A few years ago, I went on a bike ride with my sister and niece and My friends Pat and Jennifer. We rode from my parent’s house up the Fox River trail. When we got to Island Park in Geneva, we found something quite amazing. There is actually a folk music festival in the area. We didn’t get to spend much time there as we were out for a bike ride and had planned on cooking out back at my parent’s house in Batavia. We did discuss the idea of going the next year, but life got in the way.

Finally, this year, things lined up properly and when Pat reminded me of the festival–which is held labor day weekend–I committed to doing it. The festival was on Sunday and Monday from 11:00am to 6:00pm.

Bill Robinson demonstrating one of his handcrafted dulcimers

Monday morning, we met at the Geneva diner for breakfast and, since parking is a bit tricky for Island park, we headed down State street (route 38) from the diner. If you are driving to the festival, best bet is to park in the Kane County Government Center parking lot and taking the footbridge underneath the train bridge to the park. If you are into cycling, it would make a nice ride even from as far as Aurora.

We came in from the North end of the park and the first thing I saw was  a vender–Bill Robinson–set up with his hammered dulcimers. This was just the first of many unique instruments.

The Plank Road folk

This was one of the most interesting things about the festival Folk Festival–being able to see different instruments–uncommon instruments being played well. Aside from the hammered dulcimers, there was no shortage of Lutes, Resonators, Banjos and even a guy playing a Carpenter’s saw!

A hammered dulcimer and two lutes in the park

The festival was spread out throughout the park and consisted of eight stages of varying size–including a large main stage and a stage dedicated to storytelling. There were medium sized groups like the Plank Road Folk Music Society who had a tent.  And throughout the park, there were scattered clusters of musicians–some individual, some in groups of two or three.

I’m not an expert on folk music but there seemed to be musicians representing the Renaissance, Celtic, Bluegrass and modern Folk Music.

Terry West and his guitars

On the way out I bumped into Terry West, who is a Luthier from St Charles Illinois. He had a couple nicely built acoustics with an impressive amount of inlay in the fretboards and an equally impressive $6000.00 price tag.

For all the lost boys and Jean Marie,

I didn’t want to cry especially over something as silly as dropping an ice cream cone. Real men don’t blubber like babies because they dropped a dollar and a half’s worth of ice cream on the pavement. It fell in slow-motion. The pale yellow blob of pralines and cream drifted almost delicately toward the stained concrete, flattening itself on contact. I could feel him staring at me–the alarmed parent of the ten year old. He guided his son in a wide arc around me with a gentle hand on his shoulder. I knew what the father was thinking–this guy might just be crazy; or– even my ten year old wouldn’t cry over a dropped ice cream cone.

How could I explain to him what it meant to drop an ice cream cone? How can I explain it to you? I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream. Ice cream is childhood. Ice cream is warm summer days after church, after little league games–after a rough day in the neighborhood playing kick-the-can. A link to a world in which all dreams are possibilities. A world in which you can say “I’m going to be the President when I grow up” and mean it. A world in which a terrible fear–perhaps the worst–is being picked last. A world in which sorrows are commercials–before they become mini-series.

Ice cream’s a happy thing, well, at least it used to be. Ice cream meant Neil. It meant Neil because of the time I ended up wearing John’s ice cream cone in my ear. I had been sufficiently warned. I was told that if I didn’t stop what I was doing–I don’t remember what, that’s not really important–I would get an ice cream cone shoved in my ear. I thought it was a bluff. I mean how could anybody give up their ice cream cone like that? It must have taken a great deal of will. He had to know Mom wouldn’t buy him another as she might if he accidentally dropped it. She had heard the promise–there would be no playing it off as an accident, not this time. It made sense to cry over that ice cream cone even though it wasn’t mine. It was cold. Besides, without a few tears I was at risk. If I could show I had suffered enough, I could escape punishment. I was humiliated and a bit in awe of my older brother John’s strength of will–I couldn’t sacrifice my ice cream–I just wasn’t that strong.

Neil couldn’t help it, he laughed. Even to a nine year old, getting yelled at for laughing at a kid with an ice cream cone sticking out of his ear didn’t seem just. Who wouldn’t laugh? Hell, a few years later we all laughed about it together.

Thinking of Neil didn’t make me sad, it made me think of Pink Floyd. Neil had given me Pink Floyd. I don’t mean he had given me one of their albums, no, that’s not what I mean at all. He gave me the band. We were in his room which he shared with his older brother Scott. I don’t remember what all we talked about but I remember when he asked if I had ever heard The Wall.

We listened to The Wall as Neil explained how Roger Waters’ father had died and what all the songs meant. I listened to the radio a bit and to the few LP’s my mother still had laying around: CCR, Santana, Neil Diamond, Don McClean and a couple of Elvis albums. I never knew until that day in Neil’s room that music could mean something. Sure I knew there were words and sometimes stories, but there was something different about the way we listened to the music that day. It was as if we actually shared something–a moment–with ol’ Roger. If ice cream meant Neil then Neil meant Pink Floyd.

Sometimes I wonder how I would have gotten through my youth without Pink Floyd. Roger’s voice was a comfort–an old friend who could always seem to reach through to me and say “I know exactly how you feel” without ever telling you “cheer up,” or “just get over it.”

I can never tell where thinking of Pink Floyd might bring me. This time it brought me to a rusty old Triumph Spitfire, driving East on Route 64 in that twilight time when everything seems warm and wonderful. Two Suns in the Sunset always seemed to be cued up just for this drive. Maybe it only really happened once but it seems more like it was always. Always, near sunset. duly. Always heading East with the sun in my rear-view just like in the song. I almost expected to see the mushroom cloud and to watch “the windshield melt and my tears evaporate.” Sometimes I wish I had. It used to frighten me and make me sad to think that it was possible for someone to end the human race, but that was before I realized there were far more frightening things than dying with the rest of humanity. The song would end but the human race went on. The reflective mood would seldom last beyond the time I turned the Spitfire into the Cascade entrance.

The Spitfire and the Cascade drive-in double-teamed me. Both meant Jeanie. We had gone there. Her and Ray and I and one of her friends. Jeanie was sweet, Jeanie was cute, Jeanie’s dead. She liked Ray. Ray kept telling me to ask her out and perhaps, if he ever stopped hitting on her for a few seconds I just might have. She seemed happy. I didn’t really think it meant anything that her favorite song was “Don’t Fear the Reaper,” I bought the album after she killed herself.

I can’t help but wonder if Jamie knew Jeanie. They both transferred to Aurora Christian. It’s possible. We had been friends because  we were both pudgy and picked on. We always talked about finding a cabin in the woods somewhere and leaving the world to all the assholes who seemed to want it so badly. Grandma always seem to know–always seem to remember. She called me when I was away at school to tell me Jamie had walked into the back room of a bar after closing time and shot himself in the head. I guess he never found that cabin.

Bob used a rope. Tied it to the floor joists in the basement and genuflected for the last time. I still have a picture of Bob somewhere. He and John are standing next to the engine they rebuilt for my Caddy after my accident. I can’t remember if I ever thanked him.

It seems there must have been a time, a single point in time. A cold razor’s edge moment in which death became real but I can’t find it. Once little Gary told me I “hold onto shit way too long.” maybe he’s right, maybe I do but that’s who I am. Mark’s diiferent. He’s still fresh. Even little Gary couldn’t point his finger at me.

Ghosts are real. They might even clank around in musty attics or howl in moonlit graveyards but those aren’t the ghosts we should fear. Those only show up when we want them to–those are the ghosts we go looking for. The one’s that find their own way, those are the ones.

They’re there. At the funeral home. In the parking lot. In the steps. The foyer. The faint scent of roses mingled with a multitude of different colognes and perfumes. The closed box surrounded by flowers. Who’s in it? For a moment I can’t remember. I glance around. The faces–they’re the same. Not the same. More worn, almost haggard. No longer the faces of children. Mark’s. Mark’s is closed. Had to be. Even a rifle that old– I let that go real quick. I check the pain. Make sure it’s still there. A tongue pressing into the hole in an abscessed molar.

A collage of pictures near the casket. Don’t want to look. Not now. Not just yet. Have to. Lots of Mark. Lots of smiles. Much too happy to be dead. One picture slides across my soul like a razor. A half dozen kids grouped ’round Santa Claus. Mark’s in the front next to Hanko–the other dead kid. One of the others–there’s too many–so many.

There’s bitterness in this photo for me. The red hair, the freckles–a terminally happy Huck Finn and only a seatbelt away from a long life. So close. I wonder if it was meant to be–if it was better this way. I remember that summer–the summer. Only a few years after the Santa picture. Hanko was almost sixteen that entire summer. He was still almost sixteen when he died. I turned 21 that summer and I was everybody’s friend–I couldn’t say no. The parent-free summer. The parties. The pale orange carpet and the second-hand furniture. Hanko passes the bowl. Something different–almost floral.  “strange flavor” I say. His sheepish grin. I want to be angry. Forgot. It’s opium.  Hanko in his white Corona sleeveless t-shirt–not the tye-dye they buried him in–running. A full case of MGD. Bottles no less. Running from the cops. Not like the last time, this time he gets away. Mill creek right down by the river. Laying on his back with a bottle of Purple Passion balanced on his chest. Asleep? Passed out? Not with that cheshire grin. I shudder. A premonition? I hold my breath for a moment waiting for his.

Flashlights in the trees. Cops!? We just laugh hysterically. We’re busted and too drunk to think it won’t be fun. Just Tanya and Scott and a dozen eggs. Sure it was for breakfast–just forgot the frying pan. Scott’s almost over. We know it but he still doesn’t. Hanko and Tanya should work. They’re friends first. There’s the Clapton show. We’re supposed to go. Hanko and Tanya and Allison and me. I pay for the tickets. It didn’t work. Tanya said it was like kissing her brother. Things turned awkward. I didn’t see him much after school started in the fall. I still remember the last time. It was December. I ran into him at the mall. I still remember the last words I spoke to him–I wish I didn’t. Sometimes, when the darkness is strongest I hear them echo; You got my twenty bucks? Hey, Jeff. Don’t look like you’re gonna get your twenty bucks back from Hanko–he died in a car crash last night. Forget about the money, just stop by sometime.

Poor Dan. Always seemed to be able to find the absolute worst thing to say. He didn’t know–couldn’t have known. Why such long faces? Who died? He wasn’t that perceptive, it was an ill timed joke. It was funny too. I mean, not what Dan said, but how the poor bastard reacted. I never realized a single syllable–a simple name uttered hundreds of times before–could have such force. I could have hit Dan in the gut with a two by four and he might not have flinched as much. Dan didn’t know. He had skipped school to spend time with Brooke. He was happy when he came. Guess he probably wanted us to be happy too. I didn’t. I felt like an asshole for ruining his fun day. Well, no. That’s not quite true. I felt like an asshole when I realized the perverse pleasure I got from ruining his day. I was an animal in pain and I did what animals in pain do–I kicked and I kicked at whatever happened to be closest to me in that moment.

Leaving for the funeral. I backed into Mr. Peterson’s school bus. His wife, Genette–I think that was her name–was strange. After he quit driving the bus, he’d take his old Caddy out about once a week. Never went faster than an idle. She was downright weird. Spooky even–if you never talked to her. Always wearing her housecoat. Even with her Coke-bottle glasses, she didn’t know who she was talking to unless she was about a foot and a half away. Never threw a damn thing away. Bought a ’70 Coupe DeVille from them. Had bundles of ten-year-old newspapers in the trunk. You’d never ‘a guessed she graduated from DePaul. They’re both dead–time caught up with them finally.
At the funeral, there’s something hidden. Something just under the conversations–some of the conversations. Buried under the guilt. Under the trauma and the grief. Below anything that can be voiced in the cold, sober light of day. You can see it in some of the eyes if you know what to look for–if you dare. Something that might come out perhaps a year later, back at Mill Creek, drawn out by half a fifth of Southern Comfort and a torrent of memories. It’s something that needs its own word–and would have if we had the courage. It’s a complicated recipe of mixed emotions which somehow bakes into a cake of “maybe it’s better this way.” I can’t explain. It’s a place you can only find alone.

Yesterday was moving day. Not for me but for my friend Gail. With so much in flux and so much chaos, it is good to see a dear friend find a bit of stability. It is good to have a foundation–an anchor in a storm. It is good to have a place to call home and, to own it? Well, that is the American dream isn’t it?

The process of moving brought me back to thinking about some things that have been weighing on me for the past few years.

My Aunt Marilyn passed in December of ’08 and my Uncle Joel followed in February of ’09. Since they never had children, it fell to us to sort out their estate and then My parents moved from Batavia to Yorkville. They had been in the same house for 30 years. Both experiences made me think about the state of my own affairs.

You see, the thing is, we tend to expand to fill the space we occupy. Maybe this isn’t true of everybody but it is of most people I know. The craftier people are especially guilty of this because we can see possibility in the strangest bits of detritus.

As I write this, I look  around and nearly everything I see is a mnemonic device. Some–like the Vornado fan that belonged to my grandmother and the library table that belonged to her grandmother– are nearly totemic in nature. Some are stories–like the “no standing” sign we stole from the  Route 66 dragway.

We surround ourselves with these things these comforts.  All having place and provenance. All pulling us back towards something or someone. All anchor us to what is and what was and somehow give us a sense of place in the world. These things have a gravity. They can help ground us and comfort us when things are cold and dark. Or they can drag us down into the darkness.

Ten years ago, I was sitting in my grandparent’s kitchen with  them and my Aunt Marilyn. Going through boxes of photographs and memories . The unspoken words?  “You will be gone soon and so will the memories. Unless. .  . Unless we can hold on to them a bit longer.”  It hit me moments before my grandfather burst into tears. All were gone. All were ghosts. All of the people that shaped their lives were gone. They had us–their children and grandchildren–at least they had that. Still,  Is that what it means to be the last one standing?

We keep these memories  because they are sacred–because they help us hold on to things past–people past. The “no standing” sign isn’t nearly as important for the irony–which is why I stole it. It is important because, in an instant, it can take me back to that summer. Before Katy moved away. Before Tracey’s Aneurysm. Before John moved to Alaska.  Before Dani disappeared. A time, maybe not better but different enough to have its own gravity.

So we keep these things. A traffic  light, a Union badge,  a coin. They are our possessions. The problem with possessions is the question of ownership. At what point do we cease to posses them? At what point do they begin to posses us?  Outside the context of the memories, these things are nothing. They are simply the keys which unlock the doors. I think this is why we fear letting go so much. We fear never being able to open that door again. To not be able to look back at that Tye-dyed summer.

Lately I’ve begun to wonder if losing everything to flood or fire might  not come with a bit of relief– to become suddenly and irrevocably untethered and unencumbered. To be put in a position where we must face that these things are not what is important. To be shown that the people in our lives–the family and friends are the only things that really matter and that these totems and mnemonic devices are nothing but flotsam and jetsam in the  rivers of our lives.

The next step is to drill the hole.

hole drilled

This install calls for a 1/2″ hole to be drilled for the jack. I recommend a brad point drill bit as it will give you the cleanest hole with less chance of tear-out. A hand power drill should do nicely as long as it has a 1/2″ chuck. Some drills have 3/8″ chucks.

pickup and jack parts

Once the hole is drilled, remove the tape and inspect the hole. If there was any tear-out, it can be repaired at this time.

Gather all the pickup parts. Determine where you will mount the pickup on the soundboard. try to mount it as close as possible to the underside of the bridge. Bear in mind, if you are working with an instrument what has bridge pins, you cannot block the holes for the pins. The pickup needs to mount flat against the soundboard preferably not touching any bracing.

After you determine the placement of the pickup, you can decide if the lead (wire) needs to be shortened.

Disassemble the back end of the jack. Make sure you run the wire through the metal shield and the heat-shrink tube before soldering. Solder the leads to the proper lugs on the jack.

jack and pickup assembly completed

Heat the heat shrink tubing–a cigarette lighter works fairly well for this just take care to not overheat and melt the wires. replace the shielding.

disassemble front end

Disassemble the front end of the endpin jack. take note of the order of the hardware. Also, at this point, you will need to set the proper depth of the backing nut on the endpin jack. The best way to do this is to measure the depth of the hole. If the nut is too far back on the endpin jack assembly, there will be too many threads exposed. If it is too far forward, you will not be able to thread the nut on.

Feed a wire through

Fish a wire through the endpin hole and out through the soundhole  an old guitar string works fairly well. Put the end of the wire through the holes in the side of the endpin jack. Carefully feed the pickup assembly through the soundholes as you pull the endpin jack into place with the wire.

Remove the wire. Install the nut and insert a small screwdriver or allen wrench through the holes in the side of the endpin jack to hold it while you tighten the nut.

Attach wire to endpin

Replace the strap lug onto the end of the endpin jack.

Place a small drop of cyanoacrylate glue on the center of he pickup and attach it to the soundboard.

Done

Restring and plug the instrument into an amplifier and test to make sure it is working properly.

When it comes to amplifying a stringed acoustic instrument, there are a whole range of options. There are many factors that should be considered before deciding to permanently install a pickup. There are different types and methods which I am not going to try to cover here right now.

The patient

This “how to” covers the install of a soundboard pickup in a Ukelele. This is a simple Piezoelectric pickup that mounts to the soundboard. The vibrations in the soundboard will deform a thin layer of crystal within the piezoelectric pickup. The pressure created by the deformation of the crystal produces a small electrical charge. This charge is a signal which can then be amplified.

Trivia: The Greek word “piezo” means to squeeze or press.

The soundboard transducer pickups are the easiest to install. The only permanent modification to the Ukelele will be the mounting hole for the output jack.

The pickups are available as a kit with all the parts you need–essentially the pickup and the jack. You will need to consider what type of jack and where you will install it. You can install the jack in the lower bout but this is ill advised as the wood of the sides are less than ninety thousandths of an inch thick (.090″). Some electric guitars have jacks mounted in this position but if you were to step on the cord and pull up on the guitar at the same time, there is a very good chance you could pull the jack right through the side of the instrument.

The best place to mount the jack is through the bottom block. At the bottom of the Ukelele (or guitar) where the two sides meet, there is a block of wood that is much thicker than the sides. This position also allows for the use of an end-pin jack. the end pin jack has a button for attaching a strap.

Even if you do not intend to use a strap, you might want to go with the endpin style jack as it will give you a more finished look.

Pickup kit

First step is inventory the parts

This kit shipped with the Piezo pickup, endpin jack, shrink wrap and a short length of solder. Even if you are convinced you know what you are doing it is still a good idea to read the instructions.

After reading the instructions, I “walk through” the process in my head. think about how I am going to do each step and make sure I do them in the right order. Keep in mind, instructions are not infallible. If something doesn’t make sense or if there are any questions, it is better to ask them before you start cutting or drilling.

Walking through the process, I realized the endpin jack supplied with the kit would be nearly impossible to install in a Ukulele. Would have been difficult enough in a guitar as it would require reaching down into the body through the soundhole and tightening the nut on the inside of the jack.

I was able to track down a Allparts endpin jack at Hix music in Batavia. This type of jack can be dropped trough from the inside after the wiring is connected and then secured from the outside.

Net step is preparing the Ukulele. I put  soft blanket on my workbench to protect the instruments I am working on. A soft piece of carpet would work also. The strings need to come off and then we are ready to sort out where to put the jack.

This is the spot where we can really screw up so it pays to take the time to do it right. We want to place the endpin jack as close to the center of the bottom of the ukulele as possible. This might seems simple but it isn’t always.If the ukulele (or guitar) has a seam where the two sides are joined, then this should be used as a center lines as this would be the most obvious point of reference. This ukulele lacks a center seam which presents a bit of a problem.

Marked for incision

The problem is this; If we simply measure and find what we call “dead center,” we might end up with the endpin technically centered but it may not look centered. What we need to do is find a center which is “pleasing to the eye.”

Years ago, I helped my neighbor attach a fence to his house and to another fence. It was a short run of about 12 feet and he spent quite a bit of time getting it perfectly level and plumb. When we finished, well, quite frankly, it looked awful. Sure, the fence section we installed was perfectly level and plumb but neither the house or the other fence was! For that matter, neither was the ground underneath the fence.

It is much more important when you install the endpin jack that it looks right than it is right. In a ukulele or a guitar, the symmetry is based on the neck. The position of the bridge is determined by the angle of the neck. Ideally, the bridge should be in the middle of the soundboard but this rarely happens.

The best bet for placement is to run a straight-edge down the center of the fretboard all the way to the end of the ukulele.

Before measuring and marking, tear off a few pieces of tape. I use binding tape but masking tape will work also. Cover the end of the Ukelele in the area the endpin jack will go. This will allow you to mark the surface without damaging the Ukulele. the tape will also help prevent tear-out when drilling the hole for the jack.

Place the straight-edge along the center of the fretboard and mark the end on the tape. This will give you a center point relative to the fretboard.

The endpin should be centered between the front and back. Take a look at where you have laid out the endpin. If you are satisfied that it looks centered then it is time to move on to the next step.