Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Cigars

When the spirit moves me, I enjoy a walk around the neighborhood. About 4 or 5 miles is enough to give my heart a workout. The logical destinations from my bungalow in West Ridge are Andersonville or Lincoln Square, the former being a little farther that the latter. Both locations are well supplied with unique coffee shops to fuel up with a shot of espresso for the return journey.

Details missed if driving become apparent while walking, such as topography. I have lived here much of my life and never realized why the Hilltop Restaurant on California and Foster is called the Hilltop Restaurant. Well, because it is on a hilltop.

It is a long slog south to the summit at Foster from Peterson and California. Then it’s downhill to Lincoln Square at Lawrence and Western. The hill is steeper when walking back north. For anyone who lives in a mildly undulating area this hill would be a joke, but then that is not where I live, so I relish this hillock.

The trip east to Andersonville is devoid of altitude changes. I often cut through Rosehill cemetery; it has special meaning for me. My wife’s family on her dad’s side is buried there, and it was the site of my first job. During the summers between 7th and 8th grade, and 8th grade and high school I cut its grass eight hours a day five days a week.

Valuable life lessons were learned as I mowed the lawn around the graves. I labored with seasonal workers from Appalachia. Their accents were thick. It took me weeks to decipher their dialect. They were good for about a half days work. Lunch was eaten at a local tavern along with multiple Old Styles. They wore bib overalls and returned from lunch with stubby beer bottles tucked into every pocket. I was promoted to supervisor within the first two weeks, and along with the promotion came a larger mower. More importantly, it was self-driven.

This was a sobering time in America. The Vietnam War was raging and every large city seemed to suffer devastating race riots. Several times per week, we would turn the mower’s engine off, and stand in respect for a fallen soldier’s burial. At the gravesite, the military honor guard fired three rifle shots as the family grieved. I will never forget this. Some years later, when it was time for me to register for the draft the war had escalated and continued for many more years.

Pardon the reverie. The walk east towards Andersonville is flat. There is a slight decline in elevation as the lake is approached but so minimally as not to exist. The trek to Andersonville is a little longer than the walk to Lincoln Square, so the energy expended averages out.

Several weeks ago while coming back from Lincoln Square, in Rob Blagojevich’s old neighborhood, there was a sign for a house sale. House sales are hard to resist. Most of them contain the accumulated possessions of the newly departed. When I looked around, my childhood flashed before me; dinnerware, small appliances, long out of fashion clothes and shoes, yellowing books, odd record albums, and out dated tools. I searched for a find and in 50 years of looking have found a few. Mainly it makes me reflect on my inability to discard my collection of junk.

I cannot deny the melancholy of rummaging in someone else’s life. That said, on this occasion I purchased three 25 cent cigar boxes. They were constructed of wood permeated by the sweet bouquet of Cuban tobacco. One box was bare wood and the other two were covered in impeccably embossed glossy white paper. Each was festooned with tax stamps, and shiny holograms attesting to their true Cuban origin.

Charlotte tolerated the diversion and did not ask why I was buying the three empty boxes. By now she has figured out that there is often method to my madness, and my madness on this particular day was thoughts of making a cigar box guitar (CBG).

A friend in NYC started me down this path when he texted me a picture of his recently built CBG. He had alluded to making one but I had not paid much attention. I was taken aback when I saw the image. I like to think I am not competitive but this certainly got my juices flowing. Of course, the Internet provided numerous examples, and YouTube has an endless stream of accomplished CBG players rattling off blues riffs.

My basement, though less clutter than in the past, still contains much of the raw materials needed to make a guitar. There was a chunk of cherry left over from a never realized table, and several large containers of nuts and bolts. As far as tools, they were waiting to be used, and as far as expertise, I haven’t been messing about in my basement for 25 years without picking up a few woodworking skills.

A blueprint was needed. Pertinent websites were bookmarked. The list grew with no end in sight. A decision had to be made and so I went with a YouTube video. This was a first; to build a complex structure with no paper plans or books to refer to. The video was approximately 25 minutes long and the presenter was a charismatic character. If he was selling the Brooklyn Bridge, I might have bought it.

I watched it once, twice, three times, took a few rudimentary notes, and then got to work. As the video said, “Let’s do this!” There is a saying, measure twice and cut once. I took this to heart but wished I had been more attentive when ordering the various accouterments such as strings, tuners, etc. In the end, not much money was wasted.

The guitar came together quickly. As I waited for the strings to arrive in the mail a funny feeling crept over me. I realized I did not know what to do with the lovely little instrument. It was back to YouTube!

So, next time I go for a walk I will endeavor to keep my eyes from the various signs posted on fences, light poles and trees. I will keep my heart rate at a therapeutic level, and hustle over hill and dale. And if you believe that, I have a great deal on a bridge!

September 23, 2016