The Giant Firecracker

Under a quickly fading clouded sky, Nick and I filed up a thin dirt path, winding through a field completely alight with fireflies. We decided on a whim, after an afternoon of fun snacks and great company, that we wanted to further celebrate our Independence Day by seeing the best fireworks display in the area. We figured there was no better spot to do such a thing than from the south terrace of the Biltmore Estate. From there it is possible to take in incredible mountain views for miles, with downtown Asheville in the foreground. We ascended to the house along a section of one of my favorite running trails and walked up the large stone steps separating the house from the Italian garden. From our perch on the huge stone terrace we saw colorful bursts of sparks beginning to fill the sky. Still, as we watched a magnificent show from the most beautiful spot I could imagine, I found myself wondering what we would be experiencing had Nick and I had decided to drive up to Rugby and take in the show my dad and our neighbor Andy had concocted. If only just to be sure they didn't blow themselves (or anything else) up in the process.

Nick waits for the fireworks to start at the Biltmore Estate

See, when my dad was a young boy growing up surrounded by mountains and farmland, guitars weren't his only area of interest. He would use his pocket knife to whittle his own toys and his imagination to improve on the occasional store bought toy. One particular instance was when he acquired a pack of fire crackers. You know the ones, they come in a big red pack all strung together and Kevin McAllister threw a bunch in a bucket to scare Marv away from his kitchen door.

My dad figured if he could see how those fire crackers were constructed he could make a large explosive device that would be bigger and better than the generic store bought ones. He carefully opened the red tissue and removed the powder from within several firecrackers. He then wrapped the powder together into one mass as large as a grown man's index finger. Unfortunately, after about twenty attempts, none of his homemade mini-bombs made more than a fizzling noise. He speculated that the wrapping was not as tight as the original packaging had been, and worked to improve his design. He stuck with his project late into the night. He and my uncle Max were the only people still awake in the house; Granny and my grandfather Walter had retired to their room upstairs hours earlier.

"That is never going to work." Max exclaimed. My dad persisted, unruffled. He wrapped the paper tighter than he had on the others and admired his handiwork. Max, expecting the same fizzle to occur, took the giant firecracker from my dad's hands and nonchalantly lit it with the butt of his cigarette.  He threw it into the coal bucket that sat next to the tall thin stove on which Granny used to heat water in a heavy cast iron kettle. I remember that stove and bucket well. I would marvel at the black chunks of coal stacked in it, just waiting to be fed into the mouth of the stove, its coiled handle dangling like a nose off the front.

BANG! The firecracker went off that time. "You never heard such a noise!" my dad told me. "Whats going on down there?" My grandfather drawled, still half asleep. My dad said he blamed it on Max, answering, "Oh nothing. Max lit my firecracker and threw it in the floor." I asked what the consequences had been for such antics and my dad told me that they didn't even come downstairs. "I guess they were used to my shenanigans, I was always doing crazy things like that." (Remember when I wrote about the time he sat in the rafters of the barn to ensnare chickens as they strutted by or when he hid a metal sign under a thin layer of snow and watched the dogs (and my Granny) slip on it?)

I am glad the fireworks display Wayne and Andy put on last night in downtown Rugby turned out to be simply a good show; nothing that would require my grandfather to get out of bed for. The horses next door, however, might have decided to leave town. I hope you all had a safe and happy 4th of July full of family, friends, good food, and safe fireworks.

Spring Updates

Springtime! 

Spring has officially sprung in the Appalachian mountains, and I have thrown from my shoulders what feels like a heavy blanket of weariness, thickening as the cold winter months wore on. Harper and I have been thoroughly enjoying our runs again. Everything looks new and fresh. I always take a little time to marvel in appreciation at the saturation of colors now donning the landscape around me; how green the grass is, how beautiful and alive the mountains are again. Having been so busy with all of the marveling, I want to apologize for the lack of posts. Over the past few weeks I finished four instruments, made a trip to Nashville, and then rewarded myself (and Nick and Harper) by taking a quick but relaxing trip to the beach. New spring energy is just my favorite!

The coolest thing about my job I think is the fact that with each instrument I make, I also have the opportunity to meet an awesome person to go with it. These past four instruments have included with them some amazing folks. I like to think that with each build, I lose and instrument but gain a friend. This batch was no exception. EmiSunshine and her awesome parents came to pick up her ukulele. When someone comes to get an instrument from me or my dad I think the instrument is the smallest part. I like the experience of getting to know someone and showing them around in my life a little bit. I think that is why I hate shipping guitars so much, not necessarily due to the potential for damage to the instrument, but more due to missing out on that connection with my clients. Instead of just coming to get her uke and leaving, Emi, her parents, my dad and I ended up taking a drive up to the park, visiting the wild ponies, and taking rides around the block in my dad's old Thunderbird. It was a nice visit, and so fun to get to know them a bit better. More about that in a minute.

Next, a customer, Tim, drove with his wife Mary and dog Theo up to Rugby from Raleigh to pick up his walnut 000. My favorite part of making instruments is when I get to see someone's reaction when they open the case. (Check out the video of Emi's on her facebook page) With the exception of Emi, it is usually quiet, but being able to feel the excitement and happiness radiating from the person just makes me happier than I am able to describe. Tim's reaction was no exception and I had no doubt this guitar would be heading to a good home. We had a lovely afternoon sitting on the porch enjoying some wine and cheese while Harper and Theo lounged under the cherry tree.

I also enjoy that people want to give me things from their lives aside from money for the instrument I made them. Tim brought me a new knife, a beautiful Case with blades of damascus steel-a knife my dad is pretty jealous of, which is kind of awesome. (He hasn't had much to say about my favorite pink polka dotted Case knife, though I have caught him using it a few times.) Tim also brought me a turkey call he made, which is so neat. I had told him that turkeys live up on my mountain in Asheville and he thought I might want to try to make friends with them. He was right, as I had been scratching a knife across a plate to try to talk to the turkey roosting in a tree about eye level from our deck. Nick stood watching, probably questioning his decision to marry me. Now that I have my turkey call, I can retire the plate. The other day a big Tom was strutting around the yard nearby so I ran inside and grabbed my turkey call and ran back out to call to him. He puffed up at my answering screech a couple of times but didn't seem overly interested in me. I also am not sure if I should find it endearing or concerning that none of my neighbors thought it odd that I was skulking around stalking turkeys...

Several weeks ago, Nick and I drove to Nashville so we could watch EmiSunshine play the ukulele I made her at the Grand Ole Opry. Of course, while that was my official excuse for going, I made sure to stop at my favorite restaurant, Silo, and as usual it did not disappoint. Go if you are in the area, they make some great farm to table deliciousness. What also didn't disappoint was the Opry visit. I felt fancy since I knew the first person we encountered backstage. It was George Gruhn walking down the hall.  I got to have a nice visit waiting for Emi to go on, George, Nick, and I sat in an empty dressing room and talked about business and guitars for a while. We then visited with Emi and her family before they went on stage.

One thing I'd like to address is what I see when I am around Emi and her band, which is also her family, most by blood. I have noticed that some folks have suggested via her facebook page that she is a 'cash cow' for her family, and I have also been asked several times if her situation is along the lines of a pageant child. Now, I know that I am no one of consequence, but from what I know of this family I want to say with absolute certainty that EmiSunshine absolutely loves what she is doing, and is incredibly talented at it, and that is why she does it. Not only that, but my favorite thing I saw at the Opry was how obvious it was that her parents were there solely to support her and what she loves to do.

I remember noticing it when they first came to my dad's house in the winter and we were all just hanging out. There is such palpable love there that it makes me a little sad knowing that not everyone gets to experience such strong love and support from their parents. Talking to Emi's dad Randall backstage, I told him that I was so glad this is a family affair. He has such a strong connection with his daughter and I am incredibly happy for them because I didn't get that opportunity with my dad when I was little. I think a lot of that shows through at her shows, but I know I am lucky to be able to have such a close view. Even if you don't see it as much from the nosebleed section, you don't have to. It's there.

On our way out of town, Nick and I stopped by Carter Vintage Guitars to see what Christie had hanging on her walls. She showed us some amazing rare Martins and Gibsons before I walked over to peruse the ukuleles hanging in the middle of the main show room. I was so excited to see a 1940s Martin tenor ukulele, that I didn't even notice that one I had built was hanging right next to it. I feel honored that my work was included in her incredible inventory. I am even more proud that it sold a week after it arrived, and went to someone who can't wait to play it and love it as I hope for all of my instruments.

Tomorrow I head back to Rugby for some hard work before my dad's festival on June 20. I am working on #28 guitar and ukulele, a match pair that just happen to have the same serial number. I put the ukulele body together while I was home in Asheville, so hopefully that will give me enough of a head start to be able to finish these up in a few weeks. I hope to see you all there! Along with visiting with yours truly, there will be some absolutely amazing artists playing, EmiSunshine included! If you want more information, visit www.waynehenderson.org.  

Photo Credit: Alisha Hamilton

Dressing room #1

View from backstage

George Gruhn

E.C. Ball

View from the top of Quillen Ridge.

Springtime is one of my favorite seasons, everything looks new and full of hope. The trees are dotted with bright green buds that always bring an image of Bob Ross grinning into his paint palette declaring, "Let's put some happy little leaves on those happy trees!" And when I am in Rugby, spring is my favorite time to run up Quillen Ridge. The first mile and a half of the gravel road, popping out a short ways from the Rugby sign, is a bit of a climb, but after that the harsh grade gives way to rolling hills with peeks of incredible views.  The road winds between the trees, providing glimpses of sparsely habited property.  Harper and I trot past several old houses that were abandoned long ago; one tired tattered house in particular brings thoughts of my heritage, and the incredible folks who have lived in this tiny corner of the world.

My dad talks a lot about E.C. Ball. He was a musician who played guitar in a band called the Rugby Gully Jumpers with my grandfather, sang gospel songs with his wife Orna, drove the school bus, and lived up the holler on Quillen Ridge in Rugby, VA. I never gave him significant thought until I really started to listen to the stories my dad tells.

EC Ball's home today.

The first and most important thing you need to know about E.C. is that he had a 1949 Martin D-28. No one else in the community could afford anything of that caliber and my dad wanted nothing more than to make a guitar just like it so that he could have one too. E.C. was incredibly proud and protective of his guitar and no matter how many times my dad asked, he was never allowed to remove the strings and peek inside to see how it was made. E.C. would sometimes let him play the guitar, only sitting on a box in the middle of the Rugby store, with anything that had the potential to scratch moved away so the guitar had no chance of getting dinged.  He was allowed to play the guitar for a few minutes, and E.C. would only occasionally teach him a new lick. "He was kind of crotchety, and not a very patient teacher, so I learned my own style just like he learned his own style from listening to records of Riley Tuckett of the Skillet Lickers,"  my dad told me.

I asked what E.C.'s job was,  curious if he was just a musician or if he did something else for income as well. My dad told me that he was the bus driver for his high school. My dad never took the bus so he didn't have anything much to add about that aspect of the job, but he said the bus drivers would drive in the mornings then stay near the school all day, walking down the hill to the store to loaf a while, then walking back up the hill to play horse shoes at the school, then driving the kids back home in the afternoon. My dad told me, "I was really good at horseshoes, they would let me play with them sometimes, but I would whoop them." He said the old men took their game of horseshoes very seriously and would never let kids play with them so the fact that my dad was invited to play was a big deal.

Like my dad and I, E.C. also enjoyed working with his hands. The agriculture teacher at the high school was also assigned to be the shop teacher, but he never stepped foot in the shop and never taught the kids anything therefore the shop was left empty most of the time. Of course the exception being for the occasional curious student, one of whom shoved a broom handle into the jointer to see what would happen and now lives without a pointer finger. The local men would dabble in woodworking in the unoccupied shop, and E.C. would be a regular visitor, making small furniture, gun racks (one of which he made for my dad), and little accents to hang on his home. I knew which house was his because of the two diamond shaped decorations adorning each side of the door of his now dilapidated house. While the current state of the house brought some sadness, I felt special that I knew E.C. made those in my dad's high school wood shop.

EC, his fingerboard and my dad's first inlay job.

E.C. was also interested in guitar work. Every time I walk down the hall to the kitchen in my dad's house, I pass a display of EC Ball's fingerboard from that old Martin. (My dad has the rest of the guitar in his collection, but the fingerboard was removed at some point and he was able to get it back from the repair shop where it was taken off.) I have always looked at the display with apathy, but now I appreciate the significance. E.C. redid the inlay on his guitar himself, sanding down mother-of-pearl buttons from his wife's church coat and filing them to the shape of those typically found in prewar 45-style Martins and inlaying them in place of the typical 28-style inlay markers. I also noticed a little ECB inlaid in the space between the 18th and 19th frets. "I did that," my dad told me, "it was a huge deal that he trusted me enough to finally be allowed to take the strings off and inlay that for him."

Since I enjoy inlay work, I like to think of E.C. as a bit of kindred spirit in that respect. He had a preacher friend who saved and saved and eventually was able to buy himself a brand new D-28. He asked E.C. to custom inlay the fingerboard to match the '49 Martin, and E.C. happily accepted. Halfway through the job, he accidentally inlayed one of the large pearl pieces between the wrong two frets. In a panic, E.C. took the guitar to my dad's shop and asked if there was anything to do to fix it; was there anything to fill the hole in the fingerboard that wouldn't be noticed. My dad said, "No, I don't think there is anything in the world that would hide a mistake like that, but leave it here. I will look at it and see if I can get it fixed by tomorrow morning." The fingerboard had binding on it, so my dad simply removed the ebony from between the frets and replaced the whole piece, covering the seams with the binding on the sides and the frets above and below the piece. He then put the inlay in the correct spot. "I've never seen a grouchy old man as happy as he was then," my dad said when E.C. came in and saw the repair job my dad did. He looked at it a while, then asked if my dad wouldn't mind just going ahead and doing the rest of the inlay job. I keep that little anecdote in my back pocket just in case I ever need to do a similar repair.

There's so much more about E.C. and Orna Ball that I haven't touched on and even more that I don't even know, but these are the memories and stories I want to tell.  I'm sure I could scare up a follow-up post in the future. The songs and biography you can probably find online somewhere; acestry.com will tell you that E.C's wife Orna and my Granny were first cousins. The stories I like to know are ones of mundane daily experiences. I love that in this tiny place that is so insignificant in the grand scheme of the world, there have lived so many talented, incredible people to share their immense gifts. I am so proud to be part of and inspired by this community and I don't take one step up Quillen Ridge for granted.

E.C.'s house today, featuring the diamond shaped decorations he made himself.

Detail of E.C.'s home decorations.

Downtown Rugby featuring the old store my dad played E.C.'s Martin.

Check out this video of one of EC's original songs! 

Working From Home

There's a magnetic type of energy that seems to surround my dad's shop, attracting swarms of curious visitors each week. They bring treats for my dad, ask questions about production, and always want to help with some aspect of guitar building. While I typically enjoy the excitement that visitors tend to bring, it is nice just to have some time to have the shop to myself to focus solely on my work. Most of you know that my dad works until well past midnight every day, so when I am there I make sure to get up early enough in the morning to have several hours to work on my own. I always take time to enjoy the silence before the storm, as I like to think of it. I like that it is quiet, unless I am the one making noise, I feel productive and am not stopping production to chat, or move pie and a barrel of cheezy poofs from my workspace.

Working at my house in Asheville is somewhat similar to the silent shop mornings. The only visitors I get are Harper coming to remind me she is bored, maybe a bee wandering up from the woods beyond my deck to see what is happening, or an occasional neighbor. I have been home for the past few weeks and have been cutting pearl, putting together ukuleles, and inlaying fingerboards. Oh and writing blogs :-)

Last week, on my deck, I shaped braces, shaved kerfing, and fitted the top and back onto a soprano ukulele. I am really excited about this particular ukulele because I am making it for a good friend. When it is possible, I like to take time to get to know someone I make an instrument for, at least little bit, because I think that makes the instrument more of a collaboration, and less something I just make. I have found that the best partnerships are when I am given artistic license to make what I know the person will love, adding little touches for them, but keeping the artistry for myself. This mutual trust is sometimes difficult to achieve, so when it happens, as in this case, it is a truly positive and exciting experience.

Signed uderside of soprano top for my friend Kyler.

The koa for this ukulele is a piece left over from my #16 guitar. I am so glad I was able to use it because that piece of wood is more special than most, with curls radiating out like sun rays through the grain. I am a firm believer in wasting as little materials as possible, this incredible wood especially, and sopranos allow for that more willingly than larger instruments which I enjoy.

Kyler's initials, inlaid in the
headstock of his ukulele.

While I miss working with my dad, and having his vast guitar knowledge and building expertise just feet away, it has been great to get to work on my instruments on my own time, then go for a run with Harper at the Biltmore Estate every day. Once we run past the lines of people on Segways winding their way down the paths surrounding the winery, we are generally alone to enjoy the scenery and history of the property. The only thing missing is a visitor or two to perk up a lonely afternoon. Will you come visit me in Asheville when (someday) I have my very own shop here? I sure hope you will.

Robert Frost

Something I feel I haven't expressed enough in the stories I write to you is how lucky I feel to get to do my job. Not just because I have the opportunity to hang out with my dad, which is something I hadn't done much until I started working with him, but because I get to meet some truly amazing people. The folks who trust me to build them a guitar are pretty much the best people I have ever met. The neat thing is that I get to know people beyond our mutual affinity for guitars and ukuleles. A shared love of To Kill a Mockingbird, appreciation for how much we love our dogs, or goats or catfish...To me, building someone a guitar is a very personal business. I attempt to meld what they imagine with what I want to make for them. Small custom touches, however, require me to know something inherent to my client's character. I like to think it is a trust in me to appreciate what I am told enough to turn that into a tangible part of the instrument I am making for them.

A specific example of one of these personal touches comes in the form of a tiny acorn that I inlaid on the fingerboard of a guitar now owned by a fellow named Mike. He told me that his most cherished book is a limited edition copy of a book of poems by Robert Frost, and stamped into the cover is a small acorn.  He hoped I could incorporate the design in his guitar somehow. Upon hearing about his admiration for Mr. Frost's work, a memory bubbled into my conscious thought; I recalled a face full of snow as I attempted to walk on snowshoes for the first time, which happened to take place at Robert Frost's house.

Robert Frost Farm, Ripton VT

During my time at Vermont Law School, I served as an intern for the Green Mountain National Forest. One of my favorite days while I was working with the Forest Service was the day I rode along with one of their law enforcement officers. After tracking some tree poachers, testing to make sure the correct trees were cut during a logging operation, and slipping down a snowy hill clutching to maple saplings in order to dig through illegally dumped trash, my reward was to visit Robert Frost's cabin. That February in Vermont was still a bit snowy, so in order to navigate the several feet of snow that covered the ground, Officer Mike (not the guitar orderer Mike) strapped my boots into snowshoes. "Go give em a try!" he encouraged. I took one step up the bank toward Robert Frost's house and due to the unwieldy nature of snowshoes, I promptly fell face first into a 5 foot drift of snow. I don't even think Mike laughed half as much as I would have had it not been me upended in the snow, struggling to right myself. Anyway, after practicing a bit more, we walked around the property and checked out the house. The property reminded me of home and my Granny, holding the same magic quietness of Rugby. I thought Robert and I probably would have had similar ideas of an awesome spot to hang out.

Testing out some snowshoes. It didn't turn out well.

When I delivered the guitar I made for Mike, he gave me a copy of that book of poems he referenced during our first phone conversation. The books are so pristine I have been reluctant to mess them up, but the other day I decided to carefully remove the delicate packaging and see what poems were in there other than the popular ones I already knew. While perusing the beautiful prose, one poem jumped out that solidified my suspicion that Robert would have loved hanging out Rugby. This particular poem, the power of which nearly knocked the breath from my lungs, is called Ghost House. (I have included it at the end of this post.) For me, the words paint such a vivid picture of loss and time gone by; I can't help but see my Granny's house become clear in my mind, once full of life, but it now sits lifeless, letting nature retake its claim on the land.

Frost's line, 'The footpath down to the well is now healed' especially reminds me of summertime with my Granny. Every time I visit now I search in vain for the path behind her house nestled between two hills that lead to the reservoir of the spring, the water from which is directed into the house. The path I am thinking of was barely wide enough for our feet. I remember walking one foot in front of the other, pretending to balance like a tightrope walker, careful to stay only on the dirt, avoiding any grass that leaned in my way. There was a black pipe sticking from the ground bubbling the overflow water from the spring's reservoir. As we sat recovering from the uphill climb, my Granny would always say, "That there is the best water there is. It is even better when you drink it straight from the mountain." We would both take sips from the pipe, savoring the cool clean water that really does taste better than any water I can remember drinking. I would lay down, my face pressed to the large cement slab that covered the reservoir and just listen to the water gurgle far below. The cement would always be warm, having been heated by the sun all day. Though it isn't anything of consequence, it is a fond memory. I am thankful for Mike for providing the kindling to spark that little memory from happy summers past.

I know in business folks who purchase the goods I provide are called clients. That doesn't sit quite right for me though as I really consider each person who trusts me enough to make them something that hopefully will remain part of their lives, to be passed down to their children, a friend. With each instrument I make and send to someone, a little bit of me goes with it. There is no way for me to separate my work from myself, so to me, business is extremely personal. I take comfort in the fact that I gain a new friend with each instrument I make and I want to make sure you all know how thankful I am that you allow me to have that opportunity.

Ghost House

I dwell in a lonely house I know

That vanished many a summer ago,

   And left no trace but the cellar walls,

   And a cellar in which the daylight falls

And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield

The woods come back to the mowing field;

   The orchard tree has grown one copse

   Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;

The footpath down to the well is healed.

I dwell with a strangely aching heart

In that vanished abode there far apart

   On that disused and forgotten road

   That has no dust-bath now for the toad.

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

The whippoorwill is coming to shout

And hush and cluck and flutter about:

   I hear him begin far enough away

   Full many a time to say his say

Before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.

I know not who these mute folk are

   Who share the unlit place with me—

   Those stones out under the low-limbed tree

Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—

Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—

   With none among them that ever sings,

   And yet, in view of how many things,

As sweet companions as might be had.