I began this blog in order to share my experiences learning instrument building from my dad, but along with those stories I look forward to sharing my memories of growing up with two busy, musically inclined parents as well as my current experiences stepping out on my own as a female luthier promoting environmental sustainability in her instruments while working to alter gender stereotypes in a male dominated field. If you'd like to use quotes from this blog for interviews or in your own work, please contact me first! (email is henderson.elizabethj@gmail.com)
It's funny, I feel like I am supposed to think people like my dad, Eddie Pennington, and Doc Watson are super talented and be in awe of their musical talent, but I am mostly just in awe of them as folks who have been good to me my whole life.
Last week, my dad and I were working alone in the shop. I was painstakingly shaping the braces I had just glued onto the top of the guitar I was working on. I tapped, listened for a C note, shaved a little more wood off with my chisel, tapped again and listened again. After several tries I was feeling satisfied, thinking ahead to the day when Doc Watson would play it and say that it had a lovely clear tone. Then the phone rang. I saw that it was Gerald, one of my dad's good friends, so I answered it. "I guess you heard about Doc, right?" He asked after a few seconds of small talk. I felt that spurt of adrenaline that shoots through you when something exciting or scary is on the horizon and you know it is coming. "...No." I said, pretty sure I didn't want to know what he was going to say next. And I was correct, I didn't. After a lengthy surgery he is still in critical condition after an impacted colon threatened his life.
My heart sank as the shop phone kept ringing with updates on Doc's condition. We became apprehensive to answer the phone, worried that worse news would be shared after we did. He has hung on for days and days, but as I sat writing this entry I got the news that he has passed away. This just reminds me of the person he is, the person I grew up knowing. I know people are going to miss his music, and his talent, and what he has meant to the bluegrass community, but I am most sad to lose his honesty and genuine kindness.
When I was about six years old, I remember my dad played a show with Doc. I don't remember the venue, but I remember the floors-they were vast and wooden. Lots of dancing space, and running-wild space. Those things are very important to a six year old the likes of me. Anyway, after the show that I am sure I didn't listen to, I remember my dad asking, "Jayne? Do you remember Doc? He is my friend." I remember him being kind of intimidating, because he couldn't see me and I wasn't sure where to stand so his face was tilted my way. He was very nice to me though, and gave me a hug before we left. As we were walking away, my dad said, "Do you know how lucky you are? Doc doesn't give hugs to just anybody." I didn't know. I just knew he was important, because there were a lot of folks around him all the time, and that he smiled at me and hugged me.
BFFs
I remember moments like that, where he showed kindness to a rowdy young'un (borrowed from my dad's vocabulary) or when I handed him the body of my second guitar and he praised it highly, running his hands over the unfinished wood and saying that it "looks just beautiful". I love that when I handed him my finished fourth guitar to be tested, he said, "Well, you know I'll tell you the truth!" But the comments he provided were all ones that I probably don't really deserve. He is just my friend. He can play beautifully and I will miss that, but the stories he shared when it was jus the two of us sitting alone in the shop are what I will cherish most.
I pulled into the shop driveway after almost 3 weeks away and was very strongly reminded of my summertime visits when I was younger. The deciduous trees are a lush green, the fields are full of wildflowers peeking over the tall grass, and thunderheads pass in the distance threatening an afternoon shower. It is summer here and that is the season with which I am most familiar. It is that time where things aren't as scheduled, my cousin Leah and I (and Harper) will go for hikes and runs in the evenings, and lots and lots of visitors will descend upon 388 Tucker Road.
I cherish the tranquility and the extra alone time that I spend with my dad that comes with the winter months, but summer is so beautiful and full of excitement. There is also a smell surrounding this place that I can't really explain but it just smells like home; kind of a damp, leafy outside smell that I have only experienced here. (And, well, maybe a few walks in the woods I have taken in various locations but who's counting.)
I never really accomplished very much during my summer trips to Rugby, often just reading outside or hanging out with Lauren and Leah on their trampoline in the front yard but wouldn't you know it, the days we were most bored are the days I love to remember. (Right now I am thinking about that time we bounced on their trampoline and called Granny and Katherine, and in our best English accents, offering them seamstress positions at Buckingham Palace).
Of all of our shenanigans throughout the years, my favorite summer by far was one not too long ago. I was working at Grayson Highlands State Park the summer before I left for Vermont Law School, and every day after work Lauren and Leah came over to watch a DVD of The Office. I had been getting the discs from Netflix all summer and we watched each and sent it back as quickly as possible. I will never forget the first time I watched Andy fall into the lake wearing his summo suit. My favorite episode of all time and it happened while sitting here in this room I am in right now...
Anyway, another exciting event of the summer: Leah had bought herself a second hand moped; a shining purple number that came with a glittery sticker of Peter Griffin with his two thumbs thrust skyward declaring "Freakin Sweet!". She loved that thing, driving to her summer job at Oak Hill Academy and the one mile over to my house in the evenings. She was exceptionally proud one afternoon after she filled it up with gas. "Two dollars!" she proclaimed. (Those were the days that a gallon of gas was a little more than a dollar.)
One evening during our Office screening we heard a strange noise outside. It was a repeated whooshing noise that seemed to come from across the street in the field packed with neat rows of Christmas trees. Kind of like the huffing of a bull that's about to charge a matador's red cape. The flashlight I shined into the yard didn't shed any light on the mystery. (Pun intended.) It was late though and Lauren and Leah had drive home soon. Of course Leah had driven the moped over, so we were pretty worried that some sort of rabid dog or something similar would chase after my two cousins and assail their vehicle as it buzzed into the darkness. And what about me!? Once (if) they got home they had parents to comfort them; I was then left alone with the beast! My dad was teaching at the Puget Sound Guitar Workshop at the time so he was a few miles down the road...He is a good shot but even this would have been a difficult save. I had that 3 foot long nightstick-type flashlight for protection though, I figured it would suffice. Anyway, while my cousins crept to the moped I kept the flashlight honed on them, while keeping a lookout just in case I saw any animals poised for attack. They piled onto the small seat together and started down the driveway. Nothing got them. The next morning I asked my aunt Shirleen what in the world could have made such a horrific noise and she asked, "you mean a deer? Deer make that noise..." So we were petrified by a deer and it took about 3 seconds of description for Shirleen to know exactly who the culprit was...
Another super fun memory I have of that summer was when Leah and I were having 'Fancy Dinner Night' where we dressed up in our fancy attire and I seared salmon and blanched some aspargus. The phone rang interrupting our screening of Sleepless In Seattle. A fellow sounding about my age asked if my dad was around, and I said no, he was out of town till the next day. The fellow, who called himself Kenny, said, "Well we met your dad out in Seattle at the Puget Sound Guitar Workshop and we thought he was so cool we wanted to come out and visit him. We ran out of money around Boone though. If we play some bluegrass on the street do you think we could make enough gas money to make it up to your house?" I guessed that he and his friend Josh must be pretty good musicians as they showed up the next morning as planned. After they visited with my dad and got the shop tour, Leah and I took Kenny and Josh up to the pinnacle (my favorite spot in the park) at sunset and we had a grand time. It was one of the first times I remember meeting any of my dad's admirers who were interested in hanging out with the likes of me as well. It was pretty neat.
Even though my best buddy Lauren won't be here as much as I would like, I still have faith that this summer will be as memorable as summers passed. Leah will be here, I will be here, and guess who else? Josh and Kenny will be making their way back out this way as well, as my prediction of them being great musicians turned out to be correct. My dad asked them to play at this year's festival. I am so excited to see them again, and listen to their take on bluegrass music; traditional but steeped in their outgoing, fun personalities. My friend Dori is also playing, as is Doc Watson who, hopefully, will be debuting a new EJ Henderson guitar if I can get it done in time. This is for sure going to be a festival not to be missed so start planning your visit now!
So I am sad to leave Asheville, and that Nick's and my awesome trip to Ocean Isle had to end, but I am happy to be back in Rugby working with my dad for a while and making a guitar for a legend.
Tomorrow is my Daddy's birthday. He is worried that he is officially going to be welcomed into senior citizenship, as he is turning 65, but it just reminds me of how much he has accomplished in that time. It is pretty amazing how many people love him and admire his talents. I mean, most of you probably wouldn't be reading this if it weren't for his ability to make awesome guitars, which I am now attempting to glean as much as possible so maybe when I am 65 people will still remember him and appreciate his work.
I asked my dad about what he did for birthdays growing up and he said he mostly remembers the dinners. Granny would always make him a chocolate cake and her famous potato salad, among other Rugby delights. He also said that many birthdays he would get a knife, because he was always wearing them out. When he was young he would bring his pocket knife to school (naturally...) and whittle during class. He would pass the time his teacher stood lecturing by making chain links from a branch of maple, a solid round ball trapped within four long posts with a solid block at either end, all out of one chunk of wood. The ball would be perfectly circular, the posts perfectly symmetrical. I guess, now that I think about it, his whittling is his calming activity, like mine is drawing or painting.
When I carve things it has quite the opposite effect on my mood, as I am pretty sure I am about to cut my finger off. Since I have had the misfortune of experiencing such a mistake, complete with surgery, casts, splints, and rehab, I am in no mood to repeat it therefore wielding a knife isn't particularly calming for me. Maybe in 60 years I will be as adept as my dad is with a knife. Probably not.
I spent most of today carving a neck for a ukulele. That is the only aspect of ukulele building that I would prefer to do for a guitar instead. Most everything else is more fun, and cuter, and is more wieldy when making a ukulele, but shaping a neck is just annoying. The belt sander's rollers are too large to fit nicely into the crook that sits on the guitar body so that has to be caved by hand, and the peghead is too small to use anything other than a knife or rasp to lower it to the correct thickness. Therefore, I carved and carved and carved, all the while wondering if I might not be attached to the tip of my index finger in a few seconds.
You should come to the shop and watch my dad whittle sometime-it is kind of amazing. I sat for 3 hours carving the valute, the tiny point on the back of the peghead where it joins the neck, attempting to shape it into a straight even point, and I show it to my dad and 3 seconds later his lap is full of shavings and it is lovely. Bah! Someday I'll get it!
Yesterday I said goodbye to 6 weeks of hard work. I packed up my finished guitar with care, padding its neck and headstock with tissue paper, and stuffing 418 crumpled pages from a catalogue, ironically selling packing materials, into a Martin guitar box to pad the case a little more in transit. And then off it went to New Mexico. I felt very sad yesterday as I walked out of the UPS store, not only because I was $147 poorer, but because with each guitar I make, I tend to associate accompanying memories of my life to each project.
While I worked on this guitar, I had to be there for a friend who's grandmother passed away, and incidentally, it happened the day before the anniversary of my own grandmother's death several years earlier, so my friend's hurt was palpable for me. I spent some time with her family, getting to know them better, even though I have actually known them my whole life, and am so thankful I got to do that as they are all amazing people. More on their incredible talents later. Also while I worked on this guitar, I spent more alone time with my dad than I ever have, being in the shop with just him working on projects together, I had some great times with some visiting New Yorkers, of all people, and took several trips to home improvement stores-and actually enjoyed them.
Another thing happened too. I experienced my first almost-heart attack. Following the completion of one my dad's very first guitars, he sat back on Granny's couch, admiring all of his hard work, then with a loud pop, it cracked up the middle. He hadn't used the correct type of glue, so when the wood contracted and expanded with the humidity, the glue did not allow for such things and he was left with a broken guitar. I can now say I understand that panicked feeling between when you know that happened and there is hope to fix it and the initial loud bang marking something gone awfully wrong.
Because my dad went to play music in Fincastle, VA one afternoon, I was left on my own to string up my guitar. I am glad I was alone when it was time to do this because I think stringing up a guitar for the first time is kind of a personal experience, waiting to see what you've actually produced after so much hard work. I strung 'er up and played a few chords (the only ones I know, and a few that might be chords but I made them up). I was so proud with how loud it was and how I was actually able to make good sounds emerge from the instrument. That means it probably sounds pretty good....
Testing her out for the first time!
Anyway, I was by myself in the shop, and having finished my project I started helping with some of my dad's. Well, I was just sanding away on a beautiful mandolin, minding my own business, when I hear a loud pop from the vicinity of my guitar. I ducked, because it really sounded like some sort of shrapnel was headed my way, and then tentatively looked over at my guiar. Were there any holes in it? What in the world made it make that horrible noise? Had all of my hard work been obliterated with one second of earsplitting cacophony?
I crept over to the bench on which it was laying (you never know if there's something else about to blow up), and started to inspect it for huge cracks, holes, perhaps the neck had broken in two. Nothing. Then I noticed that the saddle, the small ridge of bone that sits on the bridge of the guitar holding up the strings, had shattered under the string weight, producing a perfect U. Panicking, I called my dad's Head General Loafer (and great helper) Don to ask if that is a thing that happens or if I did something wrong. He said to not worry too much about it, just make a new one, that he has heard of it happening, though it is not that common. When I told my dad he was very surprised, saying that is not a typical occurrence at all.
Spencer Strickland came to play with me!
After getting all of that straightened out, shaping a new saddle that accommodates a low action on the fingerboard, who should appear in the lonely shop doorway but my best good friend Spencer Strickland! Having him stop by is always a treat and it was nice to have someone around who can actually play my guitar since I am not much of a picker. After hearing him work his magic, it was amazing to hear how loud and clear the tone was after having only been played that one time. I was satisfied with the weeks of work, some bits coming out well with little effort and others requiring a little more trial and error.
I am glad that all of these memories, among so many others, will be iced with the finishing up of an amazing sounding 0000 Maple guitar.
I wish right now was not the first time I have had to sit down and write you a story for the past week and a half. Trying to get this guitar finished without a hitch has proven to be a bit of a difficulty. This entire entry could be about how to spray finish, and then how one can sand through said finish, and then how to respray finish some more, and then how frustrating it is to sand that bit flat only to sand through in another nearby spot, then having to respray and rebuff that section...and so on. My dad believes that a heavy coat of finish on a guitar can hinder its sound when all is said and done, so ideally each layer you spray on a guitar should be sanded down as thin as possible without sanding through it to the wood. It is a thin line between too heavy and too thin though and achieving that balance has proven to be quite difficult. I spent most of the past few days attempting to balance on that fine line, but I ended up falling over several times in the process...Though, after all of that I managed to get the tuners on at 11:30 tonight. Yay!
Finished body. After 7 coats of finish...
Does this look electrocuted to you?
Last Friday was my Granny's 100th birthday. I know that if she were here she wold be so proud to be 100 years old. I remember once my dad and aunts were out of town, and a family friend passed away so I came to drive Granny to their funeral. She was ninety at the time, and each person we met, the minister, everyone, she would say, "Hi, good to see you! I'm 90!" So, last week I cut some lilacs that are currently in full bloom on the bush in our yard, tied them with some of the ribbon that we use to strengthen the sides of a guitar and brought those to her grave. I like to think she would have appreciated those just as much as a fancy bouquet I plucked from a plastic bucket at a supermarket.
I also made a strawberry cake covered in pink icing that I dotted on with a pastry bag, though when I debuted it after some difficult detail work, my dad said it looked like it had been electrocuted. Anyway, I enjoyed thinking of her, and remembering her on her birthday. Hopefully next week I will be coherent enough think of a more exciting and detailed story for you. It turns out that working 12+ hours in the shop every day seems to be detrimental to my creative writing skills... I will let these pictures tell this one.
