Snow

The other day it snowed. Pretty steadily throughout the afternoon; little compact flakes fell and gathered among the hibernating blades of grass. I love to see the midwinter landscape transform from dingy beige to glistening white, providing a sparkly purpose for the cold. Snow hasn't occurred much where I live this year (I won't go into my thoughts on climate change but you should know that it is a thing we need to work on) but the other day the snow fell. One downside of the icy downpour was that I couldn't just fill a mug with scalding water and warm my hands with my tea while tucking myself under a fluffy blanket on the couch to stare at it out the window. I had to layer up and drive with my dad across the mountain to Abingdon because I had agreed to join him for a Tour of the Crooked Road show at the Barter Theater. We were to do a set of storytelling and weave some music in among our stories. That is the only reason I agreed, because if I had had to go and play my ukulele for fifty minutes, first I wold run out of material I can play in about 4 minutes, and also I am sure people would have asked for their money back and I don't need the legendary Barter angry with me. Anyway, I packed my dream of watching the snow from the warmth and safety of the couch into my ukulele case and off we (slowly) drove to Abingdon.

I wasn't quite sure what we would talk about as my dad is more of a 'wing it' kind of performer, where I feel that I need to be prepared before I say anything in front of an audience of more than 5 people. On the drive toward Chilhowie, after passing her little house on the hill to the left, thoughts drifted to the Bible my Aunt Shirleen gave me a couple of weeks back. It belonged to my Granny Ollie, who got it from her mom Laura Jane Hall. The book is saturated with family memories and brought me to images of stories my dad and Granny and Shirleen have always happily passed along to me.

Leafing gingerly through the delicate pages the other day, I saw births and deaths from my family written in unsteady handwriting spanning back to the mid 1800s. Looking at the names obviously scribed with a turkey feather, turned quill, I was surprised to see my name in there too, under my dad's, his siblings and my Granny. It made me realize that I had no choice to be born into this special family, and all of the members who came before me passed through their genes a trait that made me want to do what I do for a living. My grandpa made coffins. I remember once my dad telling me that everyone came to Grandpa Orren when that unfortunate time came for their family members because his were the best made coffins in the county. My great Granny Ollie and my Granny Sylvia were incredible quilters, I often admire their perfect uniform stitches woven through the fabric by hand. When I was young, Granny taught me to stitch quilt squares by hand, and even though I have a sewing machine, I have never found it as easy or as satisfying to use as simply a needle and thread. You might remember from a past post, that my dad's Grandma Henderson had the unbelievable patience to stand in her garden long enough to shoot a vole from between her feet. Just like how my dad has the patience to work a piece of wood into a guitar part until it is the most perfect it can possibly be. I believe that all of these attributes have flowed from generation to generation into my dad, and into me. Because I stumbled into doing the job I do after trying some other things first, I wholeheartedly believe my family and the blood in my veins is why I am a luthier.

We talked our way through family memories and added a few stories as to why my dad and I each became a luthier sprinkling a few songs in between. My dad told the audience that he used to walk to the farm neighboring his parents' to spend time with Granny Ollie right after her husband Orren passed away so she wouldn't feel lonely. Often he would bring a guitar he had been working on and play her favorite song, Wildwood Flower. We played it for her. He told of the moonshiner that visited her house and offered to buy my dad's brand new 45 style guitar that he had spent a year working on for $500. Now, still using some of the tools he bought with the money from that guitar, he can put a guitar together in one day. Following our chat, The Whitetop Mountain Band brought the music and more stories from farther up on the mountain which was really fun. I enjoyed dancing along to their old time music. Outside, the snow poured on.

After the show, on our drive back through the Jefferson National Forest, I got to thinking about how Helen would say that her dates with my dad were always during the drive to the venue where they were going to play. She said she had to share all the other times but when they were driving that was the time they could just chat and spend time together. I find that to be the same situation for me, as it is always a special miracle when I find myself alone with him in his shop. While driving, nobody can just hop in the back seat so some time is guaranteed. Thinking back to my youth, I really only spent time with just my dad when he met my mom at the halfway point between their homes and we drove to or from his house. I remember I would ask him to make up stories to entertain me as we drove for what felt like years. I still remember the landmarks I pass now still perched along the way that would designate the amount of time until we arrived home.

As we navigated the slick road back from Abingdon, I thought back those special car rides, to when it snowed. I remember thinking that the snow looked like stars rushing by the windshield. Star Trek was on TV at that time so I'd pretend I was on the Starship Enterprise zooming through space about to save the universe with the guy from Reading Ranbow who wore a headband across face instead of in his hair.

Breaking into my memories, my dad said, "I remember one time we were driving home from Shirleen and Cliff's house when they lived Sugar Grove. My dad was driving and I must have been about eight or nine, because my favorite place to ride was standing up by the dashboard hooking my fingers in the defrost vents. We had a '52 Chevrolet pick up truck and I'd ride like that all the time so I could see everything there was to see. But when it snowed it was mesmerizing, like flying through space or something. This time though I was kind of worried we might not make it across the mountain. It was right....here," he said pointing to a curve in the road, "But Dad would have pulled chains out and put them on if we had been in any danger of sliding off the road. Once we got around that curve I wasn't as scared we wouldn't make it home." The snow wasn't as deep as his memory, but still, Highway 16 was covered in white slick snow. We carefully made our way home. I sat in the passenger seat feeling thankful for this little bit of time just with me and my Daddy, and the stories he is still willing to tell me filling the car.