.

Just then there was a kerfluffle over by the stove. Shirleen looked up to see Santa smoking! Not a cigarette or a pipe, no, no, his backside was about to go up in flames! The room filled with the smell of burning polyester and was accompanied by thick dark smoke as everyone rushed to help put out Uncle Frank and his pillows. Due to all of that padding he must not have realized how close he was standing to the hot coals in the stove and had caught his beautiful red suit on fire! After Santa was successfully patted out, he announced that he needed to go deliver more toys and turned toward the stairway to the second floor. The last thing Shirleen saw was his singed backside as he sheepishly retreated the way he had come.

After the excitement of the evening, it seemed Shirleen could never fall asleep, but eventually she dozed off. Christmas morning, she woke to the smells of her mom starting on Christmas dinner. Her dad lit a fire in the stove and the family gathered to find what had arrived in their stockings overnight. In each was a bright, round, juicy orange and a few striped sticks of peppermint candy. Oranges were a delicacy, only arriving on Christmas every year, so Shirleen tried to save hers until she couldn't stand to wait any longer. Stowing the candy safely in her pocket for later, she busied herself helping with Christmas dinner.

Walter walked out to the meat house and pulled a ham he had cured earlier in the year down from the rafter. He brought it inside and began carving away the thick salt covering while Shirleen began sifting flour for biscuits and her mom stewed the pinto beans in a large pot. Cornbread was also made, with corn they had dried in the fall and the kernels were ground into meal on a stone out in the granary. With the ham sliced, biscuits and cornbread baked, beans piled high into a bowl and potato salad whipped and topped with slices of boiled egg, the family pulled their chairs tight under the round oak table and Christmas dinner was served.

_____***_____

I hope you enjoyed my Christmas story, as it is actually my Aunt Shirleen's. I asked her to tell me what her Christmases were like when she was growing up and while my dad added some delightful details, many of which I'll add in future stores, all of this was before his time. I wanted to share this one as though I had been there because I wish so hard I could have been. Just to experience the love and family in that room on Christmas Eve.

Shirleen told me that while she understood her family had less than perhaps one living in a big city or those families with parents who had factory jobs rather than ones such as theirs who ran a farm, she never felt like she didn't have enough. I think that is the biggest theme of her story. This family I get to be part of may not have had a lot in the way of physical things, and my dad's Grandpa Orren and Granny Ollie helped pay for many of the kid's toys, they do the best they can to show how grandly they care for their children.

I know my parents do so much for me and I obviously appreciate that immensely, but I know the reason for that is because they saw their parents do it for them. I adore the attention paid to the traditions celebrated and that Uncle Frank came up a ladder and crawled in through the window every year. My dad told me that he didn't know it was Frank until Shirleen, 12 years his senior, told him when he maybe was 8 or 9. The stove incident was before his time but he said he heard about it for years after. He said he got a little suspicious when he saw Uncle Frank out the front window with a pedal car under his arm, a present for which my dad had exclusively asked Santa.

Another reason I wanted to ask Shirleen for her memories is because she's the closest thread I have tying me to my Granny. Someone recently told me that when someone close to you dies, their voice gradually fades from your memory. That might be, but I can so easily conjure my Granny's laugh like she was there chuckling right next to me. But that's because Shirleen has the exact same laugh. Sometimes I find myself making the same little chuckle and am so proud my Granny is still here with us. Anyway, I used my story as an excuse to go out to Shirleen's house and make her drag out all of her family pictures and show me her dolls, many of which she still has nestled in a trunk in the basement, and the old ornaments that used to adorn the Henderson Christmas tree. I have them now and can't wait to mingle them with the old ornaments I got from my mom that hung on her parent's tree.

I hope you all are having the best and happiest of holidays. Be sure to take a minute and be thankful for your family; it doesn't matter how much physical stuff comes with them on Christmas. Keep your traditions close and continue those traditions for your kids if you can. It never hurts to take just a few minutes to be thankful for those who have come before you.

What traditions do you celebrate because your parents did?

My grandpa Walt with Max and Shirleen.

Shirleen's dolls.

Grandpa Walter

Woodstock

The last week of October I flew up to Woodstock, NY. I had reluctantly agreed to participate in an invitational guitar show put on by a fellow named Baker Rorick. The type of situation I have never participated in and have had little desire to do so because I have never been especially keen on pushing my work on people, selling myself when I would rather just sit in my corner, do my work, and have people come to me if they want something I make. This year the appeal was that Baker was featuring women luthiers, and was hoping to gather as many as possible for the event. I reluctantly agreed knowing I'd have the opportunity to meet and be inspired by other builders in a similar position as mine, see how I measure up against the big wig builders, and visit with folks who wouldn't normally get to see and play my instruments outside of following my Facebook page. Soliciting work aside, what I learned over the course of those four days ended up being infinitely more valuable than I ever anticipated.

The best kind of sandwich is a Mac Sandwich.

You may recall that in a previous post I mentioned that some of my dad's cronies aren't the most welcoming of folks in his shop; they aren't unfriendly, they simply overlook me because I am not Wayne Henderson and why bother conversing with a girl when she answers your questions, better to ask Wayne and listen intently when he repeats her verbatim answer that you previously ignored. Wait, I am getting away from my point, which is, while those guys are there, I also have made some truly great friends from of some of my dad's shop visitors. Two of my absolute favorite's, Mac and Mac, decided to drive up to the show and agreed to bring all of my instruments with them, so I was able to fly up, cutting my travel time in half. Another new friend, Alex, drove three hours round trip to pick me up from the airport and then hosted me at his house, that happened to be a few miles from the show, and brought me necessary provisions (wine) throughout the day. The guys all took turns accompanying me at my table when they weren't checking out the other builders, and just standing by me showing their unwavering support. I hope they know I much appreciate their friendship, kindness and acceptance because having that support when it is not always especially strong in the shop means the world to me.

Lugging bulky guitar cases into the wood paneled Bearfield Theater that was already brimming with people when we arrived, I really wasn't sure what to expect. The main theater room was absolutely packed with tables displaying all manner of instruments. We found my booth up on the black painted stage where you had to maneuver some rickety stairs up from the main floor to access it. "Dang, people are going to break an ankle at best if they try to come up here to see me.." I thought as I dragged my instrument cases behind the stage curtains; my table happened to abut the wings, which turned out to be a blessing as the folks wanting to play my instruments were able to get a better shot at hearing, stepping back in the curtains, rather than trying to play out in the melee of the main area.

Me and Kenji.

When we went to set up, a little Asian fellow quietly sat in the chair accompanying my table. I knew I was sharing a table since I only had a couple of instruments to display, so that must be my table mate. He spoke very little English, and after learning he was Japanese, I was pretty excited that my eighth grade exchange student friend Marii taught me some  my Japanese, but what I remember is about as advanced as the first day of nursery school (meaning I can count to 10 and say hello and thank you). I couldn't explain, after seeing his alarmed, pale face as we maneuvered the guitar cases around his beautiful maple guitar already set up on the table that I was taking great care not to disturb his beautiful work. After I was settled and some gesturing, I learned his name was Kenji Sugita. Over the course of the weekend we were able to get by the language barrier a bit; I shared my vegetable lo mein and pinot grigio that Alex snuck in for me, and he brought me coffee and treats when he took a break in the exhibitor rest area in the basement. Turns out, if you don't speak the same language,  just give food.

Ready to greet festivalgoers!

Of all of the exhibitors stuffed into that room, most were extremely welcoming, friendly, and made a point to come say hello and check out my instruments, as I did theirs. Many of us follow each other on Instagram so I knew a lot of people from their posts on social media. Finally meeting my friend Rachel Rosencrantz in person, after we met via a joint interview with a women's guitar magazine several years ago. And when I saw Isaac Jang heading my way I was ecstatic he offered a huge hug as though we were old friends who hadn't caught up in a while. I truly enjoyed meeting everyone; Heidi the extremely friendly ukulele builder a couple of tables down from mine from Prince Edward Island; Meredith who runs a guitar school and regaled me with tales and pictures of her adorable dog, Pickles; Howard a great builder and dare I say even snappier dresser from England; Grit Laskin the legendary inlay artist; Chuck Erickson, aka the Duke of Pearl, who supplies all of my abalone sheets for inlays...to name a very select few characters. It was truly inspiring to be in the company of these folks, and to be welcomed into their club and know that they considered my work on par with theirs was the most amazing feeling.

Rachel Rosencrantz, Heidi Litke, myself

With Linda Manzer, Cathy Fink, and Heidi Litke

Isaac Jang and Kenji

The only folks who weren't especially welcoming were the couple sitting directly to the right of mine and Kenji's table. I don't think they even introduced themselves so I don't recall their names, Mike maybe. But the interesting, even baffling interaction came as I was bringing in my instruments and trying not to upset my neighbor's guitar. They told me that I should be thankful that Baker decided to seat me, a first timer they had never heard of, up on the stage with these really famous builders. I should be thankful to Kenji especially, because he is so well known, people will come to see him so those folks might look at my work since it is next to his. I thought it an interesting comment, as up until then, I had thought that perhaps I was seated there because my instruments were of similar quality to theirs, that people would want to see them in person simply because they were my instruments with my name on them.  Interestingly, I think I had about the same number of visitors, perhaps more, who came specifically to see my work. I noticed the couple giving the side eye a few times as I spoke with people who told me that they drove to the show for the sole purpose to meet me in person and get to play one of my instruments. I think the main thing I learned from those few negative interactions like that one was that my work is my work, and it speaks for itself, nobody can take that away from me, no matter the comments they make about it.

Avril Smith visited me!

One of the highlights of my Saturday was a visit from my friend George's guitar teacher, Avril Smith.  I knew she was a powerhouse guitar player from George as well as being the current guitar player for probably my favorite band of all time, Della Mae, but I learned she is an exceptionally awesome person as well.  I was also thrilled that Celia Boyd, Della Mae's lead singer stopped by my booth for a chat and to check out my guitars. I admire Celia's exceptional talent but also I feel a kindred spirit in that she isn't afraid to speak her mind when faced with folks who might not see things the same way. I appreciate that she tactfully and thoughtfully stands up for herself when faced with (mostly) men essentially telling her to 'shut up and sing'. Where I try to peacefully and thoughtfully encourage environmental consciousness in my work, she uses her much larger platform to speak for environmental issues, kindness, and equality across the board. I am always inspired by her voice, on and off the stage.

Celia checking out #50

Me and Alex, ready for the show!

Later that evening, Celia invited us to Della Mae's show but I wasn't sure I could attend due to a promise to attend a Halloween viewing of Rocky Horror Picture Show, for which I had specially packed a corset and a top hat with a silver skull hand attached. The movie ended up being farther away from Woodstock than we had anticipated so Alex and I decided on swinging by the Playhouse to check out Della Mae instead. Because I was super bummed about Rocky Horror, I decided to still go out in the least weird parts of my outfit because it was Halloween weekend and we had planned to meet some of Alex's friends after the show. In the end I decided my corset and glittery top hat could wait at home (mostly because my hairdo didn't support the hat well enough to stay on). When we rolled into the venue where Della Mae was set to start any minute, I realized this was not the bar scene I had envisioned, and was in fact a prim seated show filled to the gills with fancy adults milling quietly about during intermission, so I thanked whatever internal voice told me to leave my ridiculous get up back at the house, though I still sported some serious red lipstick and big black shoes... Luckily Baker met us at the door and walked us backstage where we greeted the band and watched them warm up. I literally could hardly contain my excitement as the Dellas took the stage, then Alex and I spent the evening hovering in the wings watching their incredible set. I sang along to every song, practically giddy pretending that I was a just few feet further onto the stage than I actually was.

Della Mae killing it obviously. Baker and I danced our shoes off in the wings!

Talented awesome girls, and me.

While my dad's shop has many options to come in contact with well meaning men, strong, awesome, supportive women to look up to in that area are few and far between. A couple of ladies I have been fortunate to make friends with via my dad are the incredibly talented Cathy Fink and Marcy Marxer. I have gotten to know them through visits to my dad's shop, parties, and a few ukulele lessons. Cathy especially has been extremely helpful in championing for me, not as my dad's daughter, but as my own person. I know that may seem odd to specify, but so many people want to support me simply because of my last name that it is extremely exciting when someone sees me and my work for something special in it's own right. For example, one of my dad's friends who was at the Woodstock show introduced me to someone as, "My best friend Wayne Henderson's daughter." I didn't even get a name in that instance. Marcy and Cathy believe in my ability enough that they encouraged me to do this show, offered to demonstrate my work on stage, and often introduce me to their many fancy friends, such as Grit Laskin. Cathy also isn't afraid to push me toward getting out on my own and meeting more people without the shadow of my famous dad to dull my own luster. After an intense day of talking to people, when I wanted nothing more in the world than to go back to Alex's house and hide under the covers, they pulled strings so I could be Kathy Wingert's plus one and join them all for a tribute dinner in town for Linda Manzer. I didn't want to disappoint them, so I went. As usual, Cathy was right and I was glad I had joined in. Turns out my date was pretty awesome too.

At the dinner that evening, I sat at a table with Grit Laskin and his wife, Cathy, Marcy, and Happy Traum, who I knew from running the stage where my dad and I do my little building workshop at Merlefest. Next to us sat Dick Boak, Michael Gurian and John Sebastian. The tables were too crowded to together for Happy to get over to introduce us, so I just turned and introduced myself to John. Turns out he's a big deal...I didn't know that. I asked the only thing I really knew about all three of them, knowing Michael sold his guitar supply company last year and Dick Boak just moved on from Martin. "So...How's retirement?" They all said it agreed with them, allowed for trips to come do things like this, etc. There was a nice camaraderie between the three guys that kept me feeling at ease and that I was welcome to visit with them. I ended up making a few laps around the party before the presentation where my good friend Paul, owner of Dream Guitars, introduced me to more amazingly talented musicians and builders.

When it came time for the award ceremony, where Linda was to be honored with the Traditions Award, we all gravitated back to our seats. I especially appreciated Dick's introduction of Linda when he presented her with her award. He spoke so highly and kindly of her that I was filled with hope that perhaps even the big wigs in this business saw women, if she had enough talent and worked hard enough, as equals and contenders. Perhaps one day I would be able to pass on as much inspiration as she. During her acceptance speech, Linda invited all of the women luthiers in attendance to join her on stage. I proudly stood when sh called my name and was immediately enveloped between these talented, smart women strong enough to be paving their own path in life despite what may be expected of them otherwise.

All the lady luthiers.

As I listened to her speech after sitting back down at our table, Linda said one thing that really stuck with me. She said that when she was young, she would try and try to reach the top of her big brother's tree house, a club of Boys Only, where she was taunted and ridiculed by him and his friends as she climbed and strained to reach the top of the ladder to join them. One thing she realized, is that if she didn't give up, didn't listen to their taunts, and actually made it to door of the house, the boys welcomed her when she reached the top. She said she understood their taunts weren't necessarily because they didn't want her, but simply a hurdle on the way to earn their acceptance. While that treatment is not really fair, I appreciated that perhaps when my dad's friends treat me differently or as though they don't want me, it might not mean they don't think I am good enough, but are just making sure I am strong enough to make it to that top rung. I have noticed that the longer I stay around, the more instruments I string up, the more tunes I learn to pick, they look at me a little more seriously. They listen to my answers and feedback instead of asking the same thing to my dad when he's available. I whispered to Cathy after we sat back down at the table, "So maybe Linda is right, maybe all those guys at the shop don't mind that I am here." Dick Boak leaned over my shoulder and said, "Trust me, we want you here. We are happy that you're here."

Marcy Marxer gearing up to demo my ukulele!

Richard Hoover of Santa Cruz guitars.

Meredith, Maegan, Jamie and Rachel

This is Alex's dog Addie, Harper's white counterpart. I love her so I had to show you.

Amsterdam

My dad has traveled pretty much everywhere. Along with traveling this country to play music, he and my mom played for several ambassador tours with the Virginia Department of Tourism in the early 80s, including one of Asia where they met and entertained the Princess of Indonesia. Along with those, my dad has taken several spins around the globe with the Masters of the Steel String Guitar among countless other trips to share his music with other cultures. I think one of the reasons he is so tolerant of so many types of people when he comes from a tiny spot in Virginia where intolerance of anything other than what is known runs rampant is due to that opportunity to travel to so many different places in the world and see how other folks live. 

As it is well established, I do not have the talent for anyone to willingly listen to my play an instrument, so I don't think I'll be invited on any of those ambassador tours, but I have an itch to see everything, experience new places and see what there is to see so I have figured out my own way to get around and see the world through my job. My mom has always encouraged me to do pretty much anything I am interested in, be it sports, rock climbing, law school, flying across the country at sixteen to attend track camp. My dad however has been a bit more reserved to encourage only things he is familiar with and knows are safe. The rock climbing got a hard veto from him. Surprisingly, the underage flying across the country was a go.

Any time I say, "Hey Daddy, I think I want to go [insert whatever place]" he either says, "Oh, I've been there, do [this thing] at [that place]." He then proceeds gives me a list of things he liked and didn't like about that place or a story of how he and John Cephas got into mischief while on a break from their tour ensues. More rarely he says incredulously, "Huh, I've never been there." When I told him I had a guitar order from Amsterdam and planned to go he said, "Oh, Amsterdam is really fun. Take a boat ride!" I cannot imagine my dad thoroughly enjoying anything other than playing his guitar so when he says to do something that isn't playing his guitar I listen.

It has been a difficult summer and some health issues, if I can call a pregnancy and subsequent miscarriage 'issues', threatened our trip but I had booked the flight and started to make the guitar when I first found out so we were going regardless. While I was fighting a heavy dose of stress, all of the hormones and emotions, exhaustion, and nausea, my dad selflessly sprayed finish for me and helped me with the worst of the dusty and most physical jobs. At 11 weeks it ended up my precautions and his extra work weren't necessary, so I worked to finish the guitar as quickly as I was able to get back on my feet. It is ok though, don't feel sad for me and Nick or our family. I'm trying not to feel too sad or sorry, so you shouldn't be either. Knowing how many other women have gone through the exact same experience (with the exception of having to find someone to step in as finish sprayer and research safety of working as a luthier while pregnant) has really helped me feel less alone and sad so that is why I decided to share. As my dad tells me when I have a hiccup in building a guitar, those bad things are always going to happen no matter how hard we try to prevent them, just keep going and learn from them and hopefully next time it'll go right. The time he exploded the side of my guitar when unscrewing it from a clamp comes to mind. Of course, he's right. I couldn't have prevented the outcome, but I can control how I deal with the pieces of the blow up. A trip to Amsterdam to deliver something I successfully made was a welcome opportunity for us to glue back the pieces of our loss.

Even though I say this about pretty much all of them, the guitar I made for my new Dutch friend Frank is one of my all time favorites. The neck is large but somehow still fit in my tiny hand anyway, and it willingly let me play the few tunes I know, singing out proudly without buzzing or reluctance. I do feel like they all have souls and personalities and this one is just a little extra. Perhaps somehow it knew I needed it to come easily, without protest, but in any event this one is special and it is kind of a bummer it now lives so far away.

You may not know this about me, but I love being part of a good surprise. Frank from Amsterdan approached me several years ago about making a guitar for him as well as one for his dad, also named Frank. When I emailed them this spring about starting their instruments it took a while to figure out to whom I was conversing, but after that was finally straightened out, it was decided that a trip to Amsterdam was in order. As is the curse of a long wait, the dad Frank was still in the market for a guitar, but the younger Frank had had three kids since he placed his order so his priorities had changed. Frank Sr. ordered the guitar, but told me that he was planning to give it to his son so unbeknownst to Frank Jr, I made the guitar to his specs rather than his dad's. To help keep up the surprise, I am lucky they are both named Frank so when I inscribed the underside of the top and shared a picture there were no questions!

I honestly can't say enough nice things about Delta's treatment of me when I fly. I have never had a problem bringing instruments onboard their flights, and attendants have always helped me rather than hindered me in doing so. This time was no different. They found space in their closet for my guitar and we had a nice uneventful flight across the Atlantic. Frank Sr. met us upon arrival.

One of the happiest feelings is knowing someone loves what I have made for them. I feel like one of the surest ways that has been displayed to me is when they ask to be put back on the list for another instrument during that first encounter. I had a feeling he might regret planning to give this guitar to his son as it is one of the most beautiful and best sounding I have made, but love for one's offspring is something I have yet to fully understand so perhaps I'm wrong in that. Even though he was still excited to give this guitar to his son, I don't think I was totally wrong in my hunch as he only opened the case and looked it over, didn't play it yet, before deciding he wanted for one for himself.

After finishing the coffee and tea we ordered at the airport café, Frank drove us from Shiphol airport into the heart of Amsterdam to our Airbnb. He drove off with his new guitar, and we were left to negotiate the traditional extremely steep and narrow canal house stairs of the apartment building. I seriously can't get over how steep these stairs were. They were surprisingly easy to negotiate without luggage, but hoisting our bulky bags up the uneven red carpeted steps was no easy task. I have literally no idea, with the amount people drink and do drugs in Amsterdam, how we didn't see more people limping from sprained ankles or sporting casts from falling down those stairs.

To ward off jet lag, we spent the first day exploring Amsterdam. We learned quickly to look both ways multiple times before attempting to cross the narrow streets lining the canals as more cyclists than I had ever seen in one place whizzed past without caution. The beautiful canals reflecting the house boats tied along their edges and the brightly colored row houses squeezed closely together were quite a sight. We strolled through the busy Dam Square, one of the few open spaces, filled edge to edge with small black cobbles worn shiny with age. As the afternoon sun burned bright accompanied by a swift breeze, we took a quick ferry trip over the IJ river from Central Station to the A'dam Tower where we met Thomas, the owner of our Airbnb. He was kind enough to take some time to give us a tour of the tower and provide a private look around Gibson's new studio where fancy Dutch artists come to record and play Gibson instruments to help promote the brand. The space was beautiful and I enjoyed seeing all of the colorful electrics lined up. A new Nick Lucas was hanging on the wall, but I've heard Gibson is quick to sue, and though I don't think I have infringed on any of their copyrighted material, I was reluctant to mention that I had made a few reminiscent of that body style in case anyone important was listening.

View from A'Dam Tower

Dam Square

bitterballen

The following day we met Frank Jr. at the Van Gogh museum. It was fortunate we had planned to visit the museum around noon that day even before we learned he worked there! After exploring the museum and studying the incredible pieces Van Gough and other Dutch masters have created, we walked with Frank outside through Museum Square to a little Dutch café for lunch. While everyone we had met thus far was more than happy to speak (very good, proper) English, he ordered his lunch in Dutch when it was his turn. When I asked him what he ordered he replied that he chose the traditional Dutch lunch of old cheese and plain brown bread with a little bit of mustard. When he saw my face he laughed and assured me it was his favorite lunch, but I felt something must have gotten lost in translation. Turns out, old cheese is incredible aged gouda and the bread is freshly baked, and the little pop of mustard that comes on the side makes a perfectly delicious meal. While I absolutely loved jumping face first into the cultural dishes primarily featuring cheese, fries, and bread, I can't tell you how badly my body craved kale upon our return home. For example, one of the traditional Dutch snacks is called Bitterballen. I described it to my dad as deep fried gravy balls which would probably be his favorite thing. While they were pretty dang good, I could only handle a couple of them before my stomach said no thanks. Side note: We traveled to Brussels, Belgium after our adventures in Amsterdam and I easily found waffles, chocolate, and beer, but there wasn't a single endive salad or Brussels sprout to be found anywhere! I was not pleased.

View from the canal

The next few days were filled with exploring the beautiful and vibrant city. We took that canal boat trip my dad suggested, and thoroughly enjoyed the information we gleaned from our guide Gabi and Captain Hans as well as the view from the canals. While the Red Light District wasn't really something Nick and I were interested in, we took a stroll through the cramped alleys and took in the red lights glowing, the women peeking from their curtained booths and smelled the marijuana wafting from the clubs. The no embarrassment, devil may care attitude was fun and refreshing, but the gaggles of tourists cramping the extremely narrow cobbled streets felt claustrophobic so we spent the majority of our time in the outer rings of the canals where our Airbnb was located, simply enjoying the culture of the residents of the quaint neighborhood of the Jordaan.

Spoils from the Farmer's market

Before we left for Belgium I had agreed to meet a client of George Gruhn's who understandably wasn't comfortable shipping his priceless Lloyd Loar L-5 across the Atlantic Ocean for George to consign. Knowing how much I hate to ship instruments, I was happy to help them both out and bring the instrument home with me to ease their minds. Joram invited Nick and me to lunch at his beautiful apartment near central station. He and his husband Tony provided a significant spread of traditional Dutch dishes (more old cheese, mustard, and even pickled herring....) to send us off. Seeing the famous historical paintings and fixtures of Amsterdam was amazing, but as is always my favorite part of travel, and guitar building generally, is the people I am fortunate enough to meet along the way. I loved learning about Joram and Tony, their backgrounds, how they met, their hobbies and interests, the stories of the instruments they have collected (Joram has been a member of prestigious mandolin symphonies throughout his life) and how they came to land in Amsterdam as they both had high power jobs in New York City when they met twenty years ago. Lunch, where I even ate that pickled herring, was delicious but the stories they shared with me fed my soul as much as the old cheese and fresh bread fueled my body.

Growing up I would always look forward to the trinket my dad would bring home for me from one of his trips. He always sent a postcard to my Granny and would bring her a commemorative thimble representing the place he had traveled. She saved the postcards, they are still sitting in a over stuffed rotating photo holder sitting in the living room that crinkles as you rotate the postcards resting in their cracked plastic sleeves. Before she died she displayed every one of the thimbles on the wall. Now only a few remain, but the rest sit safely in a storage bin under the guest room bed. Some may think these practices are a hoarder's dream, but to me these little trinkets represent love in a tangible form. As I said, we are a family of traditions. Nick has little patience for souvenirs, and I typically blanch at a legitimate tourist trap, but everywhere I go I always take a few minutes to stop in the tackiest store I can find and pick up a post card and see if they have any thimbles.

boat ride!

Apparently Napoleon taxed houses by width, so this one is only 1 meter wide...

The Grand Place in Brussels

Mannequin Pis

Moonshiners

I don't care much for Father's Day because in the past it has served as a harsh reminder of the little time I am able to spend with just my dad. Growing up, I shared that weekend with thousands of people heading to Grayson Highland State Park for the annual Wayne Henderson Music Festival, and many of those linger at his shop before and after that Saturday. Every Father's day I can remember, my dad's attention was always averted, always leaving me to wait for my time until he wasn't busy with guests. Which was never. Since having the extreme privilege of working with him, the chances I will spend a few minutes to get to know him have grown significantly.

A couple of days ago my dad and I drove the mile and a half down winding Rugby Road to my Granny's house to prepare it for a few visitors coming in for the festival weekend. To be honest, I mainly went to pick the wild spearmint that grows in random patches behind the house, but figured if my dad wanted to leave the shop long enough to accompany me that would be nice. The foliage surrounding the house has become thick and green, all of those smells that cause my dopamine receptors to burst to life is in full swing now that it is almost full on summer. I always miss my Granny when I visit her house, but this time that pull to see her there was stronger, more tangible. She felt so close, like she was just around the corner, just out of reach. Any minute though she would be there to offer me a salted cucumber spear straight from her garden.

While Daddy and I waited for the water heater to fill, we walked out to the porch and sat down on the rickety furniture I have known my entire life. Rocking on the porch swing, my dad asked me, "It sure is quiet here, isn't it?" We reveled in the peace, just listening to the birds and crickets chirp happily, accompanied by a polite babble of the branch that tumbles down the hill alongside the house. I wondered what my Granny would think about the trees so heavy with fat green leaves that they blocked her view of the road, so she couldn't see who was coming by . My dad told me that my Grandpa Walt would clear the trees on the bank every year, so usually you could see out past the road.

"It was so clear over there that I found a shot up silver dollar on that hill once that blew over from Lauren and Leah's property." My dad said. "..What?" I asked. To clarify, my dad explained that Jess Hall (who had the property before Lauren's parents) and the local moonshiner and fellow neighbor Hunter Henderson would get drunk and shoot at coins from the top of the neighboring hill, he said. I asked why on earth they would shoot their money if there was little to go around and he explained that when those guys got drunk they were sure they were millionaires. Hunter, oftentimes found sitting tipsy outside the corner store, claimed to be worth half a million dollars. My dad absolutely didn't believe it, but after hearing more about him, there's a good chance he was telling the truth.

Hunter Henderson (distant relation but a local hero to my dad) was the a moonshiner who had property up the holler directly across from my Great Granny Ollie's house. It turns out he had the biggest still in operation in Virginia when it was discovered and busted in 1955. He and his partner Farmer Spencer figured out a way to take electricity from an abandoned house in that holler and used it to power their operation. Given the amount of electricity necessary to power a still, they likely bribed a meter reader. Most folks building stills would power them with coke, a type of coal that has been heated without the presence of oxygen. Unfortunately though, coke would produce smoke making those stills easier to spot by authorities.

Farmer also had several coke operated stills on his land. He didn't want anyone to get too close to them so he developed some interesting methods to keep folks out. In order to discourage hunters from hunting near his still, he built a machine resembling a windmill that would produce a low groan every time the wind blew. He began a rumor that he had seen and heard an odd sounding animal up in the woods. Any hunters that stumbled upon the sound as a gust of wind kicked up, they took off running, and spread the word to their friends. Farmer also built other parts of the still, using ingenuity to develop the highest quality equipment for brewing their shine. His craftiness helped to build Hunter's still to a significant operation. He and Hunter must have been an original version of Walter and Jesse.

After supplying everyone nearby who wanted to partake in the white lightning, the operation expanded to neighboring counties, then nearby states. Hunter had a truck fitted with a false bottom onto which which he loaded six cows. Those same six cows, standing over gallons of moonshine, made the trip to his brother's place in Maryland and back each week. From there who knows how far the moonshine reached. Another method of concealing the alcohol was a logging truck stacked to the brim with a hollowed out pile of logs. A local police officer who pulled up next to the truck at a stoplight noticed that the springs of the truck bore little weight. That operation was finished.

One day a mixup with the bribed meter reader caused the electric company to send a substitute to check the old house up the holler using more power than every other house in the county combined. He tipped off the police to the goings on, and just like that men from the FBI, and every officer working in Grayson County and several in North Carolina were hidden in laurel thickets surrounding the massive still. While they watched, thee officers counted ten gallons of moonshine per minute was being produced. When the officers raided the still, all the men, maybe 10 or 12, scattered into the woods. One old man, caught by the straps of his overalls, dragged an officer through a briar patch before he succumbed to arrest, each coming out on the other side a bit worse for the wear. When everyone was rounded up and hauled off, the still was destroyed with dynamite, and the rest hacked with axes. The pieces were left on the property and are likely still there. My dad remembers the windows of his house shaking from the blasts.

The cool summer breeze brushed my skin as I sat back on the bench on Granny's porch listening to my dad talk about Hunter Henderson. His memory is astounding and so were the characters of his childhood. I am extremely thankful that I have this time with him to learn about my roots and spend a few of my precious minutes just drinking it in. It doesn't burn like moonshine would, but still it leaves me with that warm, calm feeling *I'm told* accompanies a sip of shine. This is my Father's Day.

I want to take a little bit of space down here, if you're still reading, to thank you for doing so, and to invite and encourage you to come hang out with me at Grayson Highlands next Saturday (always the third Saturday in June, rain or shine) to hear some amazing music. There will be the annual guitar competition where one extremely talented musician wins a brand new Henderson guitar, my amazing friend Jane Kramer will be performing, as will Ricky Skaggs, the Gibson Brothers and quite a few more. I also want to quickly thank Feedspot for featuring this blog in their list of Top 20 Apprentice Blogs to Follow. It is an incredible honor to be recognized and I appreciate everyone reading so much!

The most magical place.

Kanikapila

This winter has really been unpleasant here in North Carolina. Not that much snow, which I feel makes it pretty and sparkly at least, but dreary, wet, and cold. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and stays there unless you do something drastic like heartily scrub the bathtub or stand at your workbench sanding two or three guitars while practicing a tap dance. The chance to fly away to Hawaii in February to teach an inlay class truly couldn't have come soon enough. I was a bit anxious as I had only interacted with Paul's friend Edmond via email, but since getting to know my friend Paul and teaching at his house last year went so well, I figured it was probably ok. I mean, how many serial killers are into an obscure hobby along the lines of ukulele building and offer to pick you up at the airport and let you stay in their guest cottage halfway up the side of a volcano in Hawaii...right?

As we stood with other weary passengers, watching bulky luggage trundle its way around the baggage claim carousel, a tall man in a flannel shirt and jeans walks up to me. "Jayne?" he exclaims. Surprised I look up, thinking, who on earth would recognize me in this airport so far from anyone I know? Though, when leading paddling trips in Alaska, once I boarded the participant's bus to pass out safety waivers and a couple I had worked at a summer camp with in Asheville were seated in the back row so I guess it is possible someone would know me in Hawaii, too. "I'm Edmond," the man tells me, shaking my hand. How he chose me and Nick from a throng of tired, disheveled travelers I have no idea. It's not like I was the only one sitting there with a ukulele. While he explained that he had seen a picture of me from when I taught Paul's class, I just thought, wow he has a really thick accent, I wonder where he's from. Later, when I asked, he answered that he was born on Maui. Confused but equally exhausted from the long day of travel, I just nodded and followed him to the parking lot.

Due to weather in Atlanta we weren't able to fly out on Wednesday as we had planned, so we missed our exploring/settle in day that I had worked in to account for jetlag and settling in. No matter, after arriving Thursday, we ended up finding time to do some sight seeing around the class time anyway.

On one of the days I was teaching my class, Nick had planned to bike to the top of the volcano that shaped Maui, a 10,000+ foot mountain of steep incline named Haleakala, if the weather cooperated with such an endeavor. He stuffed his own bike parts and helmet into his carry on bag and reserved a bike at a shop at the base of the mountain. When we awoke Friday morning, light clouds dotted the bright blue sky, so while we didn't get our day to rest from travel, we still got up early and set about our respective adventures. As I set about preparing for a couple days of inlay class, off he hurried to the cycle shop in town to procure his bicycle.

Back in Edmond's cozy, cluttered shop, I sat organizing my materials and counting out my saw blades, I watched each of the participants shuffle in and choose a workspace. Something I love about humanity is that everyone has a story to share. I find it important to consider that each person I encounter has a history; I love wondering where they've been, what they like to do, where they were born, who their family is. Having two days to hang out with eight students,  I looked forward to getting to know them. I suppose that is a main reason why I am so reluctant to allow a third party to sell my instruments for me. Even though there's that rare time I don't enjoy dealing with a difficult client, usually getting to know the people who ask me to make something for them is the best part of my job.

The first guy to arrive and plunk his stuff down on the wooden workbench was Keith. He looked like the quintessential stickler grandfather; blue tracksuit swishing as he set up his station, tight haircut, prepared to jump in and help if necessary. The type of guy who acts like he runs a tight ship, but really, I bet those grandkids could get away with anything if they tried it. He immediately offered to help me prep for the class, cutting out inlay patterns and organizing the squares of paper in neat rows. David, Edmond's neighbor and close friend who took my class the previous year and was a significant catalyst for getting this class going, perched on a stool by a workbench at the back of the room. Another fellow slowly walks in and sits at a third table set up in the room. Judging by this neon colored t-shirt and his laid back movements, he looks as though not much phases him or causes significant concern. He told me his name was Randy. At that same table, a little guy who introduced himself as Ed, sits next to his friend Russell. Ed is obviously somewhat older than Russell, and judging by Russell's Patagonia fleece and tailored outfit and Ed's more relaxed button down and jeans, I wondered how they became friends as they didn't look to have had similar professions, but they bantered as though they knew each other very well. At my table, Rico was the only Hawaiian sitting among myself, Eli, and Carson. He mentioned the current wave conditions and how great the surfing has been lately. He didn't resemble the typical surfer dude I am familiar with but that lead me to believe that the salt water must soak into your blood if you are born here and most everyone must find a love in spending time with the ocean. With everyone seated and ready, we began the class.

Randy had to take one for the team on this one. He looked like that (or worse) in every. single. picture.

As the first day wound down, exactly at 3:00pm, Edmond puts down his jeweler's saw, mid pull, and walks over to the refrigerator. "Cocktail time!" he declares, and proceeds to mix a deep purple shaded Andre (sparkling wine popular with poor college students) with some red grape wine, who's label says exactly and only that, into an antique juice glass. While the rest of us finished up our projects, Ed snuck out of the room and returned a while later with a tray of beef teriyaki that he had just prepared on a brick grill in the yard. He told me that the teriyaki sauce was his wife's family recipe, and most everyone keeps their own recipe typically handed down for generations. Thoughts of my Granny's potato salad and my Aunt's biscuits jumped to my mind.

After everyone had enjoyed their beef satay, Ed shuffled back outside to cook more, each of us eventually trailing out to join him into the yard as we completed our respective projects. I don't think anyone besides Edmond was brave enough to partake in his special cocktail, but the rest of us grabbed a beer from the cooler resting by the smoking grill and took a seat at the picnic tables set up on Edmond's patio. Ed picked up his ukulele and began to play. Eventually his friends joined him in singing a few Hawaiian songs intermingling them with quick jokes and peels of laughter. I was told that impromptu get-togethers such as these are a regular occurrence in Hawaii, the music and feeling of which is often called Kanikapila.

After climbing 10,023 feet.

If you're wondering, as the afternoon turned to dinnertime, Nick accomplished his goal to ride to the top of Haleakala. When I first mentioned to Edmond that Nick wanted to go to the top, he suggested a shuttle that drove to the top and allowed participants coast back down. It took several efforts to get the correct intent across. "I get tired just thinking about driving up there in a car!" Keith proclaimed. While we were waiting to hear from Nick, Ed asked, "Have you heard the legend of Maui?" While there are many legends regarding a young boy named Maui and his exploits, Ed told me this one: Maui was the youngest of five children who lived on the island many many years ago. At that time, the people of Maui had trouble growing crops because the sun didn't stay long enough in the sky, causing the plants to wither and die, providing little food. Maui walked to the top of Haleakala and lassoed the sun. He pulled it closer to the land so the sun shone longer and brighter over the island, reaching all the way to the valley floors. The extra sunlight allowed for all the crops to grow in abundance and the people of Maui prospered.

That evening I asked Edmond about growing up on Maui, just a few miles down the road from where he now lives with this incredibly kind wife, Edwina. He told me how he spent his childhood a few miles down the road in the nearby town of Paia. His family was not wealthy, but, like my own family getting along in Appalachia, he didn't feel the effects as strongly as those in bigger cities. His mother would sew curtains and undershirts from empty rice sacks, the family ate what they grew or traded. The outdoors was Edmond's playground, his video game, his movie, his adventure. He would leave his house early in the morning and spend his day in the woods jumping into the eddies swirling in the mountain fed creeks that tumbled down the volcano's slopes, scavenging papayas, macadamia nuts, and citrus fruits for lunch, drinking water from the tributaries and playing with his friends until sundown. At 14, he got a job working on the nearest pineapple plantation. The work was arduous, requiring long hours of laboring under an unforgiving sun. The pineapple bushes were sharp, so in order to pull pineapples from the protective grasp of their spiny leaves, workers were given heavy denim sleeves to pin to their sweat drenched cotton t-shirts. I fell asleep that night thinking about my own family working in tobacco farms, playing corn cob baseball, wearing shirts made of left over grain sacks. They were worlds apart, but on a basic level, their upbringing was so similar.

The next morning Edmond and David took me and Nick to the local farmer's market. The produce was absolutely incredible-I did not recognize many of the fruits and vegetables being offered by vendors lining the street. At one booth selling breads and pastries, we chose a few turmeric and scallion filled scones for breakfast to accompany freshly squeezed orange juice and  picked up a couple of brightly colored Japanese noodle dishes from an eager Japanese couple. While they had an extremely limited English vocabulary, they were incredibly kind and seemed to be excited to share their traditional meals with us, explaining each of the ingredients in our two choices.

David is holding a lilikoi. It was not my favorite thing I've ever eaten.

The food in Hawaii is such an exciting mix of Asian and Spanish flavors. Later that day, when we broke for lunch, I noticed several of the guys placing various bowls and tupperware on the table. Keith brought his wife's family recipe of Portuguese soup, Rico brought Spam musubi (which, I learned on my last visit, is an amazingly delicious concoction of teriyaki glazed spam sandwiched between a layer of rice tightly wrapped in nori.) Given my typical diet of clean, fresh produce and maybe the occasional cut of local meat, you'd think that something as awful sounding as musubi would be the opposite of what I would willingly consume, but for some reason I cannot get enough of that stuff. I paid for it later though, because due to the sodium content in that Spam my lips were chapped for days.

Musubi. Might be my favorite thing I've ever eaten...

As we again gathered around the picnic tables on the patio having lunch, I asked some of the guys about their experiences growing up here. They each brought me a morsel of information and I ingested it all as eagerly as I did my Japanese noodles. Turns out Edmond's accent, though thicker than those I hear from most of the Hawaiian people I have encountered, is a product of speaking Pidgin. A pidgin is defined as a simplified, stripped down version of a language enabling several groups of people to communicate and create a somewhat common language. Historically, Hawaii was a leading contender for producing pineapples and sugar cane. Given the large number of immigrants arriving to the islands, the plantations set up camps for workers based on race. There were Japanese camps, Portuguese camps, Puerto Rican camps and Filipino. The Philippines and Japan are nearby neighbors (sort of), so having immigrants from those countries made sense but when I asked about people coming from Puerto Rico and Portugal, the answer was that they already had large sugar cane operations in place at the time, so many people were sent to Hawaii since they already knew the trade. Ed and Russell grew up on the same sugar plantation, Russell in the Japanese camp, "Camp 13" and Ed in the Portuguese. Most families kept to their respective camps, speaking their native language among each other and not mingling with other nationalities, but oftentimes food or music would bring them together. Everyone would bring bento boxes for lunch, the bottom filled with rice, and the top filled with the respective food of their ancestors. When the lunch break was announced, workers would sit together, spoon samples of each other's main dishes over their bowl of rice. "The kids didn't care, we all hung out together!" Ed said. That intermingling of children, music, and food is how pidgin English was born.

Learning from these guys was nothing short of extraordinary to me. While I was somewhat right upon first glance, Keith had worked as a high ranking police officer for many years, but also held a position in purchasing at the pineapple plantation for some time. I felt honored learning legends, music, and history from Ed, who served as a music teacher until his retirement, and can play pretty much any song imaginable on the ukulele. He even strummed and belted out Carolina in the Morning for me while Edmond held the afternoon cocktail hour.  Randy, while an electrician by trade, does incredibly intricate pin striping on old restored cars and motorcycles. I could see his artistry in his inlay work, but nothing could prepare me for the incredibly beautiful pen and ink drawings he does. My favorite one depicts women working in the pineapple factory, lined up stuffing pineapples into cans.

Pineapple Packers.

Randy's uncle's truck was the first one on Lanai, the neighboring island where only native Hawaiians live.

As Nick and I headed off to explore the Big Island, I left filled with a deep appreciation for the folks who make these islands so special. I feel a little bit bad for charging them for a class to teach them my skill since, for free, they gave me so much more than I could ever give to them. Learning the stories of these past generations just getting by using the land, doing the best they could with what they had available, sharing their music and food with the next generations. Interesting that standing on the side of a volcano on a tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean suddenly didn't seem so far from home.

Back woods Maui. Many houses don't have electricity here.

Edmond's aunt's house.

Island road. (Oprah's house is nearby. I bet she has electricity.)

Koa babies!!

Waterfall on the road to Hana

African Tulip on the road to Hana

Big Island landscape

Hike to the ocean.

Big Island hike near Pahoa, we saw no people but lots of sea turtles.

Volcanic rock

View from the Kapoho tidepools. Sunrise.

Drive up the west coast of the Big Island

My favorite hike: Pololu valley

Just a bit steep.

Pocket Knife

When I was writing my last blog, I asked my dad what his first important tool was, but I guess I already knew the answer. When he was young he would watch his grandfather using big sharp hand planes and bulky machines when making furniture and coffins but what really appealed to my dad was watching Grandpa Orren whittle the dowels with which the furniture was held together. He would sit on a rickety chair in the corner of his workshop holding a stick of wood between his knees and, just with his pocket knife, deftly shave off slices until it was shaped like a perfect cylinder. The quiet, lengthy process fascinated little Wayne. From then on he couldn't wait until he was old enough to get his hands on his own pocket knife. 

My dad's first pocket knife was one he found in the trash, one Grandpa Orren had discarded after breaking off one of its folding blades and sharpening the others so many times they resembled shiny flat toothpicks. When he pulled the knife from the trash it had one working blade and a hefty maroon handle. The worn Remington logo stamped into the steel of the blade was still slightly visible. The hinge squeaked as he pulled the knife blade in and out of its handle casing but he was thrilled to have his very own knife. 

There is a small building behind my Granny's house. It sits on a slight bank, the open end faces the higher, graveled driveway and the lower closed end faces the branch. Inside the shed, when my Granny still lived there, were blocks of coal stacked into a pile, wood of all shapes and sizes, ones my dad had whittled off when making a guitar, scraps of building materials, and stacks of splintered firewood. To me, that woodshed was stock full of possibilities. I couldn't wait to dig around and find something magical. In Rugby everything is magical if you want it to be, you just have to imagine it. I only had books and two TV channels, around there making your own fun was a necessity. Before me, that woodshed housed my dad's imagination as well. With his new (to him) pocket knife he would choose the perfect stick and whittle for hours on end, eventually perfecting chains from a solid piece of pine, forming a perfect sphere rolling inside a four sided rectangular walnut box. When he was older and his skills as sharp as his blade, he even whittled tiny guitars from leftover scraps from a full size instrument, complete with correctly scalloped X braces and tuners that turned. Apparently doing that is about as difficult as just making a full size one, so that practice was short lived.

Something that is difficult for me to imagine, especially with the current political climate, is that my dad took his knife to school with him. While other kids hid comic books in the crack of their math workbook, my dad whittled under his desk. One thing that made him popular with the other kids in school was that he would help preserve his peer's pencils. Like everything else in Rugby, a store-bought item was to be cherished, reused when possible, and kept safe.  Most families could only afford to buy one pencil at the beginning of the school year and students were expected to keep theirs as long as possible. Sharpening a pencil in the sharpener attached to the wall of the schoolroom ground away so much wood the pencils would be shaved to a nub in no time, not to mention the longer point the sharpener made broke easily requiring further attention by the sharpener. My dad would shave a lower angle into the sides of kid's pencils to preserve them longer and make a better point than the sharpener did. He also helped ward against theft by carving everyone's name into the side of their pencil. 

I'm not sure I can remember a time when there wasn't a little Old Timer or Case knife in my dad's pocket. When I would ask for change for a candy from Osborne's store, or to scratch off a lottery ticket, he would dutifully reach into his pocket and hold its contents for me to choose from. I always had to sift through his shiny, claw-shaped guitar picks and a pocket knife to get to the coins I was after. His pockets are ones that are actually used, holding the contents of his day, whereas mine are typically bare except when they occasionally house a Burt's Bees lip balm that almost always ends up melted in the dryer. 

When we would take walks in the woods behind Granny's house, stepping around cow pies as we wound our way along a cow path, Daddy would find things to show me or make for me. Sometimes he would make me a whistle from a maple sapling. He would choose a branch about the diameter of an index finger, and with his knife, cut it at an angle from the tree, then whittle a small notch into the bark. Just a few inches lower, he would run the knife edge all the way around the stick. If the stick was struck with the butt of the knife all the way around just so, the woody layer of bark would slide off of the stick. Once the top of the  stick was exposed, my dad would carve a deeper notch where his original notch had been, whittle a flat edge from the notch to the angled top of the stick, then replace the ring of bark to cover his alterations. Forcing air through the top of the stick, over the flattened sapwood and out through the notch would create quite the screech which obviously filled five year old me with glee. The whistles he made would sound high or low depending on how big around and long they were. I liked the pencil sized ones as they had a high strong pitch when I blew into the end. Aside from being able to cut errant threads, plastic tag holders and open packages with ease, the best thing about having a dad who always had a knife in his pocket is that there was always a possibility he would make me something magical no matter where we were or what resources were available. Actually, that might just be my dad.

Another thing made with Wayne's pocket knife that fascinated me growing up was the hooey stick. It is a simple toy, using a small straight branch or pencil, with notches whittled out of the sides and a little propeller nailed into the end. Running a pencil or similarly shaped stick across the notches would cause the propeller to spin. That in itself is really cool, but when my dad would say Hooey! magically the propeller would reverse in it's rotation and spin the other way. I would stand mesmerized, especially when the Hooey stick would listen to me and reverse when I called out it's name. The wonder and excitement that others show for the Hooey stick is my dad's favorite part, I am sure. He can't get enough when people stand perplexed when that little propeller listens to them. While I now know there is a bit of a secret to go along with its magic, I will leave that behind the curtain for now and just sit here with those warm memories of watching the Hooey stick go. 

Maybe I am not as skilled with a knife as my dad, but I am learning. I can make an ok Hooey stick, perhaps a bit more obstinate than my dad's and only listening some of the time when I request it to reverse, but maybe like guitar building, it is in my blood, and it just took a little longer for it to come to fruition than it did for my dad. I prefer my little gold plane for shaping a neck where he prefers his knife, but I am coming to appreciate the slow diligence required for wielding the tiny tool, it just comes less naturally to me. The magic I created with those cast aside pieces of wood in Granny's shed were more...let's say imagination based, since nobody ever gave me a knife willingly after an ill fated brownie recovery mission where I stabbed one into my thumb requiring hours and hours of tendon and nerve reconstruction surgery, a multitude of stitches, not to mention the months of rehab and three permanent scars. Even though my dad was able to tangibly create his magic and I simply imagined mine, the cycle is spinning, the magic of Rugby still flowing. My pocket knife has pink polka dots though. 

Tools

One day, a couple of years ago, I was working in my dad's shop and spied something shiny. As with most things that sparkle, it called to me like his dad's newly awarded, "electric sex" leg lamp called to Ralphie. I zeroed in on the polished metal, scrubbed so thoroughly I could see my face in the bronze cap. This small gold violin plane, when tested, fit perfectly in my hand, effortlessly shaved curls from the edges of my guitar rims snugly wedged into their form. When I asked my dad where this glorious tool had come from he said, "Oh my friend Jerry Tinney in California sent it. I don't remember who made it but I think he said it was made in the US. You can ask him if you want, his card is on a set of wood in the pile over there." (....k thanks I'll get right on that. Digging through the exorbitant stack of backs and sides sent by hopeful clients is definitely an excellent use of my time..) My dad seems to have an uncanny sense of where things are in his overly cluttered, hoarder's paradise of a shop. The card was right where he said it would be, taped to a dusty set of wood wedged in with all the others hoping to be sanded and bent into a Henderson guitar. I called Jerry and told him how much I enjoyed using the plane and wanted to know where I could get one for myself. He told me it was made by a company called Lie-Nielsen, and they make all of their tools in Maine. A few days later, before I was able to order one for myself, a box arrived from Jerry. Inside, enveloped in a roll of packing paper was my very own, even shinier, violin plane.

Since that first rake across those guitar rims, I have found reason to purchase several more tools from Lie-Nielsen, enjoying each as much as that first little plane. The care that is obviously put into each tool they have sent me is obviously not a fluke, so I felt connected to this company, feeling like the people who make these tools understand that when you put your soul into something you make, great joy comes to the people who use it.

If you have read this blog in its entirety you should remember reading about my cousin, Lauren. She and her sister Leah are two of my closest, most important family members, as I think more of them as siblings than whatever amount of removed cousin we actually are. Our summers spent together in Rugby are absolutely among my most cherished memories. So, when Lauren asked me if I wanted to visit her while she was working through a pharmacy school rotation in Portland, Maine this past January, I wasn't so much concerned with blizzards, or freezing temperatures, or winter flight delays. My only question was, "If I come up there, would you be willing to drive me 45 minutes north to a little down named Warren so I can visit this tool company that makes my favorite things for my job?." She agreed, so I booked my flight.

As I knew, heading to Maine in January is a bit of gamble. What if, like when I lived in Vermont, the air freezes my nose hairs upon inhalation? What if it was so dry inside that the skin of my hands would crack, then burn when I applied lotion? Given that the temperatures in North Carolina weren't too far off, and those things were already happing here, and Delta traded me a first class ticket in exchange for some credit card points, I figured I couldn't really lose. I packed my Sorel boots, my fattest down jacket, and a fuzzy hat and off I went to the land of the great white north. Turned out while I was there the weather was kind, only hurting a little bit when the wind whipped against my skin. Surprisingly similar, if not warmer, than Asheville's January.

Old streets. Portland, ME

Lauren and her fiancé Drew went to great effort to share with me the ultimate Maine experience. We went to their favorite fish market, picking oysters from several nearby bays and rivers, we (Drew) boiled lobsters and steamed fresh mussels. We walked the worn cobblestoned streets of Portland, we hiked the snowy trails winding among city neighborhoods, and slid along frozen sidewalks to pick up snacks and rent movies from a nearby, real life DVD rental place. It doubles, or triples if you will, as an ice cream parlor and the local post office.

The air was full of flurries the last full day I was in town. Lauren and I set off to find Warren, and Lie-Nielsen Toolworks. Google suggested we take the freeway at least half of the way there, but we decided to drive up Interstate 1 for the majority of the ride, figuring we were in no rush, and we could see more of Maine's small towns. We drove over lattice girder-braced, one lane bridges, likely built by a handful of locals a few generations past, past Cape Cod type houses painted bright, happy colors, and through town centers offering small quaint shops. One of my all time favorite things to do when I am visiting new places is sit on the rim, quiet and invisible while I watch people simply go about their business. Not the fake, touristy type of a show that you're supposed to see when you visit somewhere, but peek behind the storefront facade and see what is really back there, no matter how simple or 'ugly' it may seem. As we wound our way north, each coastal town we passed was brimming with people just getting by, stopping at their little cheap diner before work to gossip with friends, buying groceries at the one store that offers fresh produce, rushing to make it to work on time or drop off their kids at school. Perhaps it is odd, but show me how people really live in a real town, as mundane as it may seem, I think it is where the beauty in humanity truly lies.

We took a walk outside and found a frozen ocean. We weren't cold at all.

Here's the frozen ocean.

Fish market!!

I got to be in charge of mussels night. I made two sauces.

When we pulled up to the red roofed building housing Lie-Nielsen Toolworks, a light snow was falling, but the salted roads were still clear so we decided to go in and ask if we could get a tour. We walked into the wood paneled show room lined with glittering planes, saws and chisels. Jared, a tall, red haired guy in plaid greeted us from behind his desk. He said he would be glad to give is a tour of the company, so off we went through the factory door.

I learned that Tom Lie-Nielsen started this company because he wanted to ensure that woodworkers were provided with the option of high end, US made tools back when there were few options available for such things. He worked for the tool company Garret Wade in the early 80s, but when they stopped making their #95 bronze edge block plane, Tom took it upon himself to try to make one of his own, similar in design to the original Stanley planes which he felt needed little adjustment to the classic, ergonomic design, but with the highest attention to quality and aesthetic. The company began as a one room operation so to speak, just making the one type of plane, but eventually expanded to hone and design many types of 'old school' planes, chisels, hand saws, and other hand tools.

Jared handed us a couple of hardhats and some protective eye ware. While Lauren's looked similar to those aerodynamic cyclist sunglasses making her look like she might set a speed record for a factory tour, in my case it meant a swath of oversized plexiglass clamped to my face to accommodate my glasses, which are necessary were I in the mood to see things. I distinctly remember my grandfather sporting the yellow-tinted version for when he drove his Lincoln Towncar twice a week to the country club. Once properly attired, we ventured with Jared into the bustling factory.

The first room we were led into was the saw making room. There was only one man in there, and he stood at his workbench painstakingly inspecting the saw blades before attaching their curly maple handles.The saw blades were being run through a clunky looking but surprisingly smooth working machines using simple belt technology to cut perfect notches into the saw blades. Jared proudly explained to us that those machines were manufactured in the 1940s and, since irreplaceable, were handled with such care they rarely needed servicing except for regular checkups. They reminded me of my dad's old heavy Black and Decker router, the first tool he bought with the $500 he was paid by the moonshiner for his #7 D45. That thing has had bits, switches and bearings replaced, but is still one of the most cherished tools in my dad's shop.

It was amazing to see the attention to detail as we wound our way through the rooms of folks working on various steps of the tool's progress. We were shuffled through the plane assembly and inspection room where we were told each plane comes with a blade hand sharpened by an employee before it is shipped out so as to ensure that each blade is able to hold an edge and demonstrate that each tool has been inspected to the fullest. As we stood watching guys run hunks of raw metal through various machines, Jared explained that while the CNC machines positioned in the center of the room shaped things perfectly, if someone were to mess up the programming, multiple products would be ruined, whereas these human led machines produce fewer mistakes since a person is at the helm of the ship allowing for adjustments if necessary after just one tool. As we were watching the progress, an apron clad man with a white beard approached us and handed Jared the base of a block plane, pointing to a tiny blemish in the metal barely the size of a pinhead. I had to squint through my plexiglass to see it. "Yep, that'll go back to be melted down and recast," Jared told us. "We would rather take the time and effort to redo something like that, even though it has nothing to do with the function of the tool rather than sell it as a second because we don't want anything less than perfect on the market, even if it is a secondary market. It came from here so we want nothing less than the most perfect tools out there with our name on them"

Sharpening.

One of my favorite things that I observed during the tour was the care that each person took on their specific job. It reminded me so much of Cane Creek Cycling Components, the company where Nick works as a purchasing manager. Lie-Nielsen, like Cane Creek, employs local folks who show up and work to do a good job, not only young. transplanted whippersnappers who want to make bike parts in Asheville or the quintessential old man woodworkers (no offense) who want a good discount. It heartens me that everyone who works here might not be the utmost expert on tool handling and woodworking. No matter their background, these folks obviously take great pride in their respective positions within the company, and choose to work there not just for the woodworking perks but because it is a great company in general.

I am extremely thankful to for having had the opportunity to visit this great company and see how the tools I find so beautiful are in fact, beautifully and thoughtfully made as well. While observing their process, I couldn't help but feel a bit of a kindred spirit. Knowing that they put as much time and effort into making something that allows me to do the same with my work is the best reason I can think of to support this awesome company. I think of my dad's friend Jerry each time I use one of my tools from Lie-Nielsen and am extremely thankful for each one I have. My job is never just about making a guitar, and Tom Lie-Nielsen's isn't just about making a block plane.

Polished and awaiting a blade before shipping.

Shaved bronze to be remelted to make more things!

All the beautiful chisels.

New Year

First, let me tell you that I am super excited to be back from a self inflicted hiatus. Sharing with you is extremely important to me but I began to feel a bit uncomfortable knowing I had inadvertently provided countless quotes that can be used out of context for interviews and for other's projects without my knowledge of what is being used and how. In an attempt to regain a bit of control I stopped providing them. It doesn't bother me that the stories I share here are being used, but not knowing what sentence will be taken, for what purpose, and in what context has left me feeling a bit off kilter. Now that I have taken a step back, regrouped, and added a little caveat to the top of my blog I feel much better. So let's begin...again.

With a snow storm looming this evening and a high of 24 degrees forecast for tomorrow, I haven't been able to think of much more than how uncomfortably cold I am. This winter has been rough down here in the southeast, but before I get too frustrated with my situation; well insulated house, money to afford heat, down jackets, heavy Sorel boots and thick gloves, I want to remind my self of stories told by dad and Granny of Rugby winters past when temperatures were colder, for longer periods of time, and when the snow piled much higher over these quiet mountains.

When my grandfather, Walter, married my Granny around 1929, during the height of the depression, they lived on a small farm on Quillen Ridge, about a mile and a half from where I currently sit on my dad's couch. Around here the depression had less impact as nobody really had anything to begin with so the crash of the stock market didn't make a huge dent in the local poverty levels. Gardens and farms supplied food, clothes were made from feed sacks, goods and labor were often traded but there were still some costs to keeping a farm running that required money.  Because work on their little farm didn't last through the winter, Walter sought other means to supplement the family income. Since he didn't own a car, each day Walter set out walking to downtown Rugby, often wading through snow that reached his belt buckle. One of my favorite running routes around here is up Quillen Ridge road but it isn't easy. The steep gravel road twists through fenced fields holding grazing cattle, nestled among thick stands of trees before leveling off a bit to reveal a view of the rolling blue hills of North Carolina. It is beautiful but definitely a challenge walking up or down the hill.

Harper on Quilled Ridge road in the snow.

Once arriving at the general store marking the heart of downtown Rugby, Walter hitched a ride on the back of a state owned dump truck with a few other local men. They shivered in the wind until the truck came to a halt at the end of the road. Wielding long heavy picks a la Oh Brother Where Art Thou, minus the striped outfits, the men lined up and picked out and flattened the earth, making way for more road. The men were paid ten cents per hour for their efforts and worked until their the fingers of their thin gloves were worn through. After about twelve hours working in the cold, Walter walked back up Quillen Ridge road toward home.

View from Quillen Ridge

My dad told me that eventually Granny and Walter bought the house and 100+ acres I know as Granny's house from her grandmother Lissy for $5000. He said that was so much money to them they never thought they'd be able to pay it off. Many years later Walter saved enough to buy a brand new forest green 1956 Chevrolet pick up truck and used it for another method to earn extra money for their mortgage.

The roads were still pretty rough in the 50s so the local school sought someone to pick up the kids who lived so far back in the woods the school bus couldn't drive on the steep, uneven, and narrow dirt roads. Walter made a cover for the bed of his truck and slid two sets of long seats into the back for kids to sit. Every day during the school year he drove his route, picking up kids, taking them to school, then dropping them back off home at the end of the school day. My dad said he did this every day for all the years he was in school and even after that.

One winter morning, after about a foot of snow had fallen, Walter asked my dad if he wanted to accompany him on his route. My dad had only gone with him a few times, as he lived close enough to school that he could walk but agreed that morning. Leaving the house with only low slippers and a light coat my dad joined Walter in the cab of the truck. The bed of the truck where the seats were installed wasn't heated so in the winter Walter allowed the smallest children to sit in the heated cab and the older kids sat bundled in the back. Often there would be five or six children packed in the seat next to him bouncing over the green vinyl seats as they made their way toward school. As they ascended York Ridge, where the road is particularly windy and steep, the truck wheels spun in the slick deep snow instead of propelling the truck full of children closer to school. Walter wouldn't leave the kids unattended so he sent my dad in his little slippers to the nearest neighbor he knew who had a tractor. My dad slipped and trudged about a mile up the ridge to fetch Gail Cox and his two cylinder John Deere tractor that made a funny noise. Despite the cold, my dad was thrilled to hitch a ride on the three point hitch on the back of the tractor, the wind ripping through his thin jacket and burning his red cheeks. Once pulled free of the troublesome spot in the road Walter drove the remainder of his route to the school.

So while I work to keep my instruments hydrated and my hands warm, I find it important to take a few minutes to think of and be thankful for the sacrifices my grandfather made for his family every day. His ingenuity in building the first camper my dad had ever heard tell of, his commitment to providing for his family and community no matter the weather is inspiring. I hope you're staying warm too, but just in case, here are a few pictures of my current builds to distract you from the freezing temperatures outside.

Walnut 000 rims

Pieces

Fingerboard before the pearl

42 and 45 style tenor ukes in progress

Perhaps my favorite set of koa ever. Thanks to my friend Paul from Kauai!

Two tenor ukuleles waiting to dry enough to be buffed out and strung up!

Egg Hunt

Easter is one of my favorite holidays. I am not entirely sure why, perhaps because the weather is promoting hope that it is going to be, and stay, warm soon. Maybe just because I don't have to share my birthday with the holiday like I do Christmas. But I just love it.

I have so many memories of my Granny rolling around in my head but some of the most distinct ones are during Easter festivities. I remember a shiny glazed ham, biscuits, gravy, birds nests constructed of green jello topped with whipped cream, shaved coconut, and three jelly beans. (If you thought there was something a little off about my dad before, here's a clincher: he always got three black jelly beans in his nest. He wanted them...) Of course my (and my dad's) absolute favorite food, my Granny's potato salad, would be sitting quietly in a nondescript white plastic bowl within arms reach of my plate. For this holiday it was always a bit dressed up, topped with slices of a sacrificed Easter egg and green onion. Most of all, I remember the egg hunt that was orchestrated after dinner.

The reason the egg hunt was so memorable to me is because all of the adults were looking forward to it as well. If you know my dad at all, you know his favorite things are Martin guitars, old guitars, guns, and guitars. In that order. So when I was young it was so exciting to see him truly happy to participate in something that didn't require six strings or the use of a pocket knife. My relatives would all excitedly join the hunt, even my Aunt Shirleen who I always recall being quiet and reserved during family dinners.

We would divide ourselves into teams and fill baskets with our colored eggs. Granny always had an egg dyeing kit that she saved until I arrived for the weekend. She would grandly present the brightly colored cardboard box of dye to me like it was a rare treasure. She always had a great ability to make mundane things seem special. After the ceremony, we would go about setting up all the accouterment that dwelled inside the little box, placing everything on top of newspaper lining her large round oak table, the color of which always reminded me of thick blackstrap molasses. One by one we would drop our eggs in the vinegar and food coloring solution, carefully selecting the perfect number of dips to make the brightest and most beautiful eggs. 'See if you can get them to stand up straight on these little stands without touching the eggs or dropping them on the table,' she challenged. Careful not to smudge the dye, I would lift the eggs from their colored bath with a spoon and slowly transfer the colored eggs to their drying racks. She always made a show of being impressed with my performance. Perhaps she's the reason I have such steady hands today. (Truly, I have never understood why that game Operation is billed as a challenge.)

The team assigned to hide eggs first would skip out the front door. I was instructed to stay away from the windows. I would wait with members of my team, anxiously tracing the blue flowers woven into the couch with my fingers. Finally we were allowed to venture into the yard to find the hidden eggs. We would find them tucked behind fence posts, shoved up drain pipes, perched precariously in the lattice fencing that ran beneath the porch, in trees. I remember once finding a bright blue egg nestled in a stack of twigs and grass and wondered if that was ours or if I was stealing someone's baby. (My dad was so proud of himself for hiding that egg in there.) The excitement was equal watching people find the eggs I had hidden for them.

When I asked my dad and Shirleen if they remembered anything from their Easters growing up, their responses were overwhelmingly familiar. Shirleen told me that she always looked forward to getting a new Easter dress that Granny would make for her. On Easter she would don her new dress and she would walk up the road to her Granny Ollie's house, where her dyed Easter eggs would be waiting for her. Granny Ollie didn't have a PAAS coloring kit, but she would gather eggs from the hen house and separate the white ones out and dye them with golden strips of onion peel she had saved. I asked, "didn't that just made them the same color as the brown eggs she didn't want to use?" Shirleen replied, "Sort of, but they were brighter, like the color of copper. They were special. I couldn't wait to get my eggs from my Granny." They would then have family dinner and gather all of their cousins at Granny's house for the big egg hunt. "That was sort of a big deal because we got to visit with all of our cousins. Other holidays was usually just us, but Easter Aunt Wanda, my cousin Imogene and all our other cousins would come over and hunt eggs with us."

My dad told me that he and Granny would color their eggs with a store bought kit that she would always make a show of bringing out and setting up. They would color their eggs, and mark them with crayon or wax before they dyed them so some of the dye wouldn't stick.  The marked one was the lucky egg. He told me if you found the marked egg you won a dime. There were prizes for the most eggs found as well. After talking with him about his egg hunts growing up and remembering ours together the said, "We are all old enough now we could probably just hide our own eggs."

I didn't realize until I spoke with my dad and Shirleen that my endearment for Easter is deeper seated than I had originally thought. It goes beyond the egg hunt and the potato salad. It matters to me that I was given the same simple but special traditions they experienced growing up; same house, many of the same characters, just time moved a little bit. This year I am hosting Easter festivities at my new house in Asheville. I know it won't be the same, I might not have my Granny to dye eggs with me, but I sure have my memories, my love for her and my family, and a great hope to pass on our traditions to future generations. And I have Granny's potato salad recipe.

I wish all of you the happiest of Easters, I hope your day is filled with hope, love, kindness, family, and good eating. To help you out with the last thing, here is the recipe for Sylvia's German Potato Salad.

6 medium Idaho baking potatoes
2 Tbs butter
Splash of milk
1/2 Cup sugar (Shirleen uses 1/3 Cup)
1/3 Cup apple cider vinegar
2 Tbs mustard
1/2 Cup finely diced white onion
Sliced easter egg and chives/green onion for garnish

Peel and cube the potatoes, bringing them to a boil in a pot of well salted water. When the potatoes are fork tender-maybe 20 minutes, pour off the majority of the water, saving maybe 1/4 cup or so. Mash* the potatoes, add butter, milk, and salt "until potatoes are good" ("What?" I asked Shirleen, who was reading the recipe to me. "That's what she wrote. Until they taste good." She replied. Hm, ok. That's the kind of thing I would write in a recipe...)
Add the sugar, vinegar, and mustard and mix until well
blended. Fold in the onion. Top with hard boiled Easter egg and chives/green onion if desired.

*Note: We like the potatoes totally mashed and smooth but you're welcome to try it however you prefer your mashed potatoes.

Hawaii

A while ago I got an email from a fellow named Paul. The title of the email was 'Aloha'. In the note he told me he was a surgeon-turned-ukulele-builder in Hawaii and had recently heard a story in NPR about me and my dad. He said the reason the story struck his attention is because he has distant relatives from the Rugby area and thought it interesting a guitar builder lives there in that tiny place. He decided to email after checking out my ukuleles and enjoying the inlay work I do. The thing I remember most about that first email is that he told me that he had recently retired from being the sole surgeon in his hospital so he took up ukulele building now that it is economically acceptable to lose a finger.

After chatting for many months, trading sets of koa for Red spruce, and learning about each others build process, he asked if I would be interested in coming to Hawaii to teach him and several other small builders my inlay techniques. At first I was thinking that has to be some sort of trick question, right? I get to go to Hawaii. To show people how to do my favorite thing. In February, arguably the worst month of the year. (Sorry Valentine's day and Nick's birthday, you don't redeem that dreary cold month in my book.) After it was confirmed he was not joking, we set up the dates and I booked a flight for myself and for Nick. (Because of the birthday.)

I love airports. To me they signify a gateway to possibility, adventure, and unknown. Everyone is going somewhere, has a purpose, and a reason for being there. I have spent countless hours in these expansive bustling buildings, usually alone, but never feeling lonely. My favorite pastime is observing the folks whizzing around me, wondering where they live, where they are going and who they are going to meet at the opposite gate. I will often make up backstories based on clues gleaned from their luggage, attire, and demeanor. Once I saw a woman carrying a shiny gold trophy through the terminal. It stood several feet high when she sat it on the floor. She didn't look particularly athletic, wearing dress pants with footwear inappropriate for comfortable travel and that was the only thing she had with her-no other luggage or sports bags so I didn't suspect she won an athletic event. I like to imagine it was awarded for an adult spelling bee and she won for an awesome word, perhaps something along the likes of 'callipygian'. (Feel free to look that one up.)

The flights, Asheville to Lihue, Kauai, via Atlanta and Los Angeles, weren't bad. Not too long, no excessive turbulence, and only one obnoxious seat mate who was overly excited about the cruise he was going on to Mexico with his Corvette club. Nick took the brunt of that one as I busied myself with being super interested in watching Jack Black drive his Waggoneer away from monsters of his own creating in Goosebumps. It was amazing. (It had to be.)

Orange juice from the yard!!

Paul greeted us at the airport with leis and a hugs. He and his wife Syd were two of the most thoughtful hosts I have ever encountered. They planned meals for each day of our visit, along with fresh squeezed orange juice from trees in their yard, provided ideas for things to do during the days I wasn't teaching, and sent us off each morning in their silver Tacoma with a hand drawn map to points of interest and a huge bag of snacks. My main takeaway from that is that I know they are excellent parents and that they miss their daughter who now lives in Wisconsin. (I know, what!?) The first day we went on a hike, Paul insisted on providing our lunch and stopped into a market at the foot of the hill from his house. "What is that?" I asked, as he handed us little bundles wrapped in saranwrap, noting it was a mound of rice wrapped in nori with a meat-ish looking slab in the middle. I love sushi rolls, but I had never seen any as big as a sandwich. He told me it was called musubi and he would tell me what it was after I had eaten it. Hm. Something tells me he and my dad would be best friends...

View at Paul's house

Orange tree!!

Breakfast-pineapple, Portuguese sausage, french toast, and tiny but super sweet bananas

Sunset dinner on the beach.

After a sunny hike along sea cliffs ending at Shipwreck beach, that musubi tasted amazing. Kind of like a salty pork sandwich sushi roll. When we got back to his house that night I told Paul I really liked the musubi and asked what it was. "It's Spam!!" Then he cackled, like literally cackled, for a full minute. Nick got musubi every day after that stating it is perfect hiking food.

Tuesday morning I attended a rehearsal for Paul's ukulele club. It was pretty much like the ones I have attended in North Carolina, except they all strummed traditional Hawaiian tunes instead of The Beatles and Over the Rainbow. Trying to follow along was difficult because to me all the Hawaiian words sounded the same, just slightly different variations of a vowel. The woman sitting next to me sang the songs as we all strummed our ukuleles. Perhaps in her sixties, she looked wise and thoughtful and kind. She wore a smart boater hat with a black ribbon perched on her head. Paul told me she is never without a hat. Her voice was rich and low and commanded attention. Those vowels sounded so beautiful coming from her. During several songs, Rose, one of the club members, did a hula dance. That was mesmerizing as well. Her relaxed flowing movements matched the music so well that they and the notes didn't seem like two separate things but a perfectly wrapped package presented with a long satin ribbon tied to it, each element just a bit lacking without the other.

Paul didn't seem phased that I had never taught an inlay class before. But standing before nine adults, all older than me and all having experience in woodworking and instrument building, I wondered if I could actually teach them anything. I thought back to my dad's advice, "Just go tell them what you do and how you do it. That's all you can do. You don't have to tell them about anything you don't know." He said that to me on the phone as I was hyperventilating outside the hotel before my talk at the Fretboard Summit in San Diego. Like now, I was going to go speak to a group of people who all had more experience than I did and were all older than I am. But I did what he said and it went just fine. (More on that trip later) The situation I was facing now seemed somehow different than that experience though. I have such a strong passion for inlay and know that I can do it well that I felt much more comfortable in this little cramped shop on Kauai than I did sitting in that chilly room in San Diego. I know that the inlay I do is sound and that I have gleaned enough experiences along the way to be able to show people my process.

Don't get me wrong, I have taught people things before. I have a minor in Outdoor Leadership from my undergraduate alma mater, which essentially means if you want to go do something outside, I can show you how to not die. Through that program and some amazing teachers I learned outdoor skills, and then learned how to teach other people to set safe anchors for rock climbing, how to belay, how to guide a canoe, how to kayak, how to tie useful knots, how to read tides and how to dress appropriately for an outdoor activity. I remember once when I was the Teacher's Assistant for one of the outdoor PE classes and was questioning my ability, my favorite teacher and mentor Tommy Holden asked me, "Ok, so if I weren't here or something happened to me, could you get everyone back to the van safely? How would you do that?" I thought about it, formed a plan in my mind and knew that I could. It might not be pretty, but I knew it was a possible task for my skill set. I kept that thought with me for all of my TA and trip leading duties, as I guided tourists in kayaks across Fritz Cove in Juneau, AK, and when I taught elementary school kids environmental education in Vermont.

Teaching the inlay class I thought how would Tommy show these people this skill? I thought back to one of the very first lessons he taught my freshman year climbing class. Sitting in a circle on the blue spongy floor of the gymnastics gym (which happened to be in the same room as the climbing wall) he showed us how to tie a bowline knot with a little narrative about a bunny and a tree. The bunny (aka the rope end) comes out of his hole (a loop in the rope), looks all around his tree the rope) and then dives back in his hole. And you have a bowline. To teach my students how to make a turn with the saw blade, I told them the saw had to march in place. I know the task is different, but the goal is the same and visual narratives seem to help drive home concepts. I thought of Tommy's bowline lesson and all the ones following that one, and thought, 'Alright, I can teach this like Tommy does." I knew he would make sure everyone felt like they were successful, praise their effort before offering a helpful critique, and always be clear and positive when presenting information. So I did that. And everyone had fun and everyone cut out an amazing design, all slightly different from the inlay I showed them. They all brought their own ideas and personality to the project which made me feel successful too. I had the best time those two days, and feel as though I made lasting friendships as well as showing people a skill and making them feel as though they can do something they couldn't before. I doubt I made as strong an impression on my students as my teacher Tommy did on my life, but if they get a tenth of the confidence and knowledge he bestowed upon me, I am grateful.

My class!

Two of my awesome students brought me a lei!

What we mad

Paul sent me home with a tan (ok a sunburn), a fascination for feral roosters, a taste for Spam, a 100 year old plank of a kona coffee tree, and most importantly confidence that I am proficient enough at what I do that I can show other people how to do it. Nick asked if he could help make the kona coffee ukulele. I was surprised he wanted to learn, but am so excited that I get to teach him how to make a ukulele. We have been working on it each weekend I am home and he is doing an excellent job. We successfully made it through a week of canoeing in Florida together, which Tommy calls divorce boats, so I bet we can make it through building a ukulele together too.

A shop in Kalaheo that only uses koa...

Shave ice is serious in Hawaii. That wasn't the large.

Hiking to a waterfall!

My rooster friend Monty. On top of an 800ft waterfall. He left once he saw I didn't have food for him.

Setting Up Shop

The past few months for me have consisted of a whirlwind of travel, building a house, making instruments in order to purchase said house, moving, and setting up a shop of my own in the basement. Turns out executing such tasks leaves little time for writing you stories, but I have so many saved up and I can't wait to tell you so get excited. I will begin with building a house and a shop because that has usurped the majority of my time and energy since August. 

Watching the progress of the house was somewhat surreal. I couldn't believe it was my space, or perhaps just didn't want to believe it until it was actually ours. Actively searching since last March, finding a house with shop space in Asheville was proving difficult, and having to obtain the permits to build one into an older house even more frustrating. The more I learned about the process and what would have to be done, the more I felt like one of those dogs running through an agility course, though not a lithe Border Collie, but perhaps a pudgy, aging dachshund that can't quite jump high enough to make it through the hoop or all the way up the see-saw. When it seemed just about hopeless, my dad called one muggy June evening and told me he had spoken with a guy who came into the shop who just happened to be building houses in one of my favorite neighborhoods in Asheville. He has been after my dad for a guitar for a while so in exchange for one, he said he would happily work with me to build a house that had everything I needed, without having to beat out a myriad of other people making higher and higher offers as we had previously been doing. (Sitting in my lovely, finished house now, I am still wondering if I am dreaming.)

After several months of picking paint colors, floors, tiles and countertops the house was about ready to move into. Each time I visited the house, I would walk down to the basement to see the shop space. Unlike the rest of the house, which would have a new element each time, the shop was always the same. Just a cement room with double doors out the back and two big bright windows on the adjacent walls. It didn't matter, it was my space and unlike any of the other options I had looked at, I would be starting out with a suitable number of electrical outlets (36!) and almost excessive lighting. 

On my birthday, the day before we closed on the house, I took my usual tour, walking upstairs, admiring the backsplash I chose in the kitchen, then walking down to the shop. When I opened the door, instead of an empty cement room, I found beautiful sturdy cabinets and a built in counter, a work bench and several machines standing at attention against the walls. While always wishing for one, I have never gotten a surprise gift on my birthday and I was a bit overwhelmed with how excited seeing a bunch of shop tools made me. My dad's friend Chris and his builder Chuck had spent the previous day building it out for me totally unbeknownst to me.

Standing in my new shop on my birthday.

 It turns out setting up a shop isn't the easiest thing to do. The small number of tools I do have, I placed in the same drawers my dad has his in so I can feel a little more at home. Every time I reach for a tool, I have to think, oh wait, I don't have those clamps, or I don't have enough of those clamps. They are three hours away in their drawer at my dad's shop. Then I have to go take a trip Home Depot and see if I can find something similar enough to my dad's to work. Now I know I am pretty dang lucky to have my dad, his friend Don, Chuck and Chris, and everyone else who wants me to succeed standing behind me in my corner helping me get everything set up. My dad didn't have that when he first started building his guitars.

The building that served as my dad's first shop sits on a little flat spot across the drive from my Granny's house. During my summers staying at her house, other than picking raspberries from the prickly briars that climbed along the outside walls of the shop, I have no memories that prominently feature that building. By that time my dad had moved production of his guitars to what I refer to as the 'old shop', the building next to the Rugby Rescue Squad that he rented from Vivian Osborne for $25/month. Since I didn't know much about that first building at Granny's, I called my dad and asked. 

My favorite conversations with Wayne Henderson are ones where he tells me a story. I feel like most other conversations are a notch less comfortable for him, but when he is telling me about our family, his experiences building instruments, or that time he pulled a prank on his substitute, Jimmy, he happily chatters on until I remind him that brace he glued down earlier is probably dry by now.

He told me he built that building himself, with his dad serving as his only knowledgeable reference and helper. "I bought some lumber from a saw mill up on White Top. It cost me $75. I believe that was the first time I had ever written a check," he told me. He said at that time there weren't any building codes or anything so he just built a 16x20" room in the same manner as one would construct a barn, a task which everyone in the area had experience, and installed a bunch of shelves along the walls. He told me he had a few tools gathered, and his dad had given him some spool clamps which he set on the shelves. "Even with those shelves I soon found out that a 16x20" room was not quite big enough." 

When the moonshiner paid him for his seventh guitar, the D-45 that now sports a bullet hole, my dad  took the $500 and bought a Shopsmith, a Black & Decker trimmer that we now refer to as 'the router', a bunch of clamps, and some other small tools.  That router is still in production, though I worry perhaps it shouldn't be as the cord has been repeatedly mended with electrical tape, but still occasionally shoots sparks across the shop floor as it scoots along the edge of a guitar back. I understand his reluctance to retire it though as I have repeatedly tried and failed to find a suitable replacement from the selection of new and fancy power tools currently offered at hardware stores. I also know the clamps to which he is referring, as I use them often, even rifling through the drawer to be sure I use those specific ones. I prefer them immensely to the newer ones intermixed in that drawer and missed them very much as I was gluing braces to a ukulele top in my own shop. I had to take my daily trip to the Home Depot for some similar ones, but again, they don't quite measure up. Most of the tasks the Shopsmith was responsible for have been replaced with other tools, but it still sits retiring proudly in the corner enjoying a bit less use in its old age.

I haven't had many visitors to my shop yet, but I look forward to getting some as, while it can be a bit irksome having people standing in the way, it is equally fun to have people stop by and show interest in what you're doing. My dad told me about some of his first loafers. A typical fixture was his Uncle Cone. I was very young when Uncle Cone died, but I have a vague recollection of an extremely wrinkled man who would sit statue-like by the wood stove at Osborne's store when we stopped in to get the occasional scratch-off lottery ticket. My dad would always say in a voice loud enough for Cone to hear, so I knew he didn't mean it, "Now stay away from him, he's crazy." My dad said Uncle Cone would come to his shop periodically trying to convince my dad to drive him to the hospital because he would "take drinking spells that would almost kill him" so he had to go detox at the hospital. He would quit drinking for a couple of weeks then retox again. Apparently his drinking habits had upset the rest of his family members and my dad was the only one who would agree to drive him down to Independence. 

One day though Uncle Cone was out of luck. A man named John, whom my dad had met while working at George Gruhn's shop in Nashville came walking up the driveway. He had been in the market for a D-45 and my dad had told John that he knew Red Smiley's D-45 was for sale for $4000 in Roanoke. "I think he was scared to drive across the creek or something, because I didn't hear him drive up or see a car, he just came walking up the driveway holding that guitar," my dad said. "Uncle Cone was sitting by the door still drunk. He looked right at that guy like he knew him and said, 'Lord I wouldn'ta thoughta you for $5.' I don't know what John thought of that but he probably thought we were all crazy. I told Uncle Cone I couldn't drive him to the hospital that day, I had to look at Red Smiley's D-45." 

I asked if there were any other exciting stories to come out of that first shop and he told me one more. He said I couldn't print it, but I am going to tell you about it anyway because I laughed until my eyes were streaming tears. Here is what he said: "Well, Uncle Cone's son, my cousin Dick, was over with my good friend Ronnie Testerman. Ronnie was sitting cocked back in a chair and had a cigarette lighter out playing with it. Next thing I know there was a blue flame come up higher than his head and almost set the place on fire. I think what he was trying to do was cover up a fart by using that lighter like a match, but instead it plain blew up. I have heard of people doing that, but had never seen it with my own eyes. I swear that's what happened. I honestly thought it was going to burn my shop down." If you know my dad, fart jokes are just about his favorite thing, only second to seeing a prewar D-45 in person. 

My dad in his first shop circa 1972. Photo credit: David Lewis

I haven't had too much excitement in my shop yet, aside from getting a guitar stuck on my arm for about twenty minutes and worrying I would have to go to the hospital with a guitar stuck on my arm, but that is a story for another time. Each day I have to figure out a new problem, or how to make a form, or clamp work without the help of my dad and all of the tools hanging at the ready in his shop. I am thankful I have so many folks who believe in my ability enough to be willing to help me make an awesome space to build my instruments. 

I noticed the other day that my dad had a new set of fret files hanging on the hook where the familiar red, yellow, and orange handled ones have been stored for years. These new ones all have the same colored handles, and I don't like the feel of them as much as the original ones. When I commented on that, he said, "Yeah, I don't much like them either, but I am trying to get used to them so you can take the old ones." Seeing as he still uses a router that spits sparks while perfectly cutting the groove for binding, I know that there is a greater honor in being gifted the fret files we know and love rather than just getting the new ones. While I am so thankful to have a space that is mine, new and unfamiliar now, it is that much more important to me that he will always be there in my fret files, clamps, patterns, and forms. 

Here's to new adventures.

Making Progress

First, I want to thank so many of you for commenting, supporting, lifting me up when I was feeling a bit down the last time I wrote. While it wasn't my intention to solicit such kind words, I appreciate them more than you can know. After hearing so many stories from lady friends who have had similar experiences, I know the bigger issue of inequality won't resolve overnight, but I felt I wanted to address that it happens, however unintentionally, in more places than we care to see.

The past few weeks have felt like the opposite of the weeks prior. I have had visitors stop by the shop specifically to see me and what I am working, received Facebook messages from folks asking me my opinion on how they should attack certain guitar projects of their own, a good friend played one of my guitars at an incredible show she did with another great friend. Oh, and there was a little story on that that national NPR show, All Things Considered...

Walnut sisters

For the past couple of weeks I have been working on a batch of three guitars, numbered 39-41, which I know is ambitious but I want so badly to make instruments for everyone who wants one that I hope to step up production a little bit. If you were wondering, the three guitars are a koa OM-42, a Claro walnut 000-41, and a Black walnut 0-41. The system of doing three at a time has been working just fine so far but I have yet to get to the finishing stage. The sanding, spraying, and then sanding some more gets pretty tiring with just one, so I'll let you know how this turns out when I try to work on three. Perhaps I should try to find some sanding interns or something...Write this up: Seeking determined, detail oriented person with literally nothing better to do to than hand sand between seven (or more if you mess up) coats of finish on a batch of homemade guitars. It's harder than it looks, so must be attentive and able to learn. No pay, probably no school credit either...but I'll let you play with the mongoose that lives in the shop which is, in my opinion, a priceless experience. Only for a few minutes though because there is all that finish to sand.

My favorite part about these three guitars is that their owners asked me to cut intricate inlays for the fingerboards of each one. It required more difficult work and time, but I always enjoy coming up with new designs that compliment each of my customers. The owner of the Black walnut 0-41 I am working on sent me pictures of her favorite ceramic pieces featuring art nouveau vines and decoration along their bodies. I used the pictures to draw inspiration for a vine climbing the fingerboard.

As far as media coverage goes, it is difficult for me to grasp the reach of NPR's show All Things Considered. I listen most days, but that's just me, sitting in my corner making instruments. Audie Cornish is just telling me stories, right? Who would listen to one about me if I weren't there to hear? It was especially unnerving when several minutes after our story aired my phone was beeping and buzzing with messages of friends all over the country saying they heard it. In all honesty. I didn't hear it until the next day because the Roanoke station chose that time slot to work on their fund raising efforts. It was pretty overwhelming to know so many of my friends and family, not to mention the strangers I had never met, heard it but I had no idea how crazy I sounded.

The thing is, most news stories that I am in are really about my dad, where I just happen to be standing nearby. I was completely surprised and amazed to hear that story and especially to hear Vince Gill say such kind things about me and my instruments. (What?!!) I want to thank my friend and fellow Roanoke Catholic alum Desiré Moses for her excellent job of reporting (and for her skilled editing to make me sound less like an idiot than I actually do in real life). I honestly can't thank her enough for coming down from Roanoke and spending the afternoon at the shop with us.

So the guitar progress is on pause for a week because I am home working on a little ukulele, and then am headed to San Diego this weekend to attend the 2016 Fretboard Journal Summit. I am going to tell some stories of working with my dad and learning how to build guitars. I am also excited to visit with fellow builders, hopefully learn a thing or two, and most importantly, meet new friends. Come hang out and be my friend!

Girl in the Guitar Shop

So if I am being honest with you, the past couple of weeks haven't been the easiest. While I am so proud of my accomplishments and feel empowered in my job most days. every now and again, like the tendrils of gauzy green chemical vapor that seeps through the forest floor of Fern Gully, waves of doubt sometimes creep into my day. Typically it isn't terribly difficult to push aside and simply ignore my feelings when the Tuesday loafers treat me as though I don't matter. I cling to the knowledge that my dad does value my work and opinion and he has come to rely on me to help him out in the shop whether they see that or not. Every so often though, especially when the Tuesday crowd of old men rolls in, I don't really feel as though belong in my dad's shop. Not as an equal or a useful piece of the puzzle anyway. I am sure they don't mean it how it comes across, perhaps it is a generational thing or something, but a lot of times the shop visitors treat me as though I am either not there or just something to placate; "Aw how cute, the poor little girl want's to try to use a table saw."

Now, even though I am on a roll of frustration, I am going to pause for a moment to make one constant exception. Even though he comes in crotchety every Tuesday, upset that his table is cluttered with junk, even though it always is, Herb Key is always kind to me. He comes in before everyone else to find me trying to get my work done before the crowd descends. He always takes extra time every week to share with me what guitar he is working on and how he plans to fix it. All he really needs to do it say, "I am doing a neck set on this old Gibson," when I ask what project he has for the day but he doesn't. He shows me the handmade tools he has finagled to make the job simpler for himself, explains in detail how he plans to execute his job, and shows me how to turn on the water steamer without burning myself. He always takes time from his job to share tidbits of Gibson trivia, neck reset tips, and little ideas to make repair work exciting. I appreciate very much that he always treats me with respect and kindness. That being said, not many other folks are in his same boat.

In case you were curious, here are a few of the things that have recently knocked me down: First, someone accidentally (I hope) burned the $200 worth of buffing pads I had just brought to the shop from Asheville. The guitar I was in the middle of fitting a top on was unceremoniously moved from its table and dumped in several locations with absolutely no care. (With the explanation when I returned from breakfast from my dad, "I moved the stuff with your name on it because I needed to sharpen my tools." I suppose if the guitar was stamped with Wayne Henderson's name he woudln't consider touching it) He also walked up when my dad was checking out a guitar that very clearly had my name inlaid on the headstock and said condescendingly, "Oh, Jayne, did you make that?" Next, a group of local luthiers and their friends visiting on a not so distant Tuesday treated me with as much regard and respect as they would a hangnail they had just removed and flicked away. Finally, a man stopped by the shop selling guitar sets and jacked up his prices to double their worth. I can only assume the reason is because he thought he could hoodwink a stupid little girl who doesn't know the going price for a warped set of slab-cut cherry wood.

After all that and a little bit more in a couple week span I had simply had enough. I felt deflated, like one of the tired wrinkled balloons we stuff into the sound holes of our guitars to block the inside bodies after seven coats of finish. I thought perhaps I should quit and find something else to do more suited to my educational background and gender. This story gets better though, I promise. I am finished complaining. Luckily I have an awesome cousin (more like sister) named Leah and she pulled into the shop parking lot just in time. She didn't have to try terribly hard to convince me to play hooky for the rest of the afternoon.

She drove us, along with two kayaks, some crinkly bags Doritos, and two chilled tallboys of Corona out to the bank of the Little River and shoved me, sitting in her yellow boat, out into the meandering water. (She let me have her comfy, easily maneuverable, creek boat similar to the ocean kayaks to which I am accustomed and she took her uncle's sit-on-top that she wasn't used to paddling. Side note: If you don't paddle, I feel the need to let you know that such an act is similar to offering me a Porsche while leaving her happily behind the wheel of a Yugo.) We floated down the river enjoying our snacks and laughing as we periodically spun, paddling helplessly, when our boats snagged over hidden rocks and branches rising a bit too high beneath the water's surface.

At one point Leah decided she wanted to get out and skip rocks. She slowly moved through the knee deep water searching the riverbed for flat round rocks ideal for skipping. After a few attempts she deemed 'bad' (they only skipped three or four times over the water...she is an expert, you see, expecting more like 15 skips per throw) she set out to catch minnows instead. "Look! There's one! Ooh there's a bunch! A whole school! Maybe they will just swim into my hands!" she squealed. "Yeah maybe," I halfheartedly answered, more interested in finding a shaded spot to park my kayak without having to submerge my clunky 12 year old Chacos into the dark river water. I looked over and watched her standing silently hunched waiting for an innocent minnow to swim unknowingly into her waiting trap. I managed to hook my boat to a bit of rock slightly less dappled with bird feces than the rest of its mass, dipped my toes into the crisp flowing water and watched her play. Floating in my spot that day I felt immensely more relaxed than I had the several weeks prior. While Leah patiently waited for her minnow, I thought about how lucky I was to have such a strong, smart, capable 'sister' to emulate. Sitting there on that river I reminisced of all the times she demonstrated to me that I can do whatever I want. She dressed as the pirate instead of the princess in dress-up when she was five, she played basketball and ran cross country instead of cheering for the boys who did. She plays guitar in the jam circles with the old men instead of sitting quietly alongside their wives.

You see, Leah would never let those guys in the shop belittle her. She would never stand for that. I wish I were as strong as she. But I realize now that I am. I know how to do something not a ton of women can do; I know how to safely use a table saw; I know how to sharpen my pocket knife (and use it to pick the stain from beneath my fingernails); I know how to do a neckset; I know how to make a guitar. Now please read that last sentence again. Don't think I am saying I can do those things because my dad knows how to do those things. He taught me, yes, but I now know how to do them in my own right. Please treat me as though I do.

I made this guitar for my good friend Mac.

Playing with my good buddy Mac and my hero, Leah.

Sparklers

Gah! How does time move so quickly?! I honestly thought perhaps I had missed a few weeks to write to you, but not this long...again. I feel like I have a pretty legitimate excuse this time though as I was finishing a 45 style guitar by myself while my dad was away teaching at a music camp. He was around long enough to show me some important steps, but the final steps were on my own. Let me just tell you, if inlaying all of that pearl sounded difficult, then you probably don't even want to know about the rest. But, I'm going to tell you anyway.

So the sparkly part is only a small aspect of what is needed to make a guitar adorned along all the edges of all surfaces of the body with thin strips of abalone shell. Since I went into it in detail in an earlier post I will only remind you that I used real, flat pieces of abalone that I painstakingly ran through a tiny table saw to make little strips and installed them with my tender fingers into the channels left by the removal of Teflon strips. Until now I hadn't fully grasped the difficulty of installing the Teflon.

On each side of the Teflon are three strips of wood veneer of varying thickness. I also wrote about attaching binding in a previous post so if you want to know more about that process, you can read about when I made a 42 style guitar here. The 45 process is a bit more involved since it requires adding the same pattern, well almost, to the edges of the sides and back, not just the top. The new pattern on the back and sides goes, from the edge facing in toward the body to the binding, white-black-Teflon-barely thicker black-white-black-binding. Getting that thicker black line set up is the worst part because it is such a small difference that I put it in absolutely positive that it is correct, then come time to scrape it down and it is flipped. Those are just the worst days.

So my dad showed me how to glue the wood veneer strips to the telfon before adding it to the guitar, since, as he well knows, doing each one separately is extremely difficult and time consuming. The teflon sheet with a small groove cut along its length sure doesn't look very intimidating and as my dad showed me I thought, well this is easy, go away so I can do it, I don't need help with this! Boy was I wrong. "You got your lines flipped." "There isn't enough glue-the lines aren't fully stuck together, that is going to give you a world of hurt when you're putting it on the guitar." "Watch out, that joint needs to be perfect or it is all you'll ever see." The warnings came in alarmingly quick succession after I took over the helm. After a while I wanted to throw that benign looking piece of plastic on the floor with moderate force and walk away. After quite a bit longer than I feel appropriate, I finished installing the Teflon around the lines. Then I had to glue those to the strip of ivoroid binding. Then I had to route a space in the side and, along with the purfling I made for the top and back, glue it to the edges.


Before all of that though, I had to figure out how to mire the joints around the end piece of ivoroid because on my dad's old Martin 0-45 that I was using as a template had angled joints on each side of the piece. How did they do that? I had to inlay the piece with the attached lines and Teflon before I cut the groove for the binding the binding so I couldn't do it all together, which would have made the task easier. After maybe 3 more hours than it typically takes to install an end piece, I finally got the joints mitred how I wanted, and fit the edge of my binding/purfling combo snuggly into them.  Now I fully understand why my dad has a ton of orders for a 45 and they go untouched or, if the customer is pushy, the bodies sit on the highest shelf where they go forgotten, or probably more like ignored.

1922 Martin 0-45. "Make yours look like that."

Joints are the worst

To take a break from the ridiculously tedious work I had been doing we hosted a Fourth of July party at my dad's house. Our friends Marci and Andy, who have stood as pillars of the community of Rugby for several years now, were the instigators of the shindig, and they invited everyone they knew to come watch a fireworks display shot off on the top of the hill across from the house. They surmised that the folks who couldn't get out of their house to attend the party could still see the show from their porch or window. They were probably right as I watched them open their trunk to $1300 worth of Tennessee fireworks. Next to the low riding car our friend Mac was firing up his patented Jimmy Buffet Margarita Machine....

There are a lot of parties at my dad's house, but this one was really special to me. There weren't droves of people I didn't know giving me 'why are you here' looks when I am walking by without an instrument in my hand. The attendees were friends I see separately all the time when I am out running or down at the store. I wave to Sarah as she passes by to carry the mail, and Howard as he mows Evelyn's lawn across the street. I greet my great Uncle Rex as I go pick raspberries at my Granny's house. I haven't seen everyone collectively in years though. It seemed like all of Rugby came out to celebrate with us. It was heartwarming and so exciting to me to see so many folks from my childhood and to see that their lives had progressed happily, so many introducing me to their growing families and grandchildren.

A gaggle of kids ran past me playing a game I didn't recognize. "Do you remember when that was us?" my cousin Lauren asked me. Boy do I. I remember we would gather a big group of kids, seeking out the ones standing bored by their parents sides, and play hide and seek tag, do gymnastics in the grass, one-upping each other until we couldn't. We would sometimes sneak over to the big old barn next door after telling stories of it being haunted. Occasionally, depending on the season and which party, some friends and I would take a sheet out to the hayfield and smush some of the tall grass down so we felt secluded (even though we were still mere feet from people sitting in circles playing music) and just stare up at the stars. "Look! That star is moving!" my friend Taylor said. "Well it's an airplane," I countered. "No, it's a star and it is really moving!" "Oh yeah...hm." "I was just messing with you, we learned in psychology about conforming and because I told you that star is moving you legitimately think it is." "But it is!" I insisted. I am not sure why I remember that conversation so vividly, but many nights when the sky is Rugby so bright I can see the Milky Way I think of that time he said that. And I think I can see a moving star. Fine, psychology, you win. I miss the days of feeling like we were part of an exclusive club, nobody could touch us and we were just in our own bubble of friendship, having more fun than anyone at the real party.

It is interesting to think of time passing, considering everyone there at that party. I went from feeling too young to hang out with the cook kids, to being the cool kids, to being too cool for anything but hiding in my room, to joining the party and hanging out with the adults. Maybe someday I will be able to watch my kids progress the same way. I hope so.

Family

It wouldn't be a Wayne Henderson party without guitars...

A Henderson in Spain

So fair warning, this one isn't going to be about guitars. Or my Granny. Or my dad. I am going to tell you about my adventure to Spain because I figure if you read the last post you might be curious as to how my time out of the shop went. The only thing though is that the guitar plays a role perhaps equivalent to the Apothecary who sold Romeo his poison in Romeo and Juliet. He was quite pivotal in the grand scheme of things but really he only had a few lines.

I stuffed my Apothecary in the overhead bin and off across the Atlantic we took. After lugging him in his bulky black case through three airports, onto two planes, and into a taxi, we arrived in Costa Adeje, a small beach town to the south of the Canarian island of Tenerife. After instructing the driver, in the limited Spanish I retained from four years in high school, to drop us at a hotel nearby my friend's apartment (lucky for me, hotel is the same), we were left on the side of a busy one way street packed on each side with people dressed in beachwear ambling by on scooters, bright hotels, shops filled with nicknacks, and restaurants boasting their offerings on huge multilingual menus accompanied by pictures. After taking in the view I wasn't quite sure what I had gotten us into.

Sunset from our first night in Tenerife

A quick traveling tip: if you stay awake for the 30 hours it takes to travel to a new place and wait to sleep until it is appropriate where you are you'll go to bed and sleep for 12 hours and wake up with no jet lag. Maybe that is just something I do, and being exhausted isn't the most fun, but it has worked for me so far! I mean, I couldn't tell you what we did that first night in town. I know we found the beach (not too difficult at 100 meters from our front door) and a beautiful promenade showcasing the sun descending over the water where we passed more never-ending restaurants selling the same food (I assume it was the same, evidenced by the signs out front with the same stock photo of a steak, a wood fired pizza, and a shrimp cocktail) each place differentiating themselves by only slightly different decor and name. Little Italy was adjacent to Bob's American Grill which sat next to The Fun Pub. After working on the other side of the cruise ship/tourism industry for several seasons in Alaska, such artificial looking storefront-type places and people heartily peddling boat excursions tend to give me hives. I was sure though that if we made a little extra effort we would be able to find the behind-the-scenes real experience of Tenerife.

Our first full day on the island we decided to take a hike. The closest mountain I found from perusing Google Earth sat about four miles east adjacent to a town called Los Cristianos. We decided to walk there instead of finding a cab because I didn't want to whiz past an experience were there one to be had along the way. We hoped that we could find something suitable for breakfast on the walk that wasn't the "Traditional English Breakfast" pictured in each restaurant we passed. For some reason, the times I have traveled to Europe previously I made a habit of eating croissants for breakfast. I don't eat them often at home, but if they are around when I am exploring somewhere new I will go for it. Croissants are ridiculously filling for how small and airy they are (I assume it's all that butter, but let's not think about it) not to mention delicious (again, that butter). Lucky for me there were  bins of freshly baked bread and pastries offered in almost every HiperDino, which at first we thought were sketchy gas stations on just about every corner, but most turned out to be really nice grocery stores.

After walking through the bustling marina of Los Cristianos and past more tourist attractions, restaurants, and beach clubs, we arrived at the base of Montaña de Guaza where its tall rocky cliffs jutted into the sapphire colored ocean. We found a trail leading up the side and set out to explore the quiet, unpopulated mountainside. Because the island was formed by volcanic activity, the terrain changed quite dramatically whereas our Blue Ridge mountains, which were formed by glaciers and plate movement are a bit more calm and rolling.When we arrived at the top of the first bald we were surprised by the dusty arid terrain, where the rocks clinked under our feet, a sound similar to champagne glasses following a toast. Having expected a more dense sound, I bent down to examine a rock and noticed it was pocked with holes throughout its surface like a sponge. I think it was the first time I saw pumice in its natural habitat, not resting on a shelf of someone's shower waiting to scrub the excess skin from their feet. I was also amazed to see evidence of abandoned towns dotting the landscape. The area had been terraced and landscaped with rows of rock walls while an old irrigation system ran along our path toward some dilapidated buildings. After exploring the mountainside a while longer and being careful to steer clear of the huge outcropping of cacti near our path we decided to head back toward the ocean. On our walk back down the mountain we stopped and sampled the local San Miguel beer that was offered at every beach front restaurant. I am not the hugest fan of beer (don't tell anyone in Asheville or I will get kicked out) but after walking eight or so miles under a hot sun, that one euro pint of beer was one of the most refreshing beverages I have ever had. 

So we rented a car. I thought because the island is so large and seeing the non tourist parts would 
require transportation other than our feet and motor coaches that it would be a good idea. Boy was I wrong. I mean, not really, but it was not the cake walk I had expected. They drive on the right side of the road so I figured we would be fine. Also, I feel like I can understand enough Spanish to read road signs but it turns out that was just not enough. Turns out Google does not work as well on an island off the coast of Africa as it does buzzing around a city in the US because our GPS would often give us a specific direction while the screen depicted a different instruction. We spent a good deal of time practicing U-turns on busy Spanish highways and making multiple circles on the map. The other thing that Google didn't really mention before we set off on an adventure into the hills away from the main tourist drag that the majority of the streets are single lane but two-way and are incredibly steep.

We stopped to have lunch at a place called Otelo, which boasted the best Canarian style fried chicken on the island, but in order to get there we had to fight our way up the steepest hill I think our little car has ever tried to ascend. (That is until later) Once there though, the view was incredibly beautiful, nestled into a craggy mountainside overlooking Costa Adeje and the ocean beyond. As promised, the chicken was delicious. It was served with the traditional dish of wrinkled potatoes which are salty boiled potatoes which were originally cooked with sea water. After our big lunch we thought we were strong enough to go search for some wine as we had heard there were great wineries on Tenerife. 

View from our lunch spot on the deck of Otelo

We entered the address for a winery in our GPS and set off on more turn-arounds and multiple trips around the roundabouts. We eventually kind of got there, but not before several wrong turns and missing one winery by so far that we arrived after they closed so we had to go on to the next one. I thought choosing the straightest path that Google offered on the GPS instead of her suggested route riddle with switchbacks would be a good idea for us. Boy was I wrong. After thirty minutes of clutching the armrests with white knuckled hands and sitting tipped back in my seat in the manner of a dentists chair, we slowly made our way up the single lane road through a town called La Escalona, each if its roads becoming narrower and more steep the higher we ascended. It is the second to last town on the way toward Mount Teide, the 10,000ft high volcano by which Tenerife was created. I was just waiting for a huge motor coach filled with tourists to come barreling down the road ahead of us and knock us into oblivion as had almost happened earlier, but on a regular mostly flat road. As we inched higher and higher in our poor little Volkswagen Up! I wondered who in the world lived in this town and what in the heck did they do there? 

We finally made it up to the winery, but it took a while for my blood pressure to normalize after the ride. We looked back from where we came and the clouds obscured our view of the ocean. Walking quietly with Nick through the evenly spaced rows of grape vines I have never felt to insignificant. We stood on the edge of a field on the side of a mountain on an island in the middle of the ocean. The feeling reminded me of an exercise my seventh grade teacher had us practice once. She told us to imagine ourselves sitting in our chairs. Consider where they were in this room. Where the room was in the school. The school in the town. The town in the state. The state in the country. The country in the world. The world in the universe. It was a humbling practice to think of yourself as such a small aspect of everything. It is always nice to have a reminder that we are part of something so big it is almost impossible to fathom. I am thankful for to have had this experience and enjoyed taking the time to really appreciate it.

At the bodega we were led into a tiny room set up with glasses and a bar on top of which stood gleaming bottles. No one else was there so we chatted with Frank, our pourer, and sampled the majority of the wines offered at the winery. They have a surprisingly wide distribution, producing thousands of bottles per year. Following the tasting and purchases of a few bottles, Frank scribbled a map on a Bodega Reverón napkin to a delicatessen in Los Cristianos which he said was his favorite spot for food on the island. A deli? Really? We promised to look it up when we got back to civilization. After winding back down the mountain, turns out Google was right, the two-lane road with switchbacks (that ended up making the mountain seem way less steep) was a much safer and easier choice, we set out to find the deli. After a long while of searching where my phone claimed the store was, we finally found it on a little side road a block from the address. (Frank's map consisted of a square, two straight lines and a wobbly arrow.) We decided to try a sampler of freshly cut ham that and a few slices of cheeses that had been made on the island. I like fancy food, but I will say that my favorite dinner while we were on vacation was the cutting board spread of ham, cheese, baguette and bowls of mojo, my new favorite traditional Canarian dipping sauce, while sitting on our little terrace drinking the rosé we got from that mountain. 

After several days of extra walking we managed to explore bits of the island that were off the beaten path and we ended up finding some incredible adventures along the way. I am so thankful to my new friend Tommy for his hospitality and for waiting three years for one of my guitars. I am also thankful that my job allows me to meet so many great people and explore and learn in so many more ways than just building guitars. 

Me with my new friend Tommy as we were leaving and he was arriving home.

Now it is back to reality. This coming weekend is my dad's annual music festival at Grayson Highlands State Park. Please stop by and see me (and some awesome bands and a guitar competition) if you can! All proceeds from the festival go to scholarships for kids hoping to learn to play. 

My favorite beach, Playa Del Duque

On a walk

The waves were pretty serious

Playa de Güímar

Güímar

Sunset from Costa Adeje

Black sand beach near La Caleta

My favorite town, La Caleta

La Caleta

La Caleta and Costa Adeje in the distance

Paella in Madrid

Scrapes and Scratches

Can't wait to finish up this tenor uke!

One thing about working half the time in Rubgy is that there is another part of my time spent at home in Asheville typically performing the less physically demanding aspects of my job. I do have a little sander and I do still occasionally cut myself or file my fingernails when I am doing inlay work but generally I focus on the business side rather than the actual guitar and ukulele making. The thing I like about this set up is that it leaves room to wear open toed shoes, put on a dress, primp, and paint my nails. Though sometimes the nail polish is also functional. Not in the way that I make up when my dad protests as he sees it and I tell him that it makes my fingers easier to see so I keep them out of the table saw, which he appreciates, but to camouflage black super glue and stubborn stain stuck underneath. In the case of this week it is covering a now very sensitive flat spot made by the sander. When I look at it though I don't see pain or frustration, but I do see a beautiful ukulele that I thought needed a straighter neck angle so I sat the whole thing on the sander. Just like the time I sanded almost through the top of one fingernail when I let a neck slip as I shaped its heel, I will probably think twice before sitting my ukulele on the coarse grit sander.

I get an odd pleasure from bringing home little scrapes and scratches on my body. I typically walk in my door with marks on my arms from carrying wood planks around, or a sanded fingernail or two that needs evening up with clippers, or this particular time, a thick scab on by leg from when I moved a pattern and a hefty plank of maple I hadn't noticed leaning agains it tipped in my direction and accosted my shin bone. These minor afflictions to my body serve as evidence that I have done done something useful with my time and I like that.

Of course, I hope never to procure a lasting injury any more serious than the tiny scar on my right middle finger from when it came into the line of fire of my hand powered, millimeter-wide jeweler's saw blade. I do make absolutely sure to keep my hands free from direct contact with any motorized saws. I wish I could still ask my dad to make the cuts I need on the table saw or slice me a set from a large board of walnut with the re-saw, but I am proud that I can now do it myself. I do however respect the saws and quite literally each time before I turn any of them on I take a minute to be thankful for the use of my fingers and consider what would happen if one or two got tangled up in the blade. Before I push that green button to bring the machine roaring to life I find the orange safety handle gathering dust on the shelf, as I am the only who uses it, to ensure that my hands are always far from the moving blade. I also find it important to consider where my hands will be in correlation to the blade as I push the wood through. Anyway that is just a side rant. My point is simply to respect the machinery and be careful of the big saws!

Now that I have been working on my own without feeling the need to ask my dad to help with the big saw cuts it really makes me happy to be able to be helpful to him for a change. He gives so much of his time so freely. Not just to me, but he stops what he is doing and provides his full attention any time a visitor stops in or when the phone rings, which it does almost constantly throughout the day. For some reason or another, he has agreed to make ten guitars before his festival next month. Some for payment to the bands coming to play, one for a raffle to be held on the day of the festival and some for folks traveling from far distances that, last winter when the task wasn't imminent, he agreed to finish in time for their visit to Rugby.

My dad always says that he asks me to do his inlay work because he has done it long enough that he is tired of it and I am still young and eager so he asks me. I am pretty sure, though, that his least favorite part of the job is finish work. The way we finish our guitars is to spray seven or eight layers of catalyzed varnish onto the bodies and necks and sand them flat between each coat. The work is time consuming, dusty, loud, and smelly so I can understand why he'd prefer not to have to do it. Lucky for him, on top of the inlay I feel privileged to get to cut for his instruments, I don't mind finish work and was more than happy to be asked to help get these guitars done in time. I just tied on my purple apron, strapped on my respirator mask, slipped on my ear protection and got to it. Not the most glamorous job but I do have pink filters on my mask.

So many guitars to finish, so little time!

After finishing my own guitar that I am delivering to the Canary Islands later today, I sprayed and sanded all of the finish on three of his guitars and added layers to the ones he had sprayed. It feels really nice to feel useful and to be able to give him something after so many years of only being able to take. We also spent the majority of last week in the shop alone. Few visitors, other than Tuesdays, no gigs to go play, just time to focus on a common goal and be able to have that elusive relationship that I have wished for for years, where my presence is needed rather than tolerated. It isn't just that I want him to give me something but that I get to give too. So perhaps that is why those little nicks and scrapes are important to me. There is evidence that I hung out with my dad and we both enjoyed it.

# 36, Black walnut

I mentioned going to Spain later today. As the culmination of my time at home my husband and I are headed out to the Canary Islands to deliver the Black walnut OM-28 I just finished. I am not sure why, but the ones that go the farthest are the ones that sound the best. I wish I could keep this one to show what a local wood guitar can sound like because the wood that makes up this guitar absolutely couldn't wait to become a musical instrument. It might also have something to do with the fact that I did this one completely on my own, no checking, no trading inlay for a neck set, no direction other than my own judgement and my own decisions. I do want to share that as I (carefully) ran the neck through the table saw to cut the dovetail, never has one come out so cleanly that it fit into the body exactly how I wanted it to. Other than when I cut the dovetail for Doc's guitar, for which I had help, I have never achieved such a feat. I typically have to measure, rasp, sand, whittle, and measure some more to get the joint to fit how it is supposed to. Anyway I just wanted you to know that because it felt like a week where I saw progress, which I feel is something to stop and appreciate. Like when you practice a new skill and it is horribly difficult for the first long while and you don't see much change and it doesn't feel like anything is happening but one day you can just do it? That is what this felt like. I know it won't be a regular occurrence, but I am so thankful it happened this time.

So off we go to Spain! I will see you in a week and can't wait to tell you about our trip. My nails are painted (not just to cover up that flat spot), the ugly dark scab has finally detached itself from my shin so I am ready to wear dresses. I can't wait to get back into the shop and make more evidence that I have a job I absolutely love, but for now, vacation.

It's always good to make sure you have a good tester around.