Clay Lunsford

It has been a productive few days in the shop. I chose some lovely curly maple for my new project: a 0000 style guitar that I should have started weeks ago. It was ordered by a fellow who lives in New Mexico, so the warm humid weather we have been having lately probably won't help with the finished guitar's transition to its new home.

Curly maple back, before I glued in the backstrip.

The best part of working in the shop is having incredibly talented musicians popping in and out all the time providing a live soundtrack for my workday. Over the past few days the incredibly talented musician to visit us was Clay Lunsford. Clay is a hilarious, amazing thumb picker who provided us with awesome music and great company.  My dad is always saying Clay isn't right in the head. That may be the case, but he sure is fun to have around! While I listened to beautiful melodies float from the soundhole of his guitar I worked to glue kerfing onto the curly maple sides. For a while my dad's good friend Greg Cornett took a break from wet sanding his new banjo rim to whistle several amazing tunes.

Along with the incredible music, there was also some entertaining conversation. "I am getting my britches dirty!" Clay complained after several hours of sanding the Brazilian Rosewood sides on the cutaway guitar that will so . "Well, why'd you wear such nice britches! You need you some Wranglers like I got on." My dad retorted. "Well this is what was laid out for me!" Clay answered. He was wearing black slacks that seemed to attract dust the way all the ladybugs in my house find death in our light fixtures.

I love to be around when my dad meets someone who's talent he truly admires. Every time a new visitor walked through the door, my dad would exclaim, "Have you met Clay? Clay! Play them Dixie and Yankie Doodle at the same time!" And Clay would obediently launch into an incredible rendition of both songs simultaneously. Really, this guy is amazing, though I am having trouble articulating just how much so. Gail and Tom Watts provided this video that demonstrates. If you look real hard, at the beginning of the video, my dad gets that incredulous look in his eye when he is truly appreciating talent.

The Old Shop

I don't remember all that much about my dad's old shop, because a room full of machines that could easily sever any number of my small body parts was not the ideal environment for a young curious girl such as myself. I remember the space seemed filled with magic things, like pieces of wood that were actually fancy new modes of transportation, the likes of Marty McFly's hover skateboard. I now know that my 'skateboard' is a mahogany neck blank, and it probably wasn't the best idea to be standing on it, using the angled headstock to spin around on, but that was my toy. I was very small, but still, maybe don't mention that one to my dad.

Anyway, the old shop, I think, was larger than the current brick structure next to my dad's house but things seem to have shrunk as I have grown up so it is hard to say for sure. I remember it had two rooms and one of them did not have any insulation so it was always freezing or super hot and the other was more like an apartment space, complete with counters and a kitchen space. The floor was covered in an unfortunate taupe and brown linoleum in a circular 1970s type pattern I have (luckily) not seen anywhere else.

My dad said that for many years he rented the larger, uninsulated room for $25 per month from Vivian Osborne. If you have visited my dad's house, it is very likely that you have passed what used to be Osborne's store, and is now the Citgo station that sits on the side of highway 58, about a quarter of a mile before you turn onto Tucker Road. Vivian owned that store, as well as my dad's shop building. A man lived in the apartment space attached to the larger room until my dad was able to take over that space as well.

The main things I remember about being there at the shop were located outside. Next door sat the Rugby Rescue squad building. Though ambulances rarely rushed out with their lights and sirens on, it was always an excitement to go over and look at the large ominous trucks resting in their spaces. Across the street from the shop was Genelle's house. She was the mother of one of my dad's friends, so she was similar in age to my Granny. She would happily oblige, just as my grandmother and Katherine would, and let me intrude on her and play with her things while my dad was working. Another activity I enjoyed when I visited the shop was dragging my dad outside to the banks of Wilson Creek and insist that he help me search for crawdads. We would creep along the creek bed and overturn fist sized rocks, smoothed from years of water running over them. I would always love finding crawdads, but I refused to touch them. Even though they had tiny pincers that probably couldn't do too much to the tough skin on your fingertips, it was just as stressful as anticipating a shot, which in hindsight doesn't hurt that badly but beforehand you are pretty sure it is going to be awful.

Anyway, my dad's favorite part of the crawdad hunt was trying to get someone to hold them. He would mess with them until they were sufficiently irritated, what with being plucked from their houses and then poked and prodded, so typically they were quite eager to grab ahold of whatever predator was afflicting them. I knew to steer clear, but one trip to the creek, we invited some other kids and their mom out with us. Being the city slicker she was, the mom naively reached out and took an irate crawdad from my dad's expert grasp, and it promptly latched onto her finger. After quite a while of wailing and flinging her hand about, the poor crawdad released her and was launched back into the creek, to hopefully find his rock house again. Ah memories...

The thing that I hold most dear about Rugby is that it is very easy to see history. Things aren't quickly changing or developing into gated communities or a Rite Aid on the corner. The same things that have been there forever are still there. The spot in the road on my grandmother's land where my dad nonchalantly pointed out to me where he killed a quail with a hammer is still there, complete with the fence he said he was building at the time. I think that is really neat, to see the landmarks that go along with the stories. Genelle's house still sits across the road from the old shop, the Rugby Rescue Squad building is pretty much the same, though I think they painted it blue recently. The Wilson Creek has babbled through its bed for who knows how long. Those things make it easy to remember my childhood and to stay connected with my family's past.

I came home one time, several years ago, looked down Rugby Road as I passed, and noticed something weird. Something different. Upon closer inspection, my dad's shop had been torn down and the space adjacent to the squad building was just a grass lot. Kind of like nothing had ever been there. It was scary and odd to me. Things like that just don't happen in Rugby. The new shop, which my dad built just a hop, skip, and a really small jump from his house is great, and has accrued a history all its own. If ever it is taken apart though, someone will find the handprints of a 9 year old girl, forever pressed into the cement in its attic.

Wayne picking outside of the old Henderson Guitar Shop. Note the awesome sign painted by my very talented mom!

Ukulele: Complete!

This is going to be mostly a picture post, as it is late and I want to put my full attention into writing about a memory. Wouldn't want to stiff you or anything. Below find pictures of my finished ukulele. The finishing process seems to have become easier and easier-with less mistakes that I have to keep fixing, not to say this project was free of them by any means. I have very much enjoyed making this uke, and hope to make more in the future, so if you want a ukulele be sure to let me know! I think they are more my speed, as they are small and compact, like me, and for some reason I feel more comfortable doing most of the work entirely on my own even though it is quite similar to a guitar, just on a smaller scale.

This morning a close family friend, Greg Cornett, stopped by for a visit. He walked into the shop just as I was winding the last nylon string around its tuner. He helped me tighten and tune the strings, which had to be retuned every few minutes as the nylon stretches an ridiculous amount initially. He sang, "All Dogs Have Fleas" to help me find the pitch, though I don't think Harper, who was standing nearby, appreciated the lyrics too much. After checking and rechecking the action and adjusting the slots in the nut to just the right height, the sounds emerging from the tiny instrument was astounding. Not to brag or anything, it was just a surprising amount of noise coming from such a small little thing. Anyway, here are pictures of the finished product, full of love and perhaps a little bit of blood as I cut the crap out of my finger when I was marking small holes inorder to drill into the peghead. My pink polka-dotted knife betrayed me and shut onto my finger while I was putting pressure onto the point of the blade. My fault really, but all is well and nearly healed! Hopefully just a scar will be left to remind me about the dangers of wielding sharp things. Someday perhaps I will tell you about the time my knife skills sent me to the emergency room...

Greg and Harper trying her out

I was probably a little more excited than I should have been...

There she is in her cute little case.

Finished inlay.

Inlays and Ukuleles

There seems never to be a dull moment in my dad's shop. Yesterday was another exciting Tuesday with the General Loafers, among others. Herb brought me some material to make an apron like his to wear in the shop. I hope you have had the pleasure of knowing him, as he is probably the nicest, most thoughtful fella in the world. Often when he comes to do repair work on Tuesdays, he will bring me a bag full of garlic from his garden, or show me a trick for repairing the body of an old Gibson guitar. This time it was several folded pieces dark green denim-like material that he said came from my dad's old shop. I only vaguely remember spending time in the oblong tarpaper-tiled building located next door to the Rugby Rescue Squad, but more on those experiences later. Herb's own apron that he wore for many years until it's inevitable demise due to overuse was made from this same material by his wife Mary. He also included an apron to use as a pattern, so I plan to construct something similar so I can be just like Herb.

Dave Nichols teaches inlay techniques

Another highlight of this week: I learned how to inlay. I thought I knew how before, but apparently I didn't. A very talented inlayer (I might have just made that word up) named Dave Nichols stopped by on his way from is home in upstate New York to a festival in Asheville. Upon seeing my dad's setup, which consists of two metal pieces that clamp a piece of pearl between them by using a foot-shaped pedal as you file horizontally, he barked, "No one can file anything like that!" Well, while that might be true for most, and I beg his pardon, but my dad has seemed to get along pretty well for the past 40 years, so that statement is not entirely correct. It was quite helpful though, to have a quick lesson on how to sit, relaxing my shoulders and my grip on the file, and how to hold the pearl as I file it vertically on a specially shaped board. The lesson turned out to be helpful, not only in matters of inlay.

My first attempt at sawing the new way. These are for one of my dad's guuitars

I mentioned to him something about enjoying the inlay process and that making instruments is very fulfilling, learning from my father. He replied, "Well that is good, you should do what you love or else you will have to do what you are trained for!" Asked to clarify, he told me that he has a Ph.D. in Psychology, and after working as a psychologist for quite some time, he decided it was important to do something he got immense joy out of. I very much appreciate that he spent a lot of money and time learning to do something that currently he does not practice. It helped me to know that I am not the only nutpants who went to school to learn something  substantial but has ended up not using that knowledge fully.

Speaking of enjoying my time, this week I have been making a ukulele. Perhaps because they are small and dainty, or that they seem a little bit simpler to construct, I really love making ukuleles. This one is made from a walnut tree that grew in in West Virginia, and in it's heyday it used to produce prized walnuts, but was then struck by lightening. The people who loved the tree hated to see it waste into the landscape so they brought the salvaged wood to my dad. I had hoped to use this wood for the guitar I just finished, but the wood is riddled with wormholes, so finding a complete back of a guitar was not feasible. But there was enough clean wood make a ukulele :-)

I just got back from carving the neck, which is a little bit more difficult than a guitar neck as it is so small that you can't take some of the shortcuts that you normally would for a guitar. For instance, I had to use a rasp to shape the heel because the sander I would typically use is too large and would sand off excessive amounts of wood off the heel. Anyway, I also drew a lovely inlay for the peghead and cut and inlayed the pearly using my new skills. What do you think? Side note: It is currently storming-and it snowed 6 inches two days ago. This alarms me and kind of encourages me to go back to environment work...

Inlay for the peghead of my walnut soprano ukulele

Valentine's Day

When I visited my Granny on Valentine's Day, I remember she would always display her red cardboard box of chocolates proudly on the kitchen table. I would sidle up to it, excited to participate in a holiday that celebrates candy. Unlike Forrest Gump though, I always knew what piece I was going to get. In the center of the box always sat a solid chunk of milk chocolate molded into the form of a little messenger carrying a box of chocolate. Some pieces may have been missing from their spots surrounding the messenger man, but Granny saved him for me every year. I only recently came to understand the significance of this gesture.

I asked my dad if he had any Valentine's Day memories that I wasn't aware of. He said he just remembers that every year without fail my grandfather would bring a red heart-shaped box of chocolates to Granny. He said he anticipated the day for weeks in advance because it was the only time of year when they had store bought candy in the house. He said that there was one piece of chocolate that he just absolutely had to have: the little, solid chocolate piece in the middle. In those days it came wrapped in a separate piece of cellophane, so he knew it had to be special. He would grab that piece of chocolate and run with it as soon as the box was opened, though I am sure if he had had any patience at all, Granny would have saved it for him.

Another thing Daddy told me is that Valentine's Day is his parent's wedding anniversary.  I have asked Granny about how she and Walt met, but I don't think I even considered asking about their wedding. She never talked about it, and no one seems to know where it happened. My dad said he knows that they went with their friends, Brad and Dale Richardson, and they got married together, probably finding a justice of the peace or a minister nearby to perform a small, informal ceremony. (Dale is a girl by the way.) While I wish so much I could ask her right now what happened on that Valentines day in 1935, I appreciate that the wedding wasn't a huge to-do. Maybe that is where I get my aversion to big 'traditional' weddings.

While my Granny saved the solid chocolate piece for me, I suppose I have my dad to thank for those as well. After my grandfather died, my dad continued the tradition of bringing a red cardboard box full of Valentine chocolates to her. I remember, while I was around at least, he would bring her one without fail. I think the gesture is important, as now I understand it was not just for celebrating chocolate, but  because there is a deep seated tradition that displays love to people important to him.

"Nothing fancy, just a red cardboard box filled with chocolates," he instructed over the phone as I stood, somewhat agitated, in the aisle that seemed to have vomited red sparkly and plush things out into the floor of the Rite Aid earlier today. He asked me to pick up a box for Shirleen on my way home because he had company and was unable to go himself. But it was obviously important that he have some for her on February 14. I think for him, Valentine's Day isn't just a ridiculous commercialized 'holiday' as I believed prior to writing this post. So, consider the people in your life that you love and make sure they know it, start/continue a tradition that can be passed on throughout generations.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Until the Twelfth of Never....

The Walnut OM guitar I had been working on for the past month is finally finished. At first I felt somewhat discouraged because after working and working I either sanded through the previous coat of finish and had to respray, sand, and buff all over again, or after I strung the guitar I managed to damage the finish on the side of the peghead enough that I had to remove the tuners and redo it. But, I guess it just puts into perspective how much I (don't) know about guitars and how much my dad knows. I have learned a lot, and can inlay well enough to say I am proficient at it, but I know I have a long way to go before I can make a guitar like my dad does. I know that, and I want you to know that I know that. But, with his help, this one turned out alright...eventually...I would also like to thank my friend Mac for coming over to play it a while and helping it become a guitar after my failed attempt at stringing it up. Otherwise, I may not have gotten the friendly comments from a very important visitor in the shop the next day.

Doc Watston stopped by on Saturday and ended up playing the guitar for about 2 hours. He told me he would tell me the truth as I placed the guitar into his waiting hands, and I knew he would. "You fretted it true, bless your heart" he said as he tested each fret.

Pickguard made by yours truly

He spoke of his wife Rosa Lee, and I again was enthralled by the obvious love he shares with her. Listening to his lyrics, as he broke into The Twelfth of Never, singing, "You ask how long I'll love you/I'll tell you true/Until the twelfth of never/I'll still be loving you." It sounded like he was singing only to his Rosa Lee, and I appreciate so much how true that love is. It is a rare thing these days, and I feel fortunate to have seen it first hand.

Anyway, here are some pictures of the finished product. It is still for sale, so put the word out for me. Feel free to pass along my email if need be-it is on this blog somewhere isn't it? Raising some money for Luke's medical bills would be really helpful for his family, and while he is making progress, it will be a long road to recovery. I know it is not a Henderson, which is what most people out there want, but it sounds like one, and has a lot of love and hard work put into it. I appreciate the folks who have supported me thus far in this endeavor, and am doing my best to ignore the rest. Until next time!

Sewing and Sanding

I apologize, again, for lagging in my posts. I have spent the past couple of weeks in Asheville so I haven't racked up much stuff to say about guitar building and wasn't sure if you would like to know of the events that transpired while I was at home. Things like taking Harper to a new dog park where she was promptly bitten by another dog and left bleeding, having nightly How I Met Your Mother marathons with Nick, making Salmon Wellington for the first time and serving three pretty little salmon packages and one scary mess of puff pastry with a salmon filet sitting primly on top....are you interested in those things? I didn't think so.  Well, I do have one story that might be worth telling.

The other day I got a sewing machine because I discovered Pinterest and ended up spending significantly more time on that website than I probably ever have on Facebook. Anyway, if you haven't visited Pinterest.com, it initially looks kind of stupid, just a compilation of random things that people find entertaining or interesting online and then they 'pin' them on their virtual bulletin boards. However, if you like cooking, like I do, or being crafty and making things, like I do, or just looking at really neat ideas for decorating your house or planning an event, then this site is not as stupid as it may seem at first glance. Anyway, one of the pins I discovered while perusing the site at oh, 2 am and not realizing I had been on it for the past 5 hours, was how to make an adorably cute dress with only one piece of fabric and incorporating the top half of a cheap cotton tank top into it.

So, as soon as it was light, I called my aunt Shirleen to inquire about sewing machines, and what I would need in order to make the beautiful dress that I saw. First I considered hand sewing it, but the instructions called for elastic thread and I figured my dexterity might not be up to par to handle such tasks. Shirleen helped me pick an inexpensive machine that did all the basic things a sewing machine should do. She seemed skeptical that I could get it properly functioning by myself though, and suggested I bring it back down to Rugby and she would help me. Well. I showed her. Kind of.

After lugging my new Brother 17 Stitch Free-Arm machine into the house I proceeded to read the instructions carefully. I actually parked on the couch and read it like a book, cover to cover. Well, the bits in English, and then, just for fun, some in Spanish. Some Spanish sewing words are funny. Anyway, I then worked to do all of the things the little icons instructed. After a while, I managed to make a bobbin, and load that bobbin in the bottom of the machine, and wound the thread that goes on top of the machine up and down and back and around and in and out...(does it really need to do all that? Really?!) But eventually I managed to sew my fabric together. I only felt panicked enough to try to conjure my Granny a couple of times, and I called Shirleen once to help me adjust everything so my thread would quit spewing out all over the place. Ok, well even if it didn't all go swimmingly, when Nick walked in the door several hours later he was greeted by little (maybe bigger than that) piles of wasted thread and fabric scraps all over the floor and table, it ended up working out just fine. I constructed a long dress that I can't wait to wear when it is warm enough outside to do so. Before that happens though, I  need to learn how to hem the skirt so I don't fall down, which I might have done a time or two whilst traipsing infront of my mirror.

Yesterday, I returned to Rugby, and today I sanded my waiting guitar with 2000 grit paper and water until I could not find any scratches in the finish. This is way easier said that done. The process took all day and several trips back to the spray room because I ended up sanding through the layers of finish to expose the bare wood several times. Then when the sanding was done, while pressing the guitar body into a huge yellow buffing pad that spins at a significant speed, the finish kind of...burned off. The neck is the main culprit of 'burn throughs' as it has numerous sharp edges, off of which it seems the finish just can't wait to fly. In any event, I managed to respray, resand, and rebuff every bit that gave me trouble, and it now looks as smooth as a skating rink. (Actually, after several years of figure skating, I know how scratched and flawed ice is and my guitar doesn't really compare. I just thought I would use a common analogy for something super shiny and smooth.) Here are some pictures of the walnut back and sides, spruce top, and curly maple binding that makes up my guitar.

Neighbors, Part 2

I don't have any siblings. But I do have Lauren and Leah. My grandfather and their Granny Shirley were siblings, therefore we are third cousins. (We think, though none of us is terribly adept at genealogy.) When I was very young and my dad and I would go for walks around Granny's farm, looking for indians and arrowheads they might have left behind, my parent's dog Martha would often join us. When she would wander off I would yell out her name repeatedly. My dad would always say, "Shhh, don't yell so loud, Martha up the hill will think you are yelling at her." I had no idea who Martha was, but I always secretly hoped she would come down off the hill and pop out of the bushes wondering why someone had called her name. I did finally get to meet Martha, who, as it turns out, is Lauren and Leah's mother.

The first time I met this Martha and her daughter Lauren (Leah must have stayed home, or maybe she wasn't around yet) they came to visit one evening while I was expressing my extremely precocious (not really) artistic abilities on a moderate sized green chalk board that slid out from behind the television stand and blocked the door to the kitchen when in use. I remember Lauren marched into the living room and immediately intimidated me even though I was five years her elder. She had sparkly blue studs in each of her pierced ears and of those I was extremely jealous. My mom had not yet allowed me to visit the Piercing Pagoda to get mine done, though I think after meeting Lauren I used her to back my argument that I should be allowed to have pierced ears as well. While Granny and Martha chatted, Lauren and I drew on the chalk board, though not before she erased everything that had previously been scratched on there with pastel colored chalk. This was presumably due to her expert eye when it came to chalk drawing, and the fact that my doodles were probably not as amazing as I had previously believed.

Having a friend across the street who was of similar age was extremely exciting to me. Until I met Lauren, I had spent most of my time with Granny or alone reading books, or escaping outside to play with the cats during the dreaded "Stories" on CBS. Though I could see their house from Granny's porch when the leaves were gone in the winter, Lauren and Leah's driveway sat a ways back up Rugby Road, which meant I could not visit their house unless I found some way closer to where the crow flies.

But lo! Directly across the street from my Granny's driveway and Wayne and Lucy's driveway sat Blair and Katherine's house. Lauren introduced me to the idea that it was alright to visit Blair and Katherine's house anytime I wanted, and their house by the way, had a path mowed in the tall grass behind it leading to Lauren's house. When my dad was young he would also go visit Katherine, and as he tells it, she taught him how strum the first few chords he learned on the guitar. So, I guess a lot of my dad's success in guitars began with her, so we all should feel fortunate she was such a sweet lady, allowing neighborhood kids to come visit her from when my dad was young up until she passed away several years ago.

I learned a lot of valuable life lessons from Katherine, such as how to make peanut butter fudge, how to play croquet, that blueberries picked from a bush in the backyard taste the best when added to a bowl of milk and sugar, and that The Wonder Years is quite possibly the best show ever to air on television. Blair and Katherine had satellite TV, whereas no one else I knew in the community had more than a fuzzy picture of such personalities like Bob Barker and Dan Rather. So, most afternoons, especially during the Stories, I would head down the driveway and across the street to watch The Wonder Years and American Gladiators while enjoying Rugby delicacies the likes of homemade fudge or fresh picked blueberries.

The thing about Rugby is that you kind of have to rely heavily upon yourself to create entertainment. There aren't any Discovery Zones or Chuck E Cheese restaurants up the holler adjacent to the cow pasture. Lauren, Leah, and I would oftentimes conjure entertainment by phoning our relatives and assuming alternate identities. I believe that is what they call prank calls in the big cities...Anyway, I remember one particular summer evening we lightly bounced on the huge black trampoline rimmed in blue padding that was positioned in the center of Lauren and Leah's yard and called Granny, and then Katherine. Taking turns, we spoke with each of the ladies, producing amazingly inaccurate British accents and offering each woman a well paid position as a seamstress employed by the Buckingham Palace. The Queen of England had specifically requested their presence in her newly formed sewing circle. Both Granny and Katherine politely declined, but not before humoring me and Lauren, allowing us to verify to ourselves that we were top notch actresses at such young ages.

Last year, during a walk that I would love to share with you in more detail later, Lauren, Leah, Harper, and I all went for a long walk on Granny's land. That day reminded us of our younger days when we used to scamper over the same hills spying on the cows, or searching for treasures hidden deep within the brush. One particular time we were exploring the hilly pasture next to Granny's house and the bull who resided there seemed to become agitated due our invasion of his space; he snorted and pawed vigorously at the ground.  Naturally we ran for our lives. Poor Leah ended up getting a face full of grass before tripping out of the lot after Lauren and I hopped effortlessly over the low electric fence. I am going to go ahead and credit that experience, and note my involvement, for making Leah the awesome runner she is nowadays.

The experiences I shared with these girls are priceless memories that I am so proud to possess. I think growing up in Rugby has afforded us a unique opportunity to experience a simple existence that focuses on relationships and the love of family. I love so much that Leah and I still take walks in the woods and continue exploring the countryside and I know Lauren would do anything I ever asked of her. This entry doesn't come close to fully describing the awesome times we have shared over the years, so get ready for further entries I guess. I chose only these two girls to stand with me at my wedding because they know and accept all of me and I am closer to them than anyone else I know. I am so lucky to have grown up with them both and am able to call them my sisters.

Rhododendron Gap, Grayson Highlands State Park

Neighbors, Part 1

First of all, I would like to apologize for not writing a post earlier in the week. I have been planning to head back to Asheville and realized that I am so close to finishing the guitar I am working on, I might as well go ahead and spray on the finish and head home while it is drying. I promise I have been thinking about stories to tell you, and things to say that might be interesting to you. So, on that note, I am going to tell you another story about growing up in Rugby.

So, a thing about Rugby is that you know everyone. I mean, there aren't that many people to know, but every neighbor is a friend. That is something that I love about this place. The people haven't changed much in my lifetime and I love that. I think all who reside here have an aversion to change and don't always welcome newcomers well until we are positive they are not a threat to the precious socioeconomic group that has grown over generations. And I shouldn't even include myself into this selective clique because I am a hybrid and not always accepted by everyone here myself. Having DNA relating to that of Wayne Henderson helps though.

My Granny and her neighbors were some of the greatest people I have ever known. In the small grey house constructed of tar shingles directly adjacent to my grandparent's land lived Wayne and Lucy. Most of the days I spent at Granny's I would walk partway down the gravel driveway (Granny's was the kind with two gravel ruts and a tuft of grass running down the middle) and would cross through the vegetable garden where I would then wobble across the thin 2x8 inch board intersecting the small "branch" that ran between the two properties. I would scamper up the bank and then into Wayne and Lucy's yard. The chicken coop sat on my right, a flower garden was dug into the dirt on my left and the grey house and it's side glass storm door was straight ahead. The actual front door to their house, sitting atop a covered porch was to my left facing the road. I never knew anyone who used it.

When I came to visit Wayne and Lucy, I would scratch on the screen  of the storm door instead of knocking so they knew it was me. Lucy, quiet and subdued, always dressed in a light cotton dress buttoned in the front and her hair was either styled in soft grey waves or pinned up in tight circles held to her head by bobby pins. She was very delicate. I was always scared to touch her for fear of hurting her.  Immediately after my arrival she would insist that I have something to eat. She always kept a hard plastic cup; the kind with small cuts all over so it sparkled in the sun, full of candy on the counter. I am not entirely sure why it was always filled to the brim with such sweets as Worther's Original and Peppermint Patties. I didn't know if it was just refilled for my frequent visits, or if other children also stopped by or perhaps she and Wayne would indulge in the sweets every now and again. Whatever the reason, it was always there, as long as they lived in that house.

The complete opposite of Lucy, Wayne was loud and boisterous. He would pronounce, "Look who is here! Jayne is here!" every time I stepped in the door. He would then proceed to tell me the story of when he first met me. Apparently I rolled around in the floor of Wayne and Lucy's living room when I was perhaps 8 months old, having only one tooth protruding from my gums. Wayne had a shined apple in his shirt pocket and crawled over to him and dug it out. In his words, I fished it out of his pocket and used my one tooth to try to take a big bite out of it. That is pretty much all of the story, but I guess it was an exciting moment for him and Lucy and Granny. Another thing about Wayne is that my dad is named after him. When my Granny went into labor, Wayne was the only person in the county with a car, and he took my grandfather Walter and Granny to the hospital, therefore Wayne C Henderson has his name.

Wayne and Lucy's house is also special. The neat thing about it is that it had a room in it specifically for items that needed to be chilled, before people around Rugby had such things as a refrigerator. The spring ran through a cement holding tank in their cellar, which happend to be attached to their house, on the way to the bathroom. Many times I would stop in there and marvel at the cement tanks holding cool water that emerged from the ground just outside. Above the tanks were rows upon rows of cans filled with colorful food such as beans and tomatoes and apples. I always thought that room was pretty cool. Now, after learning about environmental law, the slow food movement and reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Mineral I wish I could visit Wayne and Lucy again and ask a thousand more questions regarding their food production and preservation. At the time I just thought it was a neat looking room, the likes of which I had never before seen in anyone's house.

These two people were part of my family. I am sad to say that they both have died in the past few years, but I remember driving to Rugby from college and taking my Granny-when she was 89-to Lucy's funeral because my dad wasn't in town at the time. It was important to me to be able to do that for her, because I loved them as much as she did, and as much as I have any aunt or uncle. They are good people and I am so fortunate to have known them.

Walnut back

Maple binding

Oh dear, it looks like I have written quite a bit, so to save you from even more mumblings, I will leave the stories of Katherine, Lauren and Leah for next time. Also, it is time to head out and spray another coat of finish on my walnut herringbone guitar. I think it is going to look and sound really great. When you tap the slightly bearclawed top it rings with a bright and prolonged tone and the curly grain is highlighted in the maple binding and walnut back and sides. I am still hoping to raise some cash for Luke's bills, so keep spreading the word!

New Guitar!

Starting a new guitar is so exciting to me. Choosing the wood is like a puzzle but there are so many options as to which pieces will fit you really are never positive you got the right combination until you just know. I always want to make the right choices, worried that matching this back that I dug out from under seven other dusty planks will match the sides I found buried within another pile of wood stacked in my dad's shop. And will those look good with the back strip I choose? And what is the story behind this wood as opposed to that one over there? Where has this wood been in its life? In its death? Who cut it down, and why is it here in in a tiny shop in Rugby, VA right now? It is exciting mixing and matching until I get a feeling about everything. I feel anxious until I find the best match for the project. In this latest case, I have decided on a walnut back and body, less curly and wild than another set I was considering, paired with a spruce top that is kin to the set I used for my number 4 Koa cutaway.

Looking over my dad's collection of backstrips, small pieces of wood glued together in a pattern that when cut into thin strips make a beautiful constellation of colored wood, I felt inspired to showcase a herringbone pattern on this guitar. I have bent a strip of the "braided" brown and white wood into an O shape and inlaid it around the soundhole as well as glued it down the middle of the two walnut pieces that will constitute the guitar's back.

Today I shaped back braces and fitted the back onto the sides of the guitar. Tomorrow I hope to finish up the bracing on the top of the guitar and finish up the body. I will then work on strapping herringbone strips around the outside of the top and back to complete the body. Once a plan is in motion, it feels really nice to see the puzzle complete itself with each passing day.

I haven't yet sold this guitar, and that is a new experience for me, working without specific needs in mind. I am having some difficulty making something for someone I don't know because every other guitar I have worked on has included thoughts like, "I hope they like this," or "This neck size feels good to me, so I bet they will like it."

This guitar is going to be special in that I hope it will help someone. Several weeks ago, a distant cousin of mine was defending his state wrestling title, and after hitting a wall, broke his neck and is now a quadriplegic. My cousin Luke's life changed so drastically in a few seconds, and I hope to be able to use a portion of the proceeds of this guitar to put toward his medical expenses. I don't have the person I am making the guitar for in mind while I am working, but I am thinking of Luke. I want to help in the way that I know how and make sure that the work that I am doing is helping others.  If you know anyone who might be interested in this guitar, pass this along and let me know!

Christmas Memories

I apologize for the break in posts. I have had a hectic holiday season, spending time with Nick and Harper and Nick's parents as well as my parents. Currently I am in Harrisonburg, VA visiting my mom. All of this travel has provided me with lots of time to think about Christmasses past and great memories of family gatherings.

I was thinking that one of my very favorite Christmases was the year when I was 8 and I was presented with two giant boxes. This was still when I was pretty sure that the best packages came in the biggest boxes. (Not always the case, especially as you get older, but in this instance it was definitely true.) I remember walking into my grandmother's house, and being greeted by the same Christmas tree she used every year, covered with tinsel and those large colored lights that I am not sure are even made anymore. When I was young, I remember Granny would dig the small Frasier Fir my dad replanted following one Christmas and bring it inside, roots sitting in the old metal bathtub in which my family used to bathe once upon a time. Impressively environmentally conscious, Granny would bring that tree in each year and then replant it back in the front yard following the Christmas festivities. I also remember that my parent's dog Bo, who was adopted by Granny following their divorce, would pee on it in the interim between Santa's visits.

Currently that tree stands taller than the house, with a significant bare patch (I would guess around 3 feet in height) thanks to Bo's urine and it's impact with the tree's biological functions.

The year I turned 8 just 5 days prior to Christmas, I was presented with two boxes. Of course, Santa brought other stuff too, but I can't remember any of it other than these two presents. I excitedly unrwapped the first present, revealing a cardboard box stamped repeatedly with the word ECLAIRS. I had never had an eclair before, but I knew it was sweet and chocolatey and probably delicious, so my curiosity and excitent grew. To my surprise though, what spilled from the box was not enough eclairs to smother an eight year old, perhaps physically stunted, little girl. (I was born three months early weighing in at two pounds and it took a while to make up such a significant amount. That is a story for another time, but I have achieved a normal weight and then some now, so don't worry.)

As I opened the flaps of the box, red and black and white squares emerged from the side. I saw Dalmatians, black and white squares and white yarn knots making up a quilt my grandmother had stitched for me. Growing up, my mom and I shared our house with a Dalmatian called Oreo. To me he was a brother, as he surely tried my patience time and again, but was always there when I needed a playmate or someone to hug. He also used to drag me around the yard by my shoelaces, which is a task I feel is something a brother might do to a smaller sister but I am willing to overlook it as he is not currently around to defend his actions now. Again, I was tiny when I was younger...and I probably just looked like a super awesome, challenging chew toy to him.

Anyway, while I might not have fully appreciated that quilt at the young age of 8, I definitely do now. Many times, especially since my Granny's death, I have curled up in its warmth, remembering her and the time she presented me with this amazing gift in an oversized eclairs box. "To Jayne From Granny 1992" is stitched in red thread in one corner. I am so so grateful that she did this for me, now as I snuggle under the quilt and write this story for you, and I thank my mom for guarding it with care while I went to school and pursued my own interests. Now I am able to remember my Granny and her kindness and unconditional love for me.

The other large box under my Granny's tree in 1992 held another currently priceless, handmade gift. As I removed the layers of tissue surrounding a small, size 5 28 guitar with heart inlays gleaming throughout the fingerboard and on the peghead labeled Henderson, I was filled with excitement. My dad had made me a guitar! I knew he loved to make guitars, but I had never considered he might be working on one for me. I now know that the back and sides are constructed of Brazilian Rosewood harvested from the bar on Truman Capote's yacht. Several years after receiving this guitar I read Breakfast at Tiffany's and then a bit later In Cold Blood because I figured I should learn about this fellow who's bar now serves as the majority of my guitar. Now knowing what I do about ol' Truman, I marvel at the amazing stories I am sure that wood would tell if it could speak...(Sidenote: I love his writing, even though In Cold Blood scared the wits out of me and anytime I sleep alone now I make sure to prepare my surroundings with ample protection, usually in the way of some sort of bludgeon divice wearing a disguise of a huge flashlight, on the advice of one Susan Trianosky.)

I never learned to play the guitar well, as I have pretty small hands and it never came easy to me. I could go ahead and blame that on my premature beginnings as well, but it is just a fact. And, the length of my fingers unfortunately does not increase with my growing culinary arts interests. I plan to work at it more now though, especially since I am learning to construct similarly awesome instruments and need to know how to tell when they sound good when my dad isn't there to help me. Someday, hopefully close to never, my dad won't be around for me to talk to and get guitar advice when I need it. When that day comes, I will probably sit wrapped in my quilt and play my guitar. For these gifts, and allowing me to keep my family near when they physically aren't, I am so thankful.

Happy Holidays from Wayne, Sylvia and Walter (circa 1954)

My Parents

Earlier today my dad's friend Don, who is working on a room in dad's house that will display highlights of his many accomplishments over the years walked into the kitchen where I was making truffles. Gran Marnier truffles and peanut butter truffles if you are interested, but I guess that is beside the point.

"Do you think it would be alright if we put this picture on the wall?" he asked me.

I took the 8x10 sheet of paper he handed me. The photograph was an image of my mom and dad playing guitars at what looked like a music festival. My mom is looking at the camera, while my dad is concentrating on the notes he is playing. This picture got me to thinking. Of course my mom should be in this 'museum' of Wayne Henderson. I never really thought about it before, but looking through an entire box of similar photographs that Don found in the attic, I realized my parents had shared a life together that I don't know very much about. Most of the pictures are of them at various picking parties and festivals, but there are also some of my mom at work and in the kitchen cooking, and of my one year old self- in red footie pajamas that look pretty good right about now- wedged between the sink and the toilet, thinking I was helping my dad fix a leaky pipe.

I really enjoyed looking into their life before I was part of it. They were married for many years but divorced when I was very young, so even considering them as a married couple is an idea completely foreign to me. I loved seeing their shared musical interests, and then the ones where my dad is trying to incorporate himself into a non-guitar-playing world. In one photograph, he stands in front of a vast green field holding my mom's horse as she sits (with excellent posture) atop its shiny brown back, and there is another of them at what I am guessing is Ocracoke Island, where he looks excited to be fishing from the sandy beach. These are just a reminder of time gone by I guess, and that even as things change, or get older in my case as my birthday is tomorrow, life is to be cherished and appreciated while it lasts.

My favorite picture I found today.

Visiting With Doc Watson

Yesterday afternoon, as I was using the spindle sander to straighten the edges of the headstock of my ukulele and who should shuffle into the shop but Doc Watson. He came with Jarrell Little just to visit a while.

After Harper happily greeted him and he told us a few stories about his pets from his life, my dad asked him if he wanted to try out the new guitar I had just finished. He said yes, so I ran and fetched it from its new, clean case.

"It sounds like a Henderson" he said after picking a few notes. He played several beautiful songs, singing the verses he remembered. I am impressed with how many songs he can still sing at 88. I think if I had as many songs rolling around in my head as he, I wouldn't be able to remember any one in particular. Between songs, and saying things like, "This is a beautiful cutaway"and, "This is the best sounding guitar I have ever heard. Well, maybe the one Wayne made for me sounds a little better, but it is a big body style!" he talked about his wife Rosalee.

I think of all the people I know, I have never heard anyone talk about their significant other like he speaks of Rosalee. He says they met when he was 20, and she was 14 and at that moment he was "bitten by the love bug." I think it is so amazing that there is love like that out there, and that he has it. And that he shares it with people like me.

 

So, yes it is awesome that he came and shared amazing music with the few of us who were in the shop yesterday and had only the kindest things to say about my work, but I appreciate so much how he shares his feelings as well. I love that when he comes in, I know he will say exactly what he is thinking; he is not a sugar coating kind of fella.

All strung up! (Not the Christmas tree...)

I love Tuesdays. It was an extra special one for me today because I strung up my fourth guitar and heard the first notes emerge from its soundhole. I think that is a really special thing to hear, because just a second ago, it was just wood glued together in a specific manner and now it is doing something. Making sounds! Music!

It was a long, and sometimes stressful, road to get to this day but the excitement of twisting the tuners and finding the E,A,D,G,B, and E for each string respectively is exhilirating. Like Christmas. I am sure it would be more exciting if I could play better, but it is still a neat feeling for me. I stroked a few chords on the new guitar, and thought, "Hm, that sounds pretty good I guess." Then my dad took it and actually played it and I thought, "Well ok, when you put it that way...." I am so pleased with the sound, and that is such a scary thing since I have worked for a month on something and who knows how it will turn out until after all of that labor.

Of course there were a fair amount of mistakes along the way. For example, Herb was looking everything over, testing the action and set of the neck and suggested that the truss rod be tightened just a bit. Well...thanks to his comment I remembered I hadn't even attached the knobby onto the end of the truss rod that does such things. And also, somewhere along the way we made a pretty significant ding in the finish that I only discovered after my dad mentioned it. No one has any recollection of hitting it on anything so that is still a mystery, though the general blame has been directed toward Harper. (I am sure she is not the culprit.) Bottom line, there was a large ding in the side of my brand new guitar and the hike in my blood pressure was palpable. I started scrubbing on it with a little bit of 2000 grit sandpaper before my dad got a hold of it because I left to help set up for dinner. Several minutes later, as we all sat down to some delicious vegetable soup that Jean Callison brought over, my dad said, "I will give you fifty cents if you can find that scratch." So. I love him.

At the end of the day, I am really excited to say that this guitar sounds wonderful and even though the full body Koa OM is still my favorite guitar I have made, this one is a very very close second. Maybe it is a tie. I wish the bearclaw in the top would show up in pictures the way it gleams in the light when you look at it in person. I wish you could hear the bold notes that come from its modest body. Well, just stop on by and see it. Or better yet, listen to Juniper Green, my cousin Matt's band because with any luck he will still be playing this guitar when he is super famous.

Testing her out.

Me with Harrol and Herb.

Here's to Learning

Today as I was fitting the neck on a ukelele I am making, I realized that I had not asked my dad to check my work on any of the steps involved so far. I drew the pattern onto the wood, and I cut and shaped the braces, I measured and fitted the top and back, and routed the excess wood from the body. This excites me very much because it means I have actually learned how to do these things rather than just gone through the motions while my dad really does them while "showing me".

My good friend Spencer, a gifted instrument builder who has recently become knowledgeable in the astrology arts ;-), says that a Sagittarius (which is what I am, but just on the brink, as my birthday falls on the last day, and anyway, I was supposed to be born in March) has an affinity for learning (yep), focuses on the big picture rather than details (wrong) and has an ability to adapt to new environments (very wrong). No one should take Spencer too seriously though, as he also speaks in onomatopoeia; like LOL and hahahahaha is actually what he is doing when he types conversations to you. Who does that?! It is endearing I guess. But there might be something to the learning part. I love to assimilate new skills and read new things, so it really invigorated me when I found that perhaps I might have gleaned some knowledge from my dad and working in his shop, and no one held my hand through the process. This realization has shown me that this time here has been helpful. And leaving my family in Asheville has been difficult, so it is important to me that I find value in this endeavor.

Bearclaw Sitka Spruce

Speaking of learning, my fourth guitar is just about finished! I have been spraying and then sanding down eight coats of finish over the past few days. I am now waiting for them to dry enough to buff out clean and pretty. So far the bearclaw Sitka Spruce top looks amazing, and the Koa back and sides glisten in the light. I can't wait for everything to come together and get strung up! From listening to the ring of the top when it is tapped on I am anticipating a great sounding guitar. Until then, I am off to Asheville to see my genteman and my puppydog and decorate my house for Christmas.

The Price is Right

While I wait for the 4th coat of finish to dry on my guitar, I figure I will tell you some more about the time I spent in Rugby growing up. I didn't always think it was a great time, as my peers went shopping, saw movies, and just hung out together and I was here, in the middle of nowhere hanging out with my Granny having to find things to do outside like make forts out of the wood meant for the stove or, as previously mentioned, gallop down the cow paths.

Every day, when my dad would go to work, I would go to Granny's house. The sound her front door makes, scraping against the carpet when it opens, is still a sound I can hear clearly when I think about it. It is a sound of welcome.

My days with Granny were typically pretty similar. First Granny would gossip with her neighbors; ladies with names like Dixie and Trixie and Lola. I was rarely interested to know who was driving the red truck that passed after dark last night but they always seemed to need to know exactly what transpired in those 1.2 seconds someone they didn't know rolled by. At 11 sharp we watched The Price is Right, playing along guessing who was going to win the Winnebago in the Showcase Showdown. Following the noon news the worst part of my day happened. It was when what my grandmother called her "Stories" came on. I adored Rod Roddy's sparkly suits and those weird long skinny microphones, and was always disappointed when Bob said to spay and neuter your pets (which you should, by the way) because that meant his hour of entertaining me was drawing to a close. But those Stories...I absolutely loathed them. I never understood why the actors always stood with their backs to one another, both facing the camera at the same time. I mean really, why would you have a serious "I murdered your stepmom because you cheated on me with her brother" type conversation without looking at each other. Thinking back on it, I suppose it was to save on filming time and getting everything in one shot as those suckers do run every day but I still. My Granny enjoyed them  so much though. I made sure she enjoyed them less by whimpering and whining and begging for them to end. (I think about that a lot these days when most of Harper's time is spent in a similar tantrum while I am working. Her Stories equal sanding and her Price is Right is chasing tennis balls.)

Harper leads the way as we walk up to the knob.

As soon as 3 o'clock rolled around, I would wait with bated breath for my dad's car to turn down the driveway after finishing his mail route. Before heading to his shop, he would stop and visit with me for a short while. Often times we would "wrastle" or go for a walk in the hills surrounding Granny's house. Sometimes we would walk up to the knob. I know that sounds kind of dirty, but it isn't, that's just what it's called. The knob is a bald patch of land about a half mile through the woods up a lovely, scenic path where my dad used to have to wrangle the cows back down to the barn. One of our walks up there I remember my dad carved my name in a small tree when I was maybe 5 or 6. He told me that one day that tree would be big around and I would still be able to see my initials. I couldn't wait for the day I would have big initials! Last year Harper and I were exploring the path and found that tree. She also found some animal poop to roll in as well, I am sure she would want me to tell you. Anyway, even though I know it's not the most environmentally friendly practice, it was comforting for me to find that mark I made on Granny's land just as my dad made his presence known with building a fence, or my grandfather by working in those fields or my grandmother by growing food in her gardens. I am part of the family that lived in that valley and there is verifiable evidence. For that I am forever proud. :-)

The General Loafers

Almost finished!

Tuesday is always busy at the guitar shop. The main reason for this is that Tuesday is the day the "General Loafers" come to hang out. This term is in no way negative, these 60-something gentlemen coined the term themselves. Don actually has the title General Loafer printed on his business cards.

It is pretty adorable to watch them hang out. It is like a club of seven year old boys, but you know, with guns and guitars and they have at least 50 years on those kids. First they have a session of Show & Tell. Today the spotlight was focused on a beautiful old Martin my dad recently procured from George Gruhn in Nashville. Don carefully inserted an endoscope Operation-style into the soundhole to discover that the little single O was hand signed on November 8, 1905. Next, Harrol and Herb bicker a while over the best approach to a repair job or whether one of them (jokingly, I think) scammed the other on an instrument trade. Eventually, they get to work. They all have very specific positions in the shop. Bill 'supervises' and screens calls, my dad periodically consults on Herb's repair work, while Harrol and Don work to move current guitar projects forward.


I just sat and minded my business, watching it snow an unexpected amount outside, and finished shaping the neck of my guitar. Tomorrow I will start spraying it with finish. Yay! It has been a little slow going since there have been several gaps in my productivity due to Thanksgiving and this weird need to hang out with my fiance. Yesterday I drove back up to Rugby from Asheville leaving my sweet baby girl Harper with Nick, which makes me terribly sad, but a downside to the Loafers is that they have encouraged Harper to beg so home she will stay until she forgets that bad habit. Also, I hope Harper will help fill the void I am sure my absence has left in our house. I am just so amazing, Nick is probably having serious withdrawals, what with missing my unnatural, and probably unhealthy, excitement that comes from reading cooking magazines and epicurious.com, and playing the hoola hoop game on the Wii Fit for a lot of unfortunate minutes of the day. If you aren't sure what that spectacle might look like, just imagine me standing in the center of the living room, standing on a small white rectangle hoola hooping without a hoop, and then add in some periodic lithe dives to the left or right to catch an imaginary hoop thrown to me from a Wii character on the TV screen. Anyone would miss those things, right? Yes, I think so too.

The snow today reminded me of my favorite picture of Harper Lee.

Learning to Thread a Needle

My mom, Harper, and I enjoying a gorgeous day in Harrisonburg.

The past few of my days have been spent visiting with my mom, not working on guitars. But I figured I would write a little bit anyway. My mom has been riding horses for most of her life-and saw to it that the apple didn't fall far from the tree, as when she was pregnant, her water broke while she was riding her horse Hornpipe. I loved horses so much growing up, but haven't been riding for quite some time. Case in point: I remember in elementary school that I knew it was Thursday because I had my jodhpurs on in preparation for riding class in the afternoon. Definitely ran a couple timed miles in those bad boys too. 9:03 in 3rd grade. (My memory is odd, I think.) Anyway, heading out on an Akhal Teke named Can Do on Monday morning reminded me of spending time with my grandmother in Rugby many years ago.

The hills surrounding my grandmother's house are streaked with paths etched into the dirt from cows wandering their fenced area. It is interesting how cows make paths and only walk on those designated lines, but I used to use those paths to form a world of make believe. Many afternoons I would pretend I was riding the most amazing Arabian, or Morgan sometimes, often called Lightning or Starshine or something else equally ridiculous. I don't think I can accurately explain exactly what I was doing as I lept over logs and ducked under low-hanging branches, but just imagine Monty Python and the Holy Grail, only I wasn't clever enough to bang coconuts together as I 'galloped' down the cow paths. (I am for sure a winner if you haven't already noticed.)

A quilt hand-stitched by my Granny circa 1930.

Another thing that I did while in my Granny's care was learn to sew. As awesome as my dad is at whittling anything he can imagine out of wood, and as my mom can draw or paint anything perfectly, Granny was just as gifted doing the same with cloth. When she passed away a few years ago I was given some quilts she pieced when she was, oh, around 16. By hand. The stitches were so perfect, as she once demonstrated to me when she taught me how to sew together quilt squares when I was about 6. Each stitch uniform and tiny. I was proud when I could get two pieces of fabric to stick somewhat evenly together much less with any uniformity. I think now that drive to work until I make something perfect is ingrained in me because of her and my parents. Because she can do it, and my dad can do it, and my mom can do it, so should I, right? Maybe...

I feel so privileged to have gotten to know my grandmother as I did, and learn this amazing skill that, once again, not everyone has the opportunity to glean. I am lucky to have the gifted parents I have, but my Granny is one in a million. Billion. I learned so many amazing things from her, just one of those being how to sew. There was only one thing I could do better than she, as my hand eye coordination improved with age and her eyesight worsened, which was to thread the needle.  She always made me feel so proud that I could do it on the first or second try and that I at least could sew marginally well. In her opinion anyway. I am sad that I don't have those quilt squares anymore, as when we were sending things to the Goodwill after her death those accidentally wound up in the 'go' pile. Maybe I will just have to start on some new ones.

Close up of my favorite of Granny's quilts. If you look hard, you can find pieces of my dad's old shirts, fruit, and people, among other things.

Tomorrow for Thanksgiving dinner I can't wait to have some of Granny's potato salad, a Rugby delicacy that really only my dad, my aunt Shirleen, and I actually like. I think it is because it is called potato salad, but what you expect is not quite what you get, as mustard is substituted for mayonnaise, the potatoes are completely mashed, and sugar and vinegar round out the flavor palette. Thanks so much to Shirleen for making it for me on those rare family dinner occasions. I could honestly eat a tub of it if it were presented to me. The smells and tastes of Thanksgiving always bring memories of Granny back to me, and for that I am forever grateful.

 I hope you have a great Thanksgiving as well, and I will get back to work inlaying my name into the peghead of my guitar tomorrow. I have it all cut out I promise. (Does anyone else wish they had a shorter last name? Sometimes I do, like when I have to cut it out of Mother of Pearl in letters small enough to fit on a peghead.)I guess it all just depends on how much potato salad there is....

Inlay Phase 1 (The peghead comes later)

Scraping the binding!

This week has been pretty productive so far. I finished putting the body of my guitar together, added the binding, and finished up the fingerboard. All that's left is to fit the neck and shape it and then finish! Unfortunately those things are my least favorite tasks. Maybe I will tackle fitting the neck tomorrow.

It was a fun week of visitors in the shop as well. The typical Tuesday crowd of geezers-and Harrol-came by to help sand, do repairs, and liven the conversation. Yesterday, Caleb Smith (an awesome fella who is making really great guitars down in Waynesville-according to my dad-so that means it is true), Jimmy Edmonds, Gerald Anderson, Don Wilson, and Reggie Harris, among others, stopped by for an afternoon of picking. Their presence provided for me a nice soundtrack while I finished inlaying my fingerboard. Oh also, there was a double rainbow outside. But no one had seen the Youtube video so my comments on the spectacle only garnered confused "I think she's crazy" looks.

Inlay is one aspect of guitar making that I love to do. I think it is because I am able to do it well enough that I don't need supervision and can't mess anything up too horribly. And most importantly the tiny jeweler's saw and router that I use for these tasks likely wouldn't end with severed appendages. I also enjoy attending to the minute details of shaping a piece just right, first with the saw and then with a tiny file, and I appreciate the challenge of routing a space in which the the pearl perfectly fits. That's because I am a J (Meyer's-Brigggs anyone? Josh Kelly knows what I mean.)

For this fingerboard, I drew a tree design which had a mother of pearl trunk and I then incorporated many pieces of shiny abalone for the leaves. Cutting out the leaf shapes was surprisingly simple, as I just used small scraps that would likely have been discarded (baby steps in the sustainability department) and shaped them into my idea of stylized leaves. Inlaying them was an entirely different story. Since each leaf is it's own unique shape, keeping straight which pieces I had already traced, routed, and fitted was a challenge. But it worked out pretty well if I do say so myself. My back was singing a different tune as I stood up after 3 hours of work though. I did some yoga after, it's ok now.

Finished product!

Now, if only fitting the neck was as much fun....

Explosion

Well, the past few days have seen the coming together of the body of my guitar, with just a couple small hiccups, one in the form of a bomblike explosion of one side of the guitar, sending shards of Koa all over the shop...

I was not present during this fiasco, though, so I cannot fully describe it to you. A few nights ago, I glued the back onto my guiar, and then placed it on a table rigged to clamp pressure down on the back and sides. The proper way to do this is to tighten each clamp a little at a time, so as not to have too much pressure on a single area at once. The same goes for loosening the apparatus as well....and that will come into play later.

Around 5, my dad left to play music with his longtime buddy Herb and his 'Geezer Band' as my dad endearingly calls them. Before they left though, Herb graciously braved potentially soiling his stage-signature black leather vest to help me tighten the clamps in place. I then went home to enjoy a screening Home Alone that happened to be on one of the movie channels. (But it was a tad pathetic as I caught myself quoting parts out loud to Harper...who was the only one in the room and I am pretty sure she didn't appreciate it as much as, say, my awesome cousin Lauren would have.)

Anyway, back to the explosion story, I noticed several cars had arrived in the driveway around midnight, so I called over to the shop to make sure my dad had gotten home safely and that he had a good show. I had considered walking the 45 steps over to the shop but...eh. He sounded a little strange on the phone, and didn't seem to be in the chatty mood, but I just assumed he was tired as it was pretty late.

The next morning as I was preparing to head to the grocery store, uncharacteristically early for him, my dad popped his head out of his room and said, "You might want to go look at your guitar. The side exploded last night." After my dizziness subsided from a mini rush of adrenaline, I headed to the shop to take a look at my broken guitar. But when I got over there nothing seemed amiss. I thought, perhaps he was joking, like that guy Hunter who once told me on the phone that my third guitar had shattered due to a humidity problem.

What happened was this: my dad did not carefully observe the rule of removing the pressure of the clamps little by little, and because I had clamped the guitar down so tightly, the pressure was significant when he got to the last clamp. He said it sounded like a bomb went off in the shop, and several pieces of the side found new homes among dustpiles. For 3 hours, my dad reconstructed the side, replaced kerfing (the small strips of mahogany that line the side to add support for the top and back), and reinforced the affected area. He truly is an incredible craftsman to be able to perform such a feat, and at 3am at that. In his 40some years of doing this, he has never had such an issue arise, so to fix it so flawlessly takes the work of a true genius and I am honored to watch and learn from someone like that.