DOE-RAY-ME

My mother played the piano and she was a mainstay in the church choir. Both of my brothers played in the school band, one was a professional musician all of his life. I started horn lessons the summer before seventh grade but a car accident changed that; hit my face on the dashboard, broke teeth and cut up my mouth. So much for horn lessons. After I healed, it was too late for that year and the next year I would be a year behind my classmates. So I’m not a musician, not even close. Music is very mathematical, disciplined and my aspirations ran in the opposite direction.

I started paying attention to popular music when Chuck Berry gave us, “Johnny B. Good” and  Buddy Holly, “That’ll Be The Day.” But that was teenage pushback, and adults just wanted it to go away. But it didn’t go away and we didn’t go back to Guy Lombardo or Benny Goodman and it’s been rockin’ ever since.

My listening habits have moved through stages. First it was rock & roll, then I discovered jazz. Country came and went. When the Nashville sound took over I was already moving on to the blues. I’m a StoryTeller. I used to be a teacher but to spend a career doing that, you need to be a story teller. Naturally, I like music, songs that tell a story. Who’d-a-thought, a decade ago, that I’d pick up a guitar and try to figure it out. Now days I make the disclaimer; still not a musician. I don’t play the guitar, I play with it. I don’t sing, I just tell my songs over simple chords to suggest a melody. My mother would think it a miracle. My big brother would have been proud. I search the internet for lyrics and chord progressions I can handle. There are hook lines and clever phrases out there we all recognize, even if we can’t name the song, like “. . . nothin’ ain’t worth nothin but it’s free.”  I plug them into the stories when there’s a fit and it works. 

Yesterday, I helped a friend move a bookcase. She bought it from another friend who is moving and we had to take it apart, bring it down on the elevator, cross the street and load it in the back of my pickup. Then it was a ride across town, do the elevator thing again up to her condo and put it back together. On the way, she took a CD from the sleeve on my sun visor and slipped it in the player. I have several CD’s that I’ve put together from my I-Tunes collection. After four or five songs, she said, “This is great stuff; where did you get it?” I told her and the song changed to Helen Reddy doing Don McLean’s, “And I Love You So.” She hummed along through the first verse and we were stopped at a red light when the chorus began to unfold. When it went to the last line, somehow I knew she was going to sing along so I accompanied her. “But I don’t let the evening get me down, now that you’re around . . . me.” The light changed and I started up the street. She poked me and called me an “Old Devil”. “I didn’t know you  can sing.” Helen was in the right key for me and I was able to carry it. I told her, “Don’t judge a book . . . right?” Now she’s going to want me to sing again but I’ll tell a story instead, maybe one with a melody.

SAWDUST

My dad was a Tool & Die maker. Tool & Die would be to Machinist as Doctor is to Nurse. It was back in the old days when a machinist-apprentice was assigned to a seasoned, journeyman tradesman, a mentor. After several years of learning the trade, demonstrating skills and knowledge, the apprentice could be elevated to Journeyman. He could do almost anything with metal. They used mills, drills, lathes, grinders and polishers, not to mention trigonometry and physics to make steel or aluminum parts to a tolerance within .0001 in. He was very good at what he did. But his passion was for working with wood. Around the walls of our garage were wood working tools and the space was multi purposed. When he was making sawdust, the car lived outside. It was a clever way of saying, “I’m making something out of wood.” without going into detail. I’m sure he had his reasons: the thought of turning me loose with power tools would have been scary. But he ran me off when he was busy and never offered to show or teach me how to work with wood. I got the message. In high school I skipped over wood shop after all, I had no business making saw dust. 

Fast forward to the day when my own sons brought home bread boxes and step stools they made is their shop classes as school. They made me proud but also aware that it was something I missed out on. Anticipating a time when I’d invest in tools of my own, I knew there would come a day for me to make sawdust. Fast forward a bunch more years, my basement is full of woodworking tools and the floor is covered with sawdust. Over a decade, I started with a table saw and a chop saw, then had to build a work bench. I got a sander and a drill press, several cabinets for supplies and hand tools. Then came a jointer and a planer. I had my dad’s old router and router table; still worked fine but was small and under powered by today’s standards so I got a bigger, stronger router. I needed another work bench, several more sanders, a biscuit cutter, (for gluing pieces together.) I have more clamps than I can keep track of, built a couple of racks to stack lumber in and I’m in business, for now. I’m sure there will come along a project that requires another, new tool and I’ll have to go get one. 

Now days, I swim early, then do breakfast, then time to write. Sometimes I need a nap before lunch. With three wood projects underway in the basement I’ll have to get after the “sawdust” soon. The cypress, kitchen table is about half finished and I’m experimenting with making Lincoln Log toys, for holiday and birthday presents. A friend is using my tools and space to make some shadow boxes for his fiancé and it’s a crowded place. 

My learning curve for woodworking has followed about the same trajectory as with my guitar. I keep good company and pay attention, then I go home and either make noise or sawdust, depending on the venue. I’ll take a class now and then, inching my way along, getting better but not in great leaps or without mistakes and sometimes blunders. Bad noise from the guitar is one thing but sawdust is another. By now, sawdust talk is really about sawdust, not clever conversation. The more you shape wood, the more you leave on the floor and I’ve been shaping a lot of wood lately. Never one to make Neat & Tidy a priority, I have to go there in self defense. Dust and chips literally get in the way, make the floor slippery and create a fire hazard. You can buy expensive, sawdust extraction systems; high powered vacuum with ducts to route all the dust into a collection bin. I don’t have one yet so I spend as much time sweeping and running my shop vac as I do anything else. 

A friend of mine who had been retired for a few years told me, “If you have any big plans, do it right away. Don’t take time for granted.” We were both teachers and he knew I’d understand, “Find something that is challenging, something with room to learn and grow.” The stuff that comes out of my shop lacks the precision my dad would have required but between wanderlust, my guitar and what to do with all my sawdust, I am forever challenged and I am not taking anything for granted.