Chapter Six

"Headin' to the Hills"

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"Study nature, love nature,

stay close to nature.

It will never fail you."

Frank Lloyd Wright

It was the summer after my 6th grade year that Dad accepted a new job up in Marion, North Carolina.  With his being a career textile executive, moves were anticipated every several years, but this was to a new company in a 'foreign' land.  North from Columbus, Georgia we went, into the Foothills and mountains of western NC, where not only the scenery but 'life' and dialect were, shall we say, unique.


My 7th grade year began in a brand new junior high school, West McDowell...the second in the county, if that gives you any idea of the rural nature of things.  Counterpart to East McDowell, if that gives you any idea of the creativity of the local school board for naming schools.  The quintessential 'life in the slow lane', it was.


You know how it is...entering the 'teen' world, new location, new friends, new everything.  But among my richest of memories were the adventures I shared with who became a dear friend, Thomas.  From here on out, this chapter has nothing to do with school; rather, it deals with our myriad adventures into the wilds of McDowell County, and a deepening appreciation for nature.


If the landscape were vastly different, you can imagine the dialect would be even more so.  "Mount'in talk" came with the territory, and Thomas had spent his whole life in it.  To this day, mom talks about the first time Thomas called the house and said, "Is Bob thar?"  Let's just say mom didn't readily find it comprehensible at first.  I took to it like a duck to water, I did, and to this day if I'm in the right setting I'll feel it slip right back in, like a comfortable tennis shoe.


Thomas and his family lived in a small, nearby community called Pleasant Garden, or PG for short.  His dad ran the Lake Tahoma steakhouse where Highway 81 broke north from Highway 70.  Across the street was the vintage mobile home that's been home to "Dot's Dario" for who knows how many decades, set at an angle to a good ol' drive-in theater.  Their house was just a few miles up 81, a most gorgeous drive any time of the year as it heads up into the mountains, past picturesque Lake Tahoma, and crossing under the Blue Ridge Parkway.


Roughly paralleling 81 was Buck Creek, not big enough for a canoe the whole way in low water, but big enough for some great fishing and hellacious tubing after heavy rains.  If you've never been tubing down a raging mountain creek, you are missing one of the most fun-filled times to be had for no money other than the cost of a used truck tire tube.  Our favorite run was to put in below the Lake Tahoma dam and tube down behind his house.  I have no idea how far it was, but it was an hours-filled adventure with occasional lazying stops.


I remember after just putting in that I got snagged on a large boulder in the middle of the raging creek.  It's not as easy as you think trying to get a solid footing on the slick algae-covered rocks, holding on to a large inner tube that the creek wanted so badly to take out of my grasp.  But with one big lunge I got onto that rock and looked for a good place to put back in.  I was not alone. 

Sometimes you just 'know' when someone is looking at you.  Or some thing. Yes, I love nature.  Yes, I respect all animals.  Yes, I prefer to keep twenty feet between myself and a snake, and the quickly calculated three feet wasn't gonna hack it.  Too, it's one of those situations I didn't feel compelled to sit and analyze, going through the mental catalog of species distribution.  I did what any of us would do: I screamed, grabbed the tube, and jumped like a jackrabbit back into the water. 


I have to say the most humorous, unsuspecting tubing situation happened just after a particularly fast set of rapids under a bridge, leading into a deep still area...at a small church...where they were having a traditional baptismal ceremony in the pool, complete with white robes.  So here come Thomas, myself, and another friend or two, hootin' and hollerin' coming through the rapids...only to have myriad pairs of serious eyes staring a hole through each of us.


What do you do?  What do you say?  We kept floating and gave a little wave with a sheepish 'hello!' and were glad to get around the next bend.  Part of me wanted to throw in a "Praise the Lord!" just for the heck of it, but it was such a surprise that I basically clammed up.  Probably a good thing.


Those same waters offered fun fishing with ultra-light gear.  Quarters were tight with all the streamside vegetation, so you would never cast a great distance.  You'd pick and choose good looking pools and structure, and occasionally deal with catching a squirrel (read 'bad cast' that ended up in a tree).  We rarely kept the fish, releasing them if at all possible.  The joy was in being in the great outdoors, wading through the waters, and jumping a mile in the air when a crawdad found the big hole in my right tennis shoe.


The better fishing holes were upstream from Thomas' house, and we often rode our bikes up Buck Creek Road to get to them in a more timely manner than hoofing it.  Before the road starts climbing, there are a couple of long, straight, flat stretches in the valley.  We'd have our fishing rod in one hand, a small tackle box in the other as we held the handlebars, lazily cruising in the sunshine, riding side by side and 'chewing the fat'.


Ever wonder how two ships can collide in the wide open sea in the middle of a sunny day?  That's always baffled me.  One day as we were riding on one of our finned forays, we were in the middle of the last straight stretch, with far away cars at either end heading towards us.  How we did it, I have no idea, but Thomas and I veered directly into each other and wrecked.  Right there in the middle of the road.


We weren't going fast enough to get hurt, outside of a few road scrapes that come with falling on asphalt at any speed.  Moving ourselves and our bikes off the road would have been easy enough...but we had a real pickle on our hands with little time to act.


It must be one of the natural laws that when a tackle box is dropped on a road, that all 47 pieces will spread themselves out as far and randomly as possible.  Entropy was alive and well as we rushed to pick up all we could, laughing hysterically at our predicament. I couldn't help sensing a glimpse of what road kill must feel like before acquiring that name.


We lived there only three years before the next move, three years of endless adventures.  It was the ensuing school year after I finished my 9th grade year that I was enrolled at Woodberry Forest School, another chapter in itself.  While it was tough getting used to life at a boarding school, pastoral rolling Virginia countryside surrounded that incredible campus...with all the memories from Marion reinventing themselves anew.  

When I'm not connected with nature, I'm simply miserable.

Chapter Five

“When you least expect it…”

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It pays to be prepared.  To be ready, for whatever comes your way.

However, there is nothing more frustrating than thinking you are prepared and ‘together’,  only to find out you were sorely mistaken.

It was back in the fall of 1996 when for the second consecutive year I was hired to emcee a traveling showcase for United Airlines and United Vacations.  Travel agents would be wined and dined at one of 6 venues spread across the U.S., and our troop of actors would do our thing, espousing scintillating vacation destinations.  I love ‘live’ emcee work, so I was fully in my Br’er Rabbit’s briar patch.

The shows provided a great opportunity to travel, though time for sight-seeing was rather limited.  Week One we had shows in New York and Washington, followed two weeks later by  shows in Chicago and Denver, followed in another two weeks with shows in San Francisco and Los Angeles.  Whichever show came second in the week, you had a bit of free time there to explore and snoop around thanks to the travel scheduling.

During the last brace of western shows, my week’s layover was in Santa Monica, just blocks from the famed Santa Monica pier.  Given it was around the first of November, crowds were a non-issue and even some seasonal venues had closed until spring.  We arrived at the hotel in the early afternoon, which provided a great opportunity to amble to the pier and stretch my legs.  A little window shopping is always good for the soul, too.

Santa Monica pier must be a sight in the full swing of summer…bit of a ghost town when I got there, though,  as I stood on those well-worn boards, soaking it all in.  I first noticed the paved “Boardwalk” bike path that I knew went for many miles, made famous in just about any west coast entertainment production.  I also noticed a small ice cream stand was open down below, deciding something chocolaty would hit the spot.

Six or seven people were in line with the same idea, as I got behind a couple and a young boy of maybe twelve years.  When he turned around, my jaw smacked the asphalt under my feet.

It was earlier that year in Richmond, Virginia that I had a bit part in the Sinbad movie “First Kid” filming nearby.  That boy was ‘the Kid’, Brock Pierce.  Right in front of me.  He and his mom immediately recognized me as well, so we had a wonderful  talk, almost forgetting about why we were there in the first place.

Small world, isn’t it.  

We soon parted ways with a handshake, and I returned to strolling around.  I don’t remember much else about the rest of the day…after you have such a highlighting ‘coincidence’ take place, you hit the rewind button and mull it over repeatedly.  (By the way, there are no coincidences).

My call time for the following day’s show was not until 5p, so that morning I had already planned to walk down to the other famous destination close by: Venice Beach.  Why I decided to lug my hefty bag of camera equipment I don’t know, except the realm of compact super-zooms were only in the minds of inventors back then.  

I was quite the sight, no doubt. Decided to forgo shaving until closer to showtime later in the afternoon.  I’d also saved my eyeballs from contac-fatigue until the show, sporting instead my glasses along with dapper flip-up shades.  If I’d had on black socks with the shorts and Hawaiian shirt, I’d have been selected for the cover of GQ, hands down.

Venice Beach is interesting to say the least.  Even with minimal foot traffic, there were the ever-present steroid-fed beefaloes pumping iron in the al fresco gym, though it was a little too cool for the bikini fashion show.  I was doing my usual window shopping and looking for photo ops, but pretty disappointed that nothing was really tripping my trigger.  

Figured I’d head over to the beach, which there is rather flatly expansive.  Even the surf was equally as bland.  I figured whattheheck and headed in that direction to take my shoes off, letting a little bit of California sand go between my toes.

It was no surprise the beach, too, was sparsely attended.  I headed down the paved path, ending at the boardwalk beside one of the many bike rental stands…without noticing the grizzled man leaning against the railing to the right.

Dressed in khakis and a khaki jacket, the older man hadn’t shaved in days, had a ball cap slung low on his head just above his Foster Grants, his ears populated with yellow Walkman earbuds.  I didn’t take note of any of that until he spoke.

“Hi.  Wanna go for a bike ride?”

Admittedly, not the kind of thing or situation you anticipate.  I turned to look at this man a mere 6 feet away.  His question hadn’t sunk into my brain very far so I could only feebly respond, “Excuse me?”

“Do you want to go for a bike ride?”

While his question was starting to sink in, it wasn’t making any sense.  Why would a complete stranger want to go for a bike ride?  That was fishy out of the gate.  Something about the man was a bit unusual, I’ll admit, so much so that I flipped up those dapper shades I mentioned earlier…and with a puzzled look on my countenance, I’m sure.

“You look a little bit like David Letterman…”

“I am.  Do you want to go for a bike ride?”

“Or you could be one of those flakes that takes advantage of tourists…”

“JESUS CHRIST, DO YOU WANT TO GO FOR A DAMN BIKE RIDE OR NOT???”

If I weren’t already on my heels and not ‘getting’ any of this, now I really was fully stupefied.

For anyone that knows me, ‘speechless’ is an exceedingly rare condition.  And I was just that, suspended in an icy time capsule.  My mouth simply stopped working.

“FORGET IT!”   And with that he jerked his earbuds out and turned to walk away.  

I should have recognized that snaggle tooth.  I should have noticed the bicycle built for two with a wheelchair sidecar immediately behind him.  I might have raised an eyebrow at the large production van in the parking lot behind the scene, which concurrently began spilling out all kinds of camera equipment and hidden personnel.  It was David Letterman, alright.

Faster than you can say “uh…”  it was over.  A golden opportunity went wafting in the wind.  Wasted. Gone.  Had I been aware that David Letterman was in L.A. for the week, not in New York City, something might have clicked in my brain. 

Alas, the only thing that was clicking was the mental gas pump racking up the gallons of disappointment flooding my every pore as “The Man On The Street” strode away.

"Chapter Four"

A Grave Issue Or Not?

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Aren't we peculiar, not only as individuals but as a society...while we espouse our 'freedoms' and 'free will' to do what we choose, in conversation we often hit a verboten wall....

Sex.

Religion.

Politics.

Not many can truthfully say they speak their mind on these topics to anyone other than a very, very short "A" list.  Okay, possibly some will more easily speak about politics, and to a lesser extent religion...heaven forbid anyone talks about sex and preferences and such details, making listeners immediately cover their ears and shout, "T.M.I.!  TOO MUCH INFORMATION!"

Relax, I'm not going there.  Not to any of those topics.  However, I do want to talk about another topic that makes many a two-legged uncomfortable: Death.  In my meandering way I want to back up the bus to my high school days.

My family was moving into a NC county with only one high school, a county which was at the bottom of the then-newly instituted literacy tests in verbal and math categories.  Little did I know that within only months I'd be attending a boarding school in north-central Virginia, Woodberry Forest School.

Situated (then) on 1,400 acres of pastoral farmland with Jeffersonian architecture abounding,  Woodberry was to be one of my positive pivotal points in Life's Journey.  For the purposes of this chapter, I want to discuss my English teachers there, for they instilled in me an appreciation for vocabulary and all things literary.  

If I might add one disclaimer here it's that I never 'got' poetry.  Nothing to do with the teachers involved, poetry never has and never will 'trip my trigger'...except for my favorite of poems:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue;

Some poems rhyme,

But this one doesn't.

Apologies to Frost and Keats and myriad others.  That's just one of my quirks.  As a college professor once said, "We're all weird, we're just weird in different ways."  Poetry and I don't share many chromosomes.

My first year at WFS I had John Reimers for English.  Most classes had a very low student-teacher ratio, and this one was no exception.  Maybe 10 of us sat in an arc around the basement room walls in that Anderson Hall classroom. As class began, some sense of classical music would be playing on a big, green, relic cassette player, with our teacher quietly reading through some journal, paper, or other. When he was ready he would speak and begin creating folds in our cerebral cortexes.  

Some saw him as quirky, but I identified oh so well with quirky that I ate that year up like peanut butter on Ritz crackers.  Hard work and high expectations from the top, mind you, but satisfying in the end.  He was demanding, and for a reason.  It paid off in spades for me.

It was during my senior year in AP English that an assignment served as the basis for this particular chapter.  Young Ben Cameron was our mustached teacher, with a strong  theater background as well...makes for a more interesting classroom experience when you have a demonstrative leader.  Mr. Cameron in action led you to one thought: "You don't need any more coffee, sir."

If you haven't done so already, you must get comfortable with my digressions, as they are as plentiful as rabbits in a spring meadow.  That was my AP English class, at the end of which my exam score placed me out of all English requirements in college.  Not a one did I take, there.  Math?  I was inept in algebra and calculus at Woodberry, and suffered even more at college, never surmounting what to this day is one of my learning obstacles.  Alas, my SAT scores were just the opposite: my Math was always above 700, and my Verbal never reached 500.  I kid you not.  Go figure.

And now to the flash point of this post.  I'm not sure a teacher in public school could get away with this, as stupidly litigious as we've become in our society...but Mr. Cameron gave us a most interesting assignment one day.  We were to write a paper about committing suicide, where we would do it, how we would do it, and what music would be playing.

How did it make you feel to just read that?  Could you sit privately and write such a paper?  I didn't balk, nor did anyone else, that I remember.  The purpose wasn't to make us think about death, per se; rather, it was to give us a jarring topic that forced us to coordinate the brain with the pen-in-hand and deal with something that admittedly caught us off-guard.  Much like the AP exam, itself, I might add.

What I wrote about is not the subject of this chapter.  To satisfy your curiousity (c'mon, admit it!), I wanted to hike up to the edge of Shortoff Mountain on the southeastern rim of Linville Gorge Wilderness Area (NC), and jump of that massive, sheer stone face, with Mozart's "Requiem Mass in D Minor" playing.  Spreading my arms wide like a hawk and but for a moment feeling the freedom of flight.  End of surreal assignment.

In my growth through the decades, I've gotten comfortable with the idea of death.  In fact, I don't like to use words like 'death' and 'dying' because I know nothing ever, ever ends.  "Life" simply transitions to other planes of existence.  I prefer to use the phrase 'crossing over' which is far more accurate of a description.  Oh, many earthly brains wish to see this Life as some sort of end-all, but that is a most blatant illusion in every respect.   It simply isn't so.

Take the flutes I make, for example.  The tree is dead.  Dead by society's terms, that is.  Even dead trees are matter, right?  And they're made of of compounds, made up of molecules, made up of atoms, right?  And atoms are made of protons and neutrons, around which spin electrons held into orbit by a Divine Power, right?  Just because the tree is dead doesn't mean things change at the atomic level...they keep on keepin' on. Cells just don't replicate.  It's just a different 'relativity', for lack of a better expression.  Any woodworker will tell you wood is VERY much 'alive', and I especially sense it in my flutes.  They 'talk' to me, in no uncertain terms.

We're all raised with certain ideologies and beliefs, the majority of which we accept without question and assume we ourselves made the choice as opposed to being handed said choice. I don't need a single soul to view things as I do.  All I can tell you is I'm at peace with the crossing over from this earthly life, and at peace with my sense of a 'bigger picture'.  Some fear it.  I embrace it.  I don't have a problem being with spirits in their last hours, either, and am honored to play my flutes or just 'be' for those that might welcome some relief.

The human mind is a querulous piece of machinery.  There is only the moment of 'now'.  The past is only a memory, and the future is only imagined.  Even so, how many do you know who live in one or the other instead of the Moment?  To truly live to our potential is to embrace what is before us....not lament what once was, nor fear what could be.

We're all going to 'die'.  How will you face it?  With dignity?  Kicking and screaming?  A big ol' smile?  Whining?  I wish for us all to do so with honor.  My thoughts for this chapter really deal with the earthly reaction once we're no longer a 'living' part.

I fully know and accept the day will come I'm no longer sucking oxygen molecules. The proverbial 'given'.  I know that I will have finished what I came here to do, to create, to touch others, to instruct, to laugh and love often.  But to put this into societal perspective is to really put my foot down about some major 'points' immediately after my death.  TOO many 'funerals' are all about the needs of the living, NOT the wishes of the deceased.  Can I get an "AMEN!" from the choir?

First, I WILL be cremated.  Graveyards, burial plots, headstones, mausoleums are a waste of time and space.  Ever notice in almost any community what prime real estate a bunch of skeletons reside on?  "Oh, I want them to see the beauty here..."  Are ya kiddin' me?  You think the 'vision' we have after life is inferior to this earthly one?  It's purely for our own edification, those left behind. Think about it.

Cremate me.  Let loved ones spread my ashes where they know I'd like my leftover molecules to hit terra firma.  I want no stone, and no marker.  I will exist only in the memories of those I touched, or through things I created and left behind.

If a ceremony/gathering must take place after my crossing, then I have some very specific guidelines I insist be followed:

1.  No black allowed.  Period.  Even gray would be frowned upon.

2.  I want people to wear the brightest colors possible.  The more outlandish the better. Sweatpants and shorts and t-shirts would favor better seating, though I understand those items are not always available in wild colors and patterns.  Deal with the discrepancy. Dress up black sweatpants with a Hawaiian shirt, for example, and I'll overlook the pants color.

3.  No slow mud-music, and God forbid NO organ music.  Only upbeat, celebratory music will be played.

4. I would hope someone could gather big trash bags of sawdust and small wood scraps from my shop and have everyone grab a handful on their way out...then spread the spoils wherever they feel so led.

5.  Flute music and barbershop quartet music would be encouraged, to be performed 'live'.  Beforehand, taped music like up-tempo Big Band songs could be played, much in the line of Louis Jordan and His Tympani Five.

6.  After any ceremony there needs to be a big party, where people are TRULY celebrating Life in general.  Dancing, laughing, partying will be strongly encouraged.  Strongly, if not mandated outright.

Life goes on. We're all a part of each other.  We should live every day as if it were every holiday wrapped up into one.  Purposefully.  Live life fully and large, and give, give, give unto others...that way, you do it unto yourself.

I shall now step down off my soapbox.  I have other chapters to write.

"Chapter Three"

The “UGLY BOY” Story

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Among the many hats I wear is that of a flute maker.  On occasion someone will quip, “that’s an interesting hobby you have there.”  It’s at that point I quietly know they don’t ‘get it’.

It’s no hobby.  It’s no ‘just something I do in my spare time’ (whatever THAT is….).  For me, it is my very Soul’s work, not only crafting instruments but creating music with my singing sticks.  Devotees to the Native American style of flute almost to a one use the expression “how the flute found me”… for me (and many others) it represents things spiritual, medicinal.

This chapter is about how my flutes got their name.  How the flute ‘found me’ could be another chapter in itself, but to quickly explain that it is to give you a keener insight on how purposeful everything is for me as it relates to the Flute.

At the time, I was full-timing in a 31-foot RV on top of a mountain north of Asheville, NC.  Cozy quarters for me, my 2 dogs and a stray cat, which you can read more about in Chapter XX.  A Native American arts and craft store was going out of business in town, and while I had very little spare money, I wanted something special for the RV and my small altar I kept.  For as long as I can remember I have felt a deep connection with Native spirituality, though in this lifetime I’m as white as Wonderbread.

As I talked with the store’s owner while perusing various items on sale, he suggested, “How about a flute?”  Being a long-time singer and piano player, it struck me as odd that I’d not thought of that before, going with something musical.  He had two flutes left, and took them out of the case to show me how easy it was (and is) to play…and within seconds I was making ‘those Native American flute sounds’ that we know when we hear it.

I was hooked.  But my wallet began groaning, so I took a few days to think it over and possibly re-prioritize my budget.  As luck would have it, I returned to purchase the flute only to find it had been sold.   The one flute left was a higher key, and I wasn’t sure that’s what I wanted to go with.  Already  in my head were visions of all the campfires I’d be playing around, all the sunrises I’d be communing with, all the while mentally hearing the lower key.  The groaning wallet took advantage of the opportunity to make me take yet another couple of days for pondering.

And so it was that I was going to get the remaining flute, knowing I could get another lower one down the road (NOTE: collecting flutes is a powerful addiction!).  Well, I was going to get it had it been there.  Strike two.  The salesperson  assured me they could have a flute drop-shipped to me quickly, and that’s when the proverbial lightbulb clicked on as I gave my thanks and left.

I didn’t know anyone who played the flute.  I was clueless about flute circles, which abound.  I had no idea that one of the greatest flute makers had lived right where I was before he lost his battle with cancer earlier that year, Hawk Littlejohn.  Clueless.  I did a quick internet search for the flute maker, found his site…and found out that I could buy that flute for about half of what the store was going to charge me!

Sold.  I was giddy with excitement…the very thought of my new way of living, and integration of the Flute, the daydreams that flowed like a peaceful river, it all felt like a master design.  I also knew this loud and clear, deep within, as I chose the flute:  the Flute was going to be an instrument of healing and medicine, not only for me but for others.  I was going to be a Messenger,  that I knew with the most resounding of convictions before the flute arrived.  To add, all of this was coming together at a time of a massive personal, spiritual rebirth and divorce.  It felt good.  It felt right.  The flute arrived and I began trying to play it before reading the instruction sheet.

I should have started with the instruction sheet.  Excitement levels exceeded poorly produced music, and I squawked away in oblivion.  Little did I know what was to happen the very next morning to forever change my Life’s path, yea an event that changed the world in many respects.

9/11.

As I watched the second plane hit the World Trade Center that morning, live, I looked through my tears at the flute lying on the dinette table.  I can only explain it as a deep peaceful ‘voice’ that spoke quietly yet loudly, if that makes any sense.  With distinct clarity I remember seeing a mental image of the flute vibrating at high frequency, with these five ‘spoken’ words:  “You have work to do.”

That was it.  I had work to do, whatever that was.  And that’s how my Flute Journey go started.

Still not knowing anyone who played the flute, I taught myself how to play, alone in my own insular world.  Mary Youngblood’s music was suggested to me at a local store, and when I first heard her melodies I felt like I was heading ‘home’ somehow.  Without flute keys matching, I had to memorize the songs in my head then hunt and peck the notes until they could be strung together (successfully).  It was a slow process, indeed.

With spring came a new work opportunity and a move closer to Charlotte, NC.  There I discovered the local flute circle that April.  By then I’d picked up another couple of flutes, and was able to play without making stray dogs run away.  However,  I kept wanting to hear a cleaner, more precise sound than I was hearing in most flutes…after all, when you pay good hard-earned money for an instrument it should play well and accurately, at least in my mind.  There are plenty that don’t.

At that meeting were 3 flute makers there that happily chewed the fat with me…I began casually asking questions about crafting flutes, and my mind started racing.  “I can do that,” I mused…and thus the seed was planted.  Mind you, I didn’t have a shop, much less the tools I needed to even try to make some flutes, so I kept thinking my way through how I could do it with the least possible trouble and expenditure, at least for the time being.

I didn’t have any guidebooks or plans…as I often do, I like reinventing my own wheels, as I learn most effectively that way.  I took a 24-inch piece of good ol’ yellow pine that would have been a typical resident in anyone’s firewood pile, and cut it in half.  With two twelve inch pieces, I marked off nine inches for the barrel, left one inch uncut for the flue area, and with the remaining 2 inches I marked off all but 1/2” at the end for the blowhole.

I did have a router, and had one bit, a 1” round-nose bit, with which I cut out the barrel and SAC or slow-air chamber you breathe into.  After gluing up the two halves, I began whittling away at the corners to round the flute, and as I went along, that yellow pine would give off big chunks, so much so that after I while I quit for fear of cutting into the barrel.  I’d already put a hole in the SAC by accident, and had to put a piece of duct tape over it to make it airtight.

I didn’t look at it as crude or Neolithic…I preferred the phrase ‘folk-art’ to describe that short, stubby,  unsanded, ugly flute.  I guessed where the finger holes needed to go, and didn’t guess as well as I should have.  I refer to the finger holes being large enough for spawning salmon to jump through.  To complete this oddity, I had to use green twine to tie the block on as I had no leather ties to do so.

I had only one goal in mind that day: to put two pieces of wood together and try to produce a musical note.  Little did I know I had many aspects of flute-making wrong, with dreadfully incorrect ratios.  But it played!  Oh boy did it play, a very loud high C, dead –on in the meter.  The chills, the goosebumps, the adrenalized excitement was overwhelming…I made a musical instrument!

‘Twas a red-letter day for my record book.  The flute circle was meeting the following weekend and I wanted to unveil my, shall we say, ‘unique’ flute.   At the typical flute circle gathering, there is a time called the play-around, where everyone sits in a circle and one by one play a song.  The rule was even if you didn’t play the flute or play it well, you still had to blow 3 notes before moving on to the next person.  As each person played, everyone else would supportively listen.  That’s where my unveiling would occur.

Sitting on my sofa and holding the folk art, I smiled lovingly like a dad upon his newborn kid.  “You are one ugly boy!”  As the old saying goes, the rest is history.  With a black marker I signed the flute “Ugly Boy” with the its birthday, July 7, 2002.  As the chairs were pulled into a circle that Saturday, everybody had chosen the flute that they were going to play.

Flutes of all woods, shapes, sizes, styles, keys, you name it, it was probably there, many in fancy cases or bags.  I had put Ugly Boy into a most appropriate case: a brown lunch bag.

I was a little more than halfway around from where the circle started.  The closer it came to my turn, the harder my heart beat in my chest.  “Deep breaths,” I thought, lest I get too excited and talk too quickly and play my special song too fast…and it was a lightning-fast song I’d written just for this loud, wild child.

“Hi, I’m Bob and I am going to play my first flute I just made, “Ugly Boy”…”

“Oh, you’re going to play the beer bottle?” as laughter rolled around the room.  There was no disputing it appeared I was brown-bagging refreshments as I held the sack up.  If you thought there was laughter with that last comment, you should have heard it when “Ugly Boy” saw the light of day.  One of the flute makers immediately said, “That’s not supposed to play!” as the barrel should have been closer to 18” long instead of 9”.  Little did I know.  I let ‘er rip, loud and fast, and that’s how Ugly Boy Flutes sprouted wings.

Not that I was certain that’s what I’d call my flutes…it was just done in humor at first.  But in pretty quick order I realized how perfect that name actually was.  Catchy, yes…search for flute makers and you get all sorts of spiritual, earthy sounding names.  “Ugly Boy” stands out in a crowd much as a purple penguin would.  The hidden beauty is what invaluable Life lessons are embedded in that crude piece of folk art.

I can talk a blue streak about my flute world.  When I finish telling the Ugly Boy story, people always remark what a passion I have for what I do, and they couldn’t be more right.  For in that homely foot-long piece of yellow pine are two very important lessons we would all do well to put into practice:

1)  Never judge anyone or anything by their appearance.   It’s what’s inside and is produced that matters.

2)  Each of us has a ‘song’ in us, which is a Life Passion, musical or not…and we have a responsibility to search within, find our ‘song’ and let it out loud and clear.  “Ugly Boy” transformed from a discarded piece of pine into, well, my whole world of Ugly Boy Flutes.  So, too, should our personal passions be discovered, developed, and shared.  Always and all ways.

That’s why I kept the name. At any point in time, many find themselves at the searching stage, which knows no age limit...searching for their purpose and meaning in Life.  When asked, "How do you know what your 'song' is?", my answer is a rather simple but accurate one: when you get up in the morning, you can't wait to go and do it, to get going, to get creative. 


It'll put a smile right in the middle of your heart.