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.
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| Measuring is serious business around here. |
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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.
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| 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!
