Pool Bus

Do you ever wish you can rewind to a specific place and time in your life? For me, a lot of times I wish I were back in Juneau on this certain day several years ago, but even more often, it is just a random day in my childhood. Like a summer day in Rugby riding the pool bus.

Every summer Lauren and Leah's mom Martha drove the pool bus. The bus, parked in a bus-sized gravel spot just below Lauren and Leah's house, right up the road from my Granny's, was covered in chipping white paint and had the words ACTIVITY BUS blocked across the sides and back. It always felt like a special or exciting day when I rode the pool bus with my cousins. They went just about every day in the summer, but I was a less frequent passenger so it was always full of anticipation of something fun and different. I would either walk up the hill from my Granny's house, or my dad would drop me off at about 8 AM and would hand me a crisp ten dollar bill. Man I felt like I was so rich. Think of the Slushies I could buy with that!

Each day the bus would travel throughout a different part of the county picking up kids wanting to go to the pool. The ride typically lasted several hours, arriving at the pool immediately after lunch. Lauren and I were reminiscing about those rides last night, and other than ourselves, we couldn't remember very many other kids who rode the bus with us. We typically read books while we rode, each of us taking up an entire brown vinyl seat.  We didn't interact much with the older 'cool' kids who filled the seats in the back. I remember a lot of times looking out of the window and worrying that the small curvy roads were not equipped to handle such a large vehicle swaying over them. There is still a curve near Rugby that I drive on today and can't help but think about that pool bus and wondering if we were about to tumble off the asphalt and down into the briars that covered the steep grade down into the holler.

As the bus finally rumbled through Independence, we would stop at the high school for lunch. I remember running through the gym and down the darkened halls wondering what it would be like to go to school there. What it looked like with people in it. There was a mural painted in the cafeteria, I can't recall the content, but I remember it had a lot of green and blue in it and that I thought it looked neat. We would file through the quiet lunch line, grabbing our sandwiches and choosing an apple or orange and a milk carton. The other riders and I would sit at long cafeteria tables that had flat plastic circles, much like frisbees, protruding from their undersides acting as seats. We would eat quickly, anticipating a fun day at the pool.

It cost $3 to get into the pool at the Grayson County Recreation Park. The pool was surrounded by a vast rectangular square of concrete and a tall chain link fence. There were three sections to the pool, a shallow section, complete with a separated 'kiddie' pool, a large middle section 25 meters long and marked for lanes, and a 'deep end' twelve feet deep complete with two springy, turquoise diving boards.

Choosing a spot to sit was always a very important task. Martha typically sat right in the middle, between the pool and the snack bar/juice box area. The juke box incessantly played Mmm
Bop and Cotton Eye Joe. There was light pole right in front of the juke box that Leah liked to use to help fashion a tent with her towel. Lauren, Leah, and I sat with Martha most of the time, but as we got older we tended to want to spread our towels further away to display our independence. Then came the sunscreen. Even if you had put it on during the bus ride, since you had ample time, Martha would insist on slathering your back and face with SPF 50. We weren't allowed to take another step near the pool until she was satisfied that we were sufficiently covered in sun protection. Under bathing suit straps and on our ears and our feet. She would never miss a spot and I thank her for that now.

For the next few hours we would splash and dive and reluctantly sit along the side during the fifteen minute 'adult swim' break or thunder threats. Leah tended to spend most of her time standing in the line for the diving board in order to get that 30 seconds of exhilaration from jumping off of the low springboard into the deep water. She would jump, swim to the side, and go again. And again. Another staple of a day at the pool was drinking Slushies. I preferred a plain one, just tiny round pebbles of ice covered in sugary syrup. Lauren would experiment with mixing different flavors together to achieve that perfect blend of artificial flavoring. A lot of times they came out brown, but she insisted those tasted the best. When it was time to go, we would file back on the bus for the trip back home.

Some days Martha would drop us off at the library while she finished her run to drop kids back off at their stops. Living in a small town in which the library is thirty minutes away, this was huge excitement. The library ladies didn't have the best senses of humor, and silence was required, but that smell of library books always tended to bring about an excitement for me. The anticipation of finding a perfect story within the crackling plastic lined covers to be transported into was what I always looked forward to when we stepped through those old glass doors.

I'm not sure if the ride back to Rugby was actually shorter, or if we just were so tired or engrossed in our books that we didn't notice the route as much, but when Martha finally backed the bus into it's gravel spot we were all ready for some dinner and a nap. Not necessarily in that order. Sometimes we would have enough energy to bounce on the trampoline or watch a movie at my house, but we always had a great time and were excited to do it again the next day. So, it isn't really a significant moment, or a certain day in particular, but it is just a feeling I miss. I wish all I had to do today was ride that bus, drink a Slushie, and be with my family.

The 18th Annual Wayne C. Henderson Festival

To get myself in the mood to write you a story, I need a little background music. That's better. The Water Tower Bucket Boys are singing their song"Crooked Road" at full blast on my computer. Ideally they would be singing it to me in real life, but since I had the pleasure of that opportunity yesterday, I probably shouldn't press my luck with an encore. 

This year's festival was by far the best I have ever attended, and I have attended all of them excepting the one in 2005 when I was working as a kayak guide in Alaska so the commute would have been a tad diffuclt, not to mention supremely expensive. But even then my thoughtful, amazing mother made me a DVD of the show complete with messages from her, my dad, and friends who were lucky enough to attend. 

Usually I feel really lucky to have a father in such a position where folks flock to him just to be part of something amazing, but around festival time I tend to feel a little bit left out, especially since Father's Day is the following Sunday and I have never been able to have a dad who has time to spend that with me. This year was completely different. Well, maybe with one exception. 

 

I spread my Granny's Dalmatian-printed quilt, the one she gave me for Christmas, onto the grass infront of the stage. I felt she deserved to be there too, and I know she would have loved every minute of it. My friend Dori started off the afternoon with a great set, singing her original and 40's songs with her uncle and dad backing her up on the banjo and mandolin respectively. 

Water Tower Bucket Boys. Go buy their albums on iTunes. Immediately.

With a little bit of apprehension, I watched my dad, Charles Welch, the Kruger Brother's and a few other guests take the stage to pay tribute to my good friend Doc Watson. Harper, Nick, and I, along with our friend Stephen and my cousin Leah, her friend Katie, and two of the Water Tower Bucket Boys piled onto the quilt. My heart broke a little as I watched my dad pick up the guitar I had painstakingly crafted for Doc, but of course he made it sound amazing and played it beautifully and full of grace. It was a tribute I am pretty sure Doc would have approved of; at one point we all stood and yelled, "We love you Doc!" and concluded the ceremony with a group rendition of "Will the Circle Be Unbroken". Tears streamed down my face, but I was so happy to have said a proper goodbye to Doc since I just couldn't attend the funeral and it had been eating at me ever since. The weather yesterday was amazing; Doc did that for us I am pretty sure, just like he set his guitar neck for me.  Josh Rabie, one of the Bucket Boys enveloped me a hug and it was nice to be able to share in our sadness over losing such an incredible person and musician. 

Tanner McInerey and Mac Sumner lead us in song!  

Following the amazing performances at the park, we all migrated down to my house for some barbecue and informal pickin'. I was overwhelmed with the praise I was given over my guitar by some really incredible musicians. John Arnold, a well known and respected luther, was so complimentary over my Oak creation, which means a lot as he sort of pioneered using such woods. I was honored to have met him, and to have him play my guitar for an hour and a half in the middle of the night was something worth noting in my journal. Another incredible guitarist from nearby, Steve Lewis, also played it and made the wood box literally sing. I have never heard anything quite like it. The night culminated with 19 people stuffed into a little popup camper, it's tiny fans on full blast, passing around my White Oak guitar, the Koa guitar that I helped my dad make, and a beautiful Brazilian Rosewood D size made by Max Rosa, a lawyer/luthier who came all the way from Brazil to hang out with us. I feel a sort of kindred spirit in him...wonder why...We sang songs including Wagon Wheel, Free Fallin', and multiple Johnny Cash hits long into the evening. I went to bed exhilarated and so happy that I know such great folks.

This morning, however, I was told by a woman staying at my house that I have "a reputation of being a brat". I have a good guess as to who likes to spread that rumor, and only assume it is because I desperately want to be included in my dad's world, and wish to be seen as someone more important than the throngs of visitors. Due to that insecurity I tend to keep my distance when a gaggle descends. Still, hearing that was incredibly hurtful to me, and I really hope that that isn't the thought of everyone who comes here to vist my dad, as I really enjoy spending time with most folks who stop by. Maybe she is right, but no one knows what it is like to be me, living in the shadow of someone so great that people are willing to shove his own daughter aside in order to have five minutes of his attention. On the plus side, I am so proud to have made myself a place in my dad's world and I stand by the work that I have been doing in the shop thus far. I only wish I were better able to take my dad's advice of, "when people say things you don't like, just don't listen to them." 

No one can spoil the amazing weekend I had with my amazing friends and my daddy. 

New Guitar!

Yesterday afternoon, with several visitors eagerly looking on, I strung up Doc's guitar. It was painfully bittersweet, as the sound is amazingly clear and strong, but it was palpably difficult to hear knowing who it is for won't be around to get it. I am not sure I am able to accurately articulate what I felt listening to those first notes played on the new guitar, so I am just going to share these pictures until I think of anything better to say. 

In less downer news, my dad's annual festival will be held on Saturday. The shop has already begun to swarm with visitors eager to start celebrating the weekend's lineup of great musicians. This year promises to provide a great show; Dori Freeman, The Water Tower Bucket Boys, The Gibson Brothers, and of course a tribute to Doc during his slot. My dad has promised to play Doc's new guitar during that bit, which I am very grateful for, but again that bittersweet feeling creeps in as well. Hopefully it will be a great day with beautiful weather, hope to see you there! 

Happy Father's Day (To Me)

I'm not even sure how to start this entry. I want to be positive and happy, but it is shaping up to be difficult as I am still feeling a little bit sad. And I don't think that will change much until I am done with this guitar. It is odd though, as it still doesn't feel to me like Doc won't be visiting the shop anymore. Since he would typically pop in every few weeks or so, it still seems like he could shuffle in with his friend Charles any day now.

The guitar I have been working on, upon Doc's request, has been progressing surprisingly well over the past week. When I went to measure the neck and fit the dovetail joint snugly into the body of the guitar, it was a perfect fit straight from the table saw. If you have never fit a neck before, you probably won't understand the significance of that neck fitting so well on the first try, but such a feat is rare. Typically I spend all day fitting, rasping, and sanding in order to get the correct angle and shape on the dovetail to fit to the body correctly. I like to think that maybe Doc is helping me out, encouraging me to finish.

Taking a break from finishing the guitar today, my dad and I had a lovely Father's Day. I decided today was Father's Day because for the past 18 years I have spent actual Father's Day watching my dad spend it with a ton of other people, as it falls on the day following his festival. This year will be no exception as plans have been made for several gatherings at our house that day. It is too tiring to be hurt, so I decided that I would take advantage of some time together and that would be our day. It shaped up to be quite lovely. We went to visit with my uncle Max for the afternoon and ended up playing a few tunes together while we were there. Well, more accurately, I plucked out the notes to You Are My Sunshine and my dad graciously backed me up, and then I struggled to keep accurate time while mashing the correct chords on my mandolin for his breaks. Arkansas Traveler and Turkey in the Straw went similarly. It was really fun though, as typically if I want to attempt to play music it is in the shop with a bunch of folks milling about increasing my stress level, and decreasing my confidence exponentially.

No one visited the shop after we returned from visiting my uncle, so I got to spend a few quiet moments in there tonight as well. The evening has been primarily filled with sanding and spraying my guitar, with a quick break for tacos. I am so excited to see this one finished, and to hear its first sounds emerge from the soundhole. Of course, the excitement is glazed with a little bit of sadness, but I think Doc would be proud of this guitar, and whether I really believe it or not, it is comforting to think he is encouraging me along the way. I also probably wouldn't have made a guitar for myself, so maybe I should look at the loss of a really great fellow as a gift of a really great guitar.

Goodbye, Doc

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.

My favorite picture I took of Doc.

Daddy, Doc, and me