"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.