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.