High Desert Swap Meet 2010 Part 2: The Roadster

Open Wheeled cars are the plunging neckline of the automotive world. Riskier than the alternative, Great looking in the mirror, and the fun really begins when they go out in public.

I love the curves on this car. It was an exquisitely executed dream, created, the sign says, by a man who lived only long enough to see it run. He died, leaving it to his widow, whose neighbor kindly finished the project and brought it along to the High Desert Swap Meet to sell. Whether it did is moot; what is important is the presence it brought.

You could lose yourself in the minute details under the hood; the no-nonsense dashboard, the era-perfect wire wheels.

But it's the curve of the body that's something so right. Organically flowing, each square centimeter knowing where next to be as the hand moves over it.

It started, it ran, it was like a dream that man shared with us all. Is it tragic that he died? Very likely; lives ending leave pain somewhere. But counter that with this indisputable triumph: He did it. He drew some sketches, he made some measurements, and he didn't stop to talk about it, he did it.

I fancy the word "someday" wasn't in his vocabulary.

If you don't share my twitterpation with the topographical undulations of this sensuous beauty, that's ok. But meditate upon the reality of this endeavor and balance that against all the barriers you have identified between you and an accomplishment long held and equally undone.

Let the neckline plunge. Something's gonna happen. Open that door and head out.

Hobo's Meditation by Jimmie Rodgers: Additional Verse

The Singing Brakeman: Jimmie Rodgers. A talented songwriter who died tragically of tuberculosis in the mid thirties. He was 35.

This song has been recorded by Merle Haggard, Johnny Cash and the fabled distaff Trio: Ronstadt, Parton and Harris. Folksingers of all stripes have a fondness for it.

The original lyric:

written by Jimmie Rodgers
© 1933 Peer International Corp

Last night as I lay on the boxcar
Just waiting for a train to pass by
What will become of the hobo
Whenever his time comes to die

There's a Master up yonder in heaven
Got a place that we might call our home
Will we have to work for a living
Or can we continue to roam

Will there be any freight trains in heaven
Any boxcars in which we might hide
Will there be any tough cops or brakemen
Will they tell us that we cannot ride

Will the hobo chum with the rich man
Will we always have money to spare
Will they have respect for the hobo
In that land that lies hidden up there

Will there be any freight trains in heaven
Any boxcars in which we might hide
Will there be any tough cops or brakemen
Will they tell us that we cannot ride

Will the hobo chum with the rich man
Will we always have money to spare
Will they have respect for the hobo
In that land that lies hidden up there

The repeat of the last two stanzas lands heavy. Could there be more?

Bill in Alabama (user name) is a prolific poster at www.mudcat.org:

"Our family performed this song with great success for many years, but we felt that it needed another verse; so, with apologies to Jimmie Rodgers, we came up with the following, sung as the final verse:"

In that sweet land that lies over yonder/ Does the warm summer sun always shine/ Will there be fences and watchdogs,/ And are the trains always on time?/
Are there orchards and gardens aplenty/ Where my friends will be waiting for me--/ Does God have a place for the wand'rer/ Where we'll be allowed to roam free?

Beautifully done.

Prior to discovering Bill's touching poetry, I humbly penned this:

When the last train rolls into glory / Will the rails be plated in gold?
When the passengers step to the platform / And all of their stories are told
Will we sit down at the same table / The rich and the poor every one?
Will we all see the Master in glory / In the place that shines bright as the sun.

What was a simple song now claims multiple authors and multiple forms, qualifying (to some yardsticks) as a folk song. Add a few verses of your own and well have an epic, right up there with Beowulf. Light the bonfire and pull up a log to sit on!

High Desert Swap Meet 2010, Part 1: The Nash and the Model T

 
 
 

Mac and Lucille Clark lived across the street from us. Two daughters, Linda and Joan. Small, no, eentsy Montana town.
Mac was something of a genius, but not eccentric. His work ethic had him at the shop early and home late. He had a Nash.

When I espied this beauty at the HDSM, I was lurched back to that Norman Rockwell childhood and the Clarks' blue Nash. In it, you lifted the shift knob toward your face to engage the starter. Clever. That way, you could never start it in gear because the switch wouldn't work if the stick weren't in neutral.

The owner of this Nash had some brags: "First car ever designed in a wind tunnel," he proclaimed. He started it up; it purred. "Look at that exhaust manifold, cast right into the block!" That took some reflection. It seems like a good idea, but I'm not sure why it didn't become typical. Some expansion/contraction issues, I suspect.

Then there was the cluster of Model Ts.

Tack, or was it Spike, Van Cleve had a Model T, open touring car. He couldn't afford tires for it so he drove it on the streets of Big Timber on its rims. But it ran! Though the word is overused, the T is an icon. Not just of transportation in the United States, but also of manufacturing. A cursory study of the T will take you many directions: society, class, moguls, money, power, innovation, politics, labor, diversification, and on.


There are always questions when you come upon vintage or unusual vehicles (And there will be several more HDSM interrogatory-laden posts on this blog as time goes on) but this one is unusual:



"Why so cheap?"

These cars appeared to be in running condition. They looked original, not gussied up to some level of perfection simply not achieved in the first decate of the 20th century. One sign said $6500. Another, $6000. I found the owner, posed the question.

A genuine look of sadness crossed his face. He paused, looked down, then looked me in the eye: "I think it's because these younger people aren't interested in finding out about these cars."

Any color, as long as its black. The color of mourning.

Friends of Joel Thomas, Barker Bassist, rally to help him fight ALS

Here's a link the site which not only describes how his local community is stepping up, but also provides an easy way for you to help. That link is at the bottom of the page, in the center:

Support Joel Thomas

(Let the slide show play and you'll see Joel with his Barker.)

You can click for the modern system, or mail a check.

The more you get to know Joel and about Joel, the larger this opportunity looms.

How about this for your birthday, honey?

Swift and McCormick, metal recyclers. It's an interesting place. Unused (scrap) metal from manufactories is deposited here; the company leaves a bin at your site and picks it up when it's full. The stuff is sorted, baled, and sold. Locals who have metal stuff around bring it here, get paid for it, and have that good feeling they didn't throw it into the landfill.

And then there's retail buyers. Visit, pick, weigh, pay and leave. She was excited. It was a moderate, beautiful Saturday morning.




A month ago I had got my hands on a unique piece and intended to buy it but mistakenly left it in, literally, the dust. I described that scenario to Linda, with emphasis on my disappointment. "One in a million chance of finding it," I muttered, somewhat bitterly.

Minutes later she was walking toward me, swinging it in her hand, look of smug delight on her lovely face. It's the D-handle looking gizmo in the image of the loot in the back of the pickup.




Her find was the cast piece, probably for the top of a gate, which includes two ravens. This will be a stunning addition to the Steampunk/Poe teen section of the library, once she paints it.

Oh, and back to the D-handle thingy. I suspect it will be vaguely familiar to you but, out of context, not easily identifiable. Leave a comment with a hint towards your guess. We'll all be wondering, and it will be more wonder-ful if no one just out and out says it. (note: somewhere in this text there is a clue; not in this paragraph.)

But perhaps you'll not have time for such games, being on your way to Swift and McCormick for a day of Unbridled Birthday Joy.

Barker Brio #16

 
It seems like more of these have been made than just 16, but here it is, the numerical empirical truth.

We thought it would be the Ford Falcon of Barker Basses, an allusion which holds well if you're old enough to remember those years.

The Falcon popped onto the automotive stage amidst schools of lethal dorsal fins, doors which rattled even when you were the first to drive on a newly paved street, and ginormous power plants stuffed into marshmallow-inspired chassis equipped with power steering which ranged more than all the nomadic tribes of the world combined.

It was smaller. It was trimmer. It was simpler. It was modest. Cute, even, and quickly adopted by our car-crazy culture. It outsold its competition which was the Chevy Corvair (the rear engine was just too, um, German) and the Plymouth Valiant (whose little tailfins were vaguely reminiscent of a 13 year old girl's first sweater).

And then, over the years, per American Car custom, it slowly got bigger, fancier, and, surprise! more expensive.

Right now the Barker Brio is exactly as designed, and at the same price.
It is simple--Pbass pickups, volume and tone controls.
It is sleek.
It has a humility about it--unpretentiousness perhaps, springing from the alder used exclusively in the body.
It is lighter weight than its more sophisticated sibling, the B1.

And just as much fun to play.

The bright spot is that making instruments one at a time allows the maker to be in touch with the parts and bring them to a singular purpose with his own experience and intention.

The dim part is about sales. It would be very helpful for all aspects of the business if more were marching toward the boxup table and the door.

Meantime, you can still get a Barker Bass with a serial number in the teens!

Ponder that moment that your grandchildren are proudly standing next to the carpeted, oddly shaped table and the Antiques Roadshow appraisers are clustered about, cooing and oohing about this extremely rare example of the early Barker instruments. "The value would be half this if you'd had it refinished!"

After the filming is over, they'll tote the bass out to the parking lot, put it in the back of their Falcon Ranchero and ease into traffic.

Life is good.

CinderBlue at the Wheeler County Bluegrass Festival 2010

"Back in time" works as a tag line for this Festival. You hardly see a cell phone. And get this: People stake out their territory with their lawn chairs (I think we call them "event chairs" now) on Thursday or whenever they arrive, and leave them there for the duration. If you show up and find some vacant chairs, have a seat. When the owner comes 'round, you'll get a polite tap on the shoulder.

No fences, no gate volunteers, no hand stamps. Just a pleasant lawn shaded by elegant deciduous trees and the stately but modest Wheeler County Courthouse. Good food vendors, a couple of very impressive luthiers including Jayson Bowerman. Plenty of camping up by the fairgrounds. Sit and listen.

Last year we were invited by the host and founder, Jay Bowerman, to sit in with his group Quincy Street for a few gospel tunes, chronicled here.

This year we were asked to do the whole gospel show on Sunday morning.

A lot of the music you will hear there is pure. Period. But other stuff pushes out the boundaries gently in this way and that, making for delightful variety without losing the roots connection.

Add in a gospel scramble, workshops, a well-produced melodrama by the Fossil Theater Players and you'll be hard pressed to find a reason to get farther than earshot from the stage.

And one more word about this event. The philosophical underpinnings include a commitment to area bands. No big national acts are recruited or booked--It is July 4 weekend, and this is truly music of the people, by the people and for the people. And the music is good. Great Northern Planes. Misty River. And more.

Keep track here. And note the list of sponsors at the bottom of that page. Without them, and you know the rest.

Thank you Jay, Teresa, Carol, and many others for the Wheeler County Bluegrass Festival.

So you don't need to be struck by lightning while eating a cheese sandwich in sight of a Norman Rockwell painting to get it. It's Back in Time and you're there, 100%.