Luthier Adventure!

I took a deep breath to suppress the feeling of motion sickness I felt as my dad, his friend and fellow luthier, Gerald, and I wound our way deep into coal country north of Abingdon, VA in search of Electric Hardwoods, the company that supplies maple for Gibson and several other larger guitar makers. Feeling a little ill, we finally pulled up to a collection of sheds, surrounded by the hugest pile of felled trees I have ever seen all rounded up in one place. We tripped over to the entrance, luckily my dad had been there and knew where it was, as there were several doors we could have chosen, and who knows, it could have ended up like a game show situation or something.

Dean greeted us at the door, complete with a huge, welcoming smile. After general introductions, we handled the most important business first. My dad had been to visit Dean a couple of weeks ago and, immediately after returning to his shop, trunk packed full of gorgeous curly maple, began making Dean a guitar from some of the most beautiful pieces Dean sent him home with that trip.

Curly maple back and sides, Appalachian spruce top, koa binding.

"Check this out!" Dean proclaimed as we walked into one of his rooms, filled with wood stacked floor-to-ceiling and a line of fans going full blast for drying it. He handed me a slab of wood the color of rust, more saturated in the sapwood, filled throughout with curly grains. He said it was sassafras wood. While Dean deals primarily in maple or spruce, when he encounters a tree he deems interesting or exciting, he will take it as well, mostly just to see how beautiful it is once he cuts it into boards. He then figures out about what to do with it. Luckily for me, he hasn't found too much so he kept adding planks to my 'To Go' pile. The sassafras was the first on that pile.

All of the wood from Dean's shop is SmartWood certified, which I think is pretty cool. The SmartWood certification, given by the Rainforest Alliance, ensures that sustainable forestry practices are set in place with each log that is harvested. Given Gibson's trouble with importing illegal materials, it is encouraging to know that they are taking extra strides to ensure their maple supply comes from well-managed forests. I also appreciate being able to make instruments from such materials, so it was really a treat to see what types of wood he had in his shop.

While we toured the buildings that made up Electric Hardwoods, I chatted with Dean's friend Tim. The neat thing I learned about Dean during my visit, is that I noticed many parallels in his and my dad's personalities. Generous and friendly, happy to entertain visitors, and LOVES beautiful wood. Tim told me that, like most folks living in the mountains full of coal in Southwest Virginia, Dean originally worked in the mines to provide for his family, but he had always loved trees and went out on his days off to look for exciting trees. He began harvesting some, and then traveled around to lumber yards purchasing, milling, and reselling the most beautiful boards. According to Tim, Dean's mom called up Gibson, many years ago now, and asked if they were in the market for some curly maple. At the time, they were and Electric Hardwoods began.

Sawdust pile...

With each room we visited, my dad chose curly maple boards for mandolin backs, spruce boards for guitar and mandolin tops as a trade for the guitar he had given Dean, and I perused the burn pile for materials for ukuleles and cutting boards. It gives me great pleasure to use scraps to make something useful and beautiful, so I stocked up while I had the chance. The company sets out the pieces of wood not suitable for an instrument in a pile on the side of the road. According to the employees, it disappears quickly; neighbors take it for fire wood, or what ever they want, really. Tim and Jesse, another employee, helped me load the back of Tim's truck full of the prettiest pieces in case anyone came along to snag them to stuff into their wood stoves.  Also, the sawdust produced by the mill is directed into a grey trailer, similar to those ominous looking classroom-buildings sometimes used by schools when they are renovating or have overcrowding issues.  Locals are invited to take as much sawdust as they want for their horse stalls, or other farm uses. It is endearing to see how much this little company provides for their community, where many organizations would use such opportunities to turn a profit.



The atmosphere within Dean's operation is so warm and friendly. All of the employees, of which there are maybe ten, seem to enjoy their job, and were all willing to step in and find more wood we might be interested in, clambering back in the stacks to present the best ones. Several young boys would dart around the outskirts of our wheeling and dealing, staying out of our way while still getting their work done. I was thinking that a couple of those guys looked a little bit young to not be getting an education, but Tim explained to me that Dean lets several neighbor boys come help after school. It is always exciting to me to meet someone so kind and generous with his time and efforts. We truly had a great time visiting his shop. I presume Gerald's car however, might have held a different sentiment, as we stuffed it's whole back end full of boards and then insisted it drive us back to civilization (which was a quite a ways down the curvy road if we are being honest).

My new pals Tim and Dean! (Side note, check out where Dean made my dad sign his guitar with a Sharpie)

Most of the crew: Josh, Jesse, Chris, Heath, and Dean. (And they said I wouldn't remember their names)

Finally, if you are even still reading, I am excited to report that I have the body of a ukulele together with the sassafras Dean sent home with me. I think it is the best wood I have ever worked with, as it smells delicious, in my opinion anyway; my dad complains that it makes the whole shop smell. I am pretty sure I wold prefer that sweet, herbal tea smell over catalyzed varnish any day. Check back tomorrow, I will add a picture. It is currently snowing and I don't want to skid out to the shop and take a picture for you just now. Sorry.

Slotheads

I feel like I am really running low on interesting things to tell you. As far as shop news, it is pretty much business as usual, no one has set anything on fire or exploded any guitar parts lately...

Oh! One neat thing, I strung up my first slot head guitar today! For the past month or so, I have been working on a guitar based on a Martin 0-17 for a fellow who lives in Arizona. Since the weather has been just perfect lately for constructing an instrument that will live in extra low humidity, I figured I might as well go ahead and do that. When I say perfect, I mean freezing cold, windy and grey. Just thought I would clear that up.  It has been a fun build as I really love small guitars, and learning to make a slot head peghead has been exciting. My dad poked around the cluttered shelves in his shop, pulling out various jigs and small machines that we eventually strapped to the peghead in order to cut even, clean slots. I was also excited to find another use for my amazing router that I am so oddly proud of.

Carving the grooves under the slots for the strings to pass through was less exciting and more nerve-wracking. It is difficult to carve two things exactly alike, and having those two things situated directly next to each other to make comparing easy was less fun than running my router against the foolproof jig. After quite some time of whittling, filing with a round file, and sanding I eventually got them straight enough to satisfy my somewhat compulsive urge for symmetry. Then came the next step of attempting to sand and finish the inside of the narrow slots.

Another fun discovery I made while working on my slot head headstock is that I am pretty good at finishing them. It turns out that having tiny fingers does come in handy for one thing ever, and that one thing is sanding the inside of slots more thoroughly than someone with regular sized fingers. So that is exciting to know.

Every guitar I make I feel an attachment to, but since this one provided a new challenge and excitement of a different body shape and fret scale I feel it is a little bit more special. (I think I say that about each one as I learn something with every project I take on, but still, this one is awesome.) It amazes me how strong and powerful that tiny guitar sounds. Everyone around here seems to think you need a huge, bassy D-size guitar to make a strong presence in a jam session or on stage, but I think if I saw someone playing this guitar (or another similar one, not tooting my own horn..much) I would not be able to take my eyes off of it. Kind of like in John Mayer's video for Shadow Days. Not my favorite song, but I could stare at that guitar all day. Maybe I will just make me one now that I have thee slothead down :-) Though extra work, I enjoy the challenge of cutting, shaping, and finishing this classic headstock design.

Just strung her up! 

Education

I apologize (again) for the delinquency in my posting, but I have some kind of good reasons this time. Not that good, but here they are: First, I seem to have contracted some sort of illness that just won't go away. My friend Allison would call it 'the croup'. In reality it is just a ridiculous cold. 13 days and counting I have been sniffling and coughing all over my two guitars (if you are one of the to-be owners of these instruments, don't worry, I just said that for effect, I have tried really hard not to actually cough on anything.) Anyway, there is one reason, and another is that I have been working very hard on the aforementioned guitars, hoping to finish them up this week. So far so good, the necks were fitted today so now it's just a sleigh ride into finishwork! (Sleigh ride because several inches of snow is predicted in Rugby today.) My third reason for not posting is that I haven't been able to think of any good stories to tell you. But that changed today.

This afternoon a fellow walked into the shop and plopped a picture down infront of my dad. Now, I don't know if this man knew my dad or that the building he entered was a guitar shop before he walked in, but he didn't introduce himself or anything, just asked directions to the place in the picture, assuming my dad knew. He did, as he knows most things, and started telling tales of his past. The picture was of Rugby in about 1950. I glanced at it while I was cutting frets and pressing them into a fingerboard. I saw a large bus, two grainy figures that looked to be teenage boys, and two buildings. My dad named the boys, and mentioned that one of them grew up to be his bus driver. I inquired about the bus, and he said that was the book mobile. (What?!) Apparently it drove around delivering books to folks who lived far from town. As many people used their feet for transportation, this was a pretty useful service. But let me get this straight: in 1950, in Rugby, VA, the smallest place in existence, there was a bus that took books to people?! I never considered that education was all that important to folks in this neck of the woods. Farming took hard work and consistency, not book learning, so I just assumed people didn't focus too much on that. That was an incorrect assumption. 

Rugby, circa 1950. Bookmobile waits in front of general store. 

Thinking back on my time spent with my Granny, I remember she was very proud of her handwriting. Her cursive was made with strokes so beautiful and sure. She wrote out lovely letters and when I asked her to teach me, she gave me a pencil and we sat down at her little houndstooth patterned table in the room off the kitchen, aptly positioned next to the tall metal coal stove that held the tea kettle. On her paper she scrawled endless loops; I remember thinking they looked like the bends in Slinky, only stretched out a little. She said she used to practice for hours and hours when she was a young girl. I thought I was doing it for hours and hours too, but in hindsight, my practice probably lasted about 5 minutes. I remember she mentioned that she went to school until the seventh grade, which was admirable and rare in those days. She said she had to walk to school, carrying her books bound with a leather strap, and looped through her arm a metal lunch pail filled with a biscuit and a vegetable, and if she was lucky, some ham or other type of cured meat.

Granny's dad was very well educated for being born in 1879 living in very rural Virginia. My dad said that Grandpa Orren wrote in that same intricate cursive, called Morgan hand, that I watched my Granny use. He said he was also fascinated by it, and tried to emulate his grandpa's handwriting as well. 

My dad told me today that his dad, Walter, never did go to school, but he could read a little bit, and write his name, and balance his checkbook. My dad said he never really thought about how he could do that, but later assumed that Granny taught him how to do those things. I bet she did. He said that both of his parents valued education, and knew that it was important for him to finish high school, even though they could always use more help on their farm. I think it is great that they encouraged that, and being creative, and playing music. My dad, uncle, grandfather, and my dad's grandfather all played an instrument, but that is a story for another time. 

My dad has many stories to share about his school experience. I remember him telling me more of them in the past, like the last day of school picnics, where each child was given a soda which was a very rare, and very welcome, treat in Rugby. Another time when he was playing baseball and Lauren and Leah's dad came running behind him right as he swung the bat and John got caught in his backswing. That blunt force trauma to the head laid John out cold. My dad thought he had killed him. But he regained consciousness eventually and made a full recovery. But the story I want to tell most is about Mr. Slabey. 

Mr. Slabey was the teacher at my dad's school who taught the older students. My dad said he was scared to death of him because he would take spells of screaming at his students that were so loud they shook the walls. My dad said he was petrified of him, and hoped never to have to have him as a teacher. One day as he was sitting on the rock wall that segregated the school from a cow pasture, my dad decided to see how far he could jump from the wall into the grass. As he landed, he fell onto his hands and slid forward in the wet grass. As he was sliding, his hand caught on a broken Pepsi bottle partially hidden in the earth and cut a large flapping gash in his hand. He said Mr. Slabey took him into the school and looked and the wound and quickly and expertly taped the wound shut and immediately soaked it in a bowl of water saturated with epsom salt. He then bandaged it and put a sling on my dad's arm. Mr. Slabey instructed Granny on how to soak the wound each evening, and when my dad arrived at school, Mr. Slabey checked it and replaced the gauze bandage. My dad was grateful for the teacher's kindness and the episode eased a bit of his anxiety over having to go into that room where the walls shook with each angry shout. 

I think it is incredibly interesting hearing about the folks around here, how they lived and worked in their community. These stories were particularly interesting to me as I have always enjoyed reading and learning, and it warms my heart to know that my family, and this community, does as well. 

Happy New Year!

I remember walking along the road holding my grandmother's hand, popping the bubbles that rose in the hot asphalt with my toes. My Granny never learned how to drive, so when we wanted to go somewhere we would walk, join Wayne and Lucy on their weekly trip to town, or much later when I was old enough, Granny would bravely buckle herself into my car. That is a story for a different day though.

Several times when I stayed with my Granny, we walked over to her mom's house. Granny Ollie's farm sits down the road a short ways, just past Wayne and Lucy's property. We would turn right off the road and cross the fence. I always climbed over the chipped aluminum bars while Granny just opened it, proclaiming that I would fall and break my arm. We stumbled down the hill, along the dirt driveway, two parallel tire tracks marking the way to the house. Before we could get to the house though, a two- or three-foot wide trickling of water that Granny called "the branch" intersected the drive. I can still hear what my Granny told me every time we encountered the ominous water.

"One time I was walking home and it had just been raining, so the branch was a little higher than usual. I got it into my head that I would jump over it and so I backed up and then took a big jump. And then I landed face first in that water, getting soaked from head to foot. I came in the house crying and upset. My mom didn't know what had happened to me!"

Most of the times we walked over there, we brought a paper bag filled with sandwiches and would explore the house a bit after eating lunch at the kitchen table. My great grandmother's furniture still sits in each room. The stove is still backed against a wall in the kitchen, though the ancient green refrigerator sits ajar. I remember always wanting to explore the rooms in a hope to find secret treasure that someone had carelessly left behind. I never found anything in particular, but the last time I walked out there with Shirleen I did find some amazing glass bowls that (apparently) used to come in boxes of oatmeal in the upper room of the barn.

Now that I think back on those lunchtime experiences, I realize that Granny was just coming back to her house to remember times with her mom. quite similar to the dinners my dad, his siblings, and I assemble at Granny's house now. It always feels so nice to sit around her big oak table and sit with my family, though it hurts a bit that she isn't there to join us. I guess we all just itch for nostalgia.

I don't know very much about Granny Ollie, other than from the snippets of stories I have heard from Granny and my dad. One thing I like to think is that she was probably a lot like me. She seemed to tell it how she saw it, and didn't have as strong a strain of that southern politeness that most of my family is steeped in. She also dipped snuff, which I don't think was typically something ladies did, so while I would never use any type of tobacco products, I also run a little against the grain.

The reason I thought to tell you a little bit about Granny Ollie today was because according to my dad she would always say, "If you work on New Year's Day, you'll work all year long," I take that saying to heart, and hope to make a solid start to 2013. This morning I got up and went running in a rainy 35 degrees (it wasn't the worst thing I have ever done), and then sat down and cut some pearl in hopes to appease my great grandmother, and hopefully be encouraged to learn a lot, work hard, and make some great instruments this year.

I hope that 2012 has treated you well, and that 2013 brings health and happiness for you and your loved ones!

Traditions

I worry that because I haven't written for a long, long time that the pressure to tell you something awesome has increased exponentially.  Well, let's see how it goes, shall we? 

I've been thinking a lot about traditions lately, as the holiday season has arrived, Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Christmas is looming. Most of the time I dislike this time of year, because it requires a lot of running about, and fitting a lot of family visits into an already stressful schedule, but there are those certain obligatory events that have been built into each year that keep me excitedly looking forward. 

One of those events is Thanksgiving dinner at my dad's house. Every year, my dad deep fries a turkey. Now, I know that sounds a little unhealthy and maybe insane, but he loves to do it, and everyone loves to eat it. It really is quite good, if you can just overlook the method. Thanksgiving morning, I hear the rumble of the Thunderbird, and look out the window in time to see my dad pulling it cautiously from its cozy spot in the garage, its shiny red coat still pristine from when it was last driven around the block. Which was probably in June when he removes it for his annual music festival. Anyway, the reason he took it out on Thanksgiving, as he does every year, is because the turkey fryer is located in the room to the rear of the garage. Splattered with grease stains from years of deep frying, we all worry a little bit that the place won't get blown sky high. My dad always says, "Well, I figure it would take more time to get the thing started than I would have to get it out of the garage in time if the turkey fryer blows up." 

Typically there's another fellow or two who helps out with the turkey. This year, it was just my immediate family for dinner, which is incredibly rare, so Nick and I were drafted to help with the turkey frying. Well, Nick was drafted, I mostly just stood there throwing sticks for Harper and practicing the 'stop, drop, and roll' in my head. We seasoned the turkey with a significant amount of salt and rigged it up using a scary looking metal apparatus that would probably be equally suited for an S&M ritual, then slowly lowered Mr. Turkey into the scalding oil. You have to monitor the temperature of the oil while the turkey is frying away, so we searched for something with which to entertain ourselves that could take place only several feet from the garage. We settled for some target practice with an old pump action rifle. Nick wants you to know that it is a Winchester 1906 Pump Action 22. (All I cared about is that it didn't knock me down or make significant noise when I shot it.) The neat thing about Rugby is that when you order pizza at the sketchy gas station down the road, it comes in a camouflaged box complete with targets printed on the back. We passed the hour or so of cooking time by practicing our aim, while doing our part to recycle our pizza boxes. My aim is pretty bad by the way. Oh well. 

Another amazing holiday tradition in my family is watching three, now four, Christmas themed movies. (Until this year, my dad had never seen A Christmas Story! He loved it, by the way) My dad's favorites are Home Alone and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, respectively, and watching him watch those movies is probably my favorite thing. I am not sure from where his love of slapstick comedy stems, but suffice it to say he can't get enough of the likes of Kevin McCallister or Clark W. Griswold. I recall him taking me to see Home Alone 2 in theaters and my dad laughed so hard he could barely breathe when Harry gets a facefull of tools as he attempts to enter Kevin's booby trapped house. This year, as most, my cousins Lauren and Leah stopped by to watch with us. It just isn't Christmastime without Kevin, Harry, and Marv.

Traditions like these remind me how fortunate I am to have such a great family, but I am looking forward to building new traditions with the family I have made with Harper and Nick. Of course, I miss my Granny and her Christmas tree that spent each Christmas in the old metal bathtub until it was replanted in the front yard in January, and the giant bulbous colored lights that adorned it, and how much better her dinners tasted than anyone else's, but hopefully I can take those memories and create similar ones for my new family. I am excited for my mom to come visit our house for fancy Christmas dinner, hopefully one Granny would approve of, and I am looking forward to spending time with Nick's family as well and incorporating their traditions into ours too.

As far as guitar building goes, I'm working on carrying on that family tradition as well, but with a few twists of my own. I have been working on ukuleles as of late, but about to start two new guitars. I cut all the inlay for one of them today. Spencer Strickland and I commiserated on our long last names. Every time inlay day comes around I wish Herb Key was my dad...

Anyway, last week I finished up a sweet tenor ukulele (made of Walnut and Spruce from White Top Mountain) with a tooth inlaid in gold that had actually been flattened from gold fillings. The dentist who removed the teeth and sent the flattened gold to the shop ordered a ukulele that matched the guitar I built for him last year. There aren't any gold teeth in the guitar, but since cutting out my whole name in mini to fit on a ukulele headstock would illicit significant use of profanity, I opted to try something a little moe unique...and better for my conscience. It turned out pretty well if I do say so myself. What do you think? 

Close up of the tooth

Doc playing the guitar I modeled uke #9 on.

Walnut back, with herring bone binding.