By Mike Lunsford
When I think about the things of which I know virtually nothing, it scares me a little. I may know a few dates and facts in history, the names of my favorite books, and a line or two of poetry, but I really don’t know near enough.
Like many homeowners, I know how to replace a water heater and rewire a lamp, and I can hang mini-blinds without mashing a thumb. Much past that, and I’m a little iffy.
When I listen to music, say Vaughn Williams’ 5th Symphony — one of my favorites — for instance, or even Eric Clapton doing his thing on the guitar, I have no idea how people can make something that beautiful happen. Since I struggled with “Ole King Cole” in an aborted attempt at playing the violin in sixth grade, I know I don’t have a clue as to how people can make music in their heads, let alone how they write it down for others to play.
I can understand plinking out a tune on a piano with one hand; add the other hand and that’s coordination that leaves me scratching my head. There are women at our churches who really know how to play the piano, but how they do it, I can’t say. One friend, Kevin Hoggatt, played a beautiful piece at church a few months ago, and he “plays by ear.” He can’t read a note of music. How is that possible?
I know that when I see sculpture, perhaps something as wonderful as Daniel French’s Lincoln or West Terre Haute sculptor Bill Wolfe’s work, I feel small because I struggled to make a decent-looking ashtray in seventh grade shop class. There is a magic in their hands that just isn’t in mine, and good potters, pie-makers and painters have the touch, too.
I used to spend a lot of time at Salty Seamon’s art studio, and the stuff he threw in the trash after he showed me a little bit about shading or perspective or washing color was better than I could ever hope to do. He would sit at his painting table, a piece of paper anchored to it with masking tape, and create something where there was nothing before — a sycamore tree, a wheat field, a blackbird, a barn.
My friends Joe and Dennis can make a table, a baby’s cradle or a child’s toy out of a few sticks of oak or sassafras; I admire that, and I’ve told them so. They may have degrees in mathematics, but they also see how to apply that subject to the building of a deck or the framing of a barn. What I may have halfway learned at a blackboard in school comes alive for them when cutting angles, figuring area and making trim. They leave me smiling when I smell the wood and feel the grain of their labors.
My father-in-law, a retired farmer, never had much money in his life, but he’s amazed me for years with his ability to keep old mechanical things going with little more than baling wire, spit and a prayer. He understands how things work and begins tearing into them while I’m still looking at the operator’s manual. He once completely dismantled a balky old lawn tractor of mine on my garage floor, tossing incomprehensible pieces into five-gallon buckets. After I ordered the part he said that I needed — waiting on it for weeks — he came back to that garage, dumped the parts on the floor, sat on the bucket, and put my tractor back together. I was impressed; he had nothing leftover and that previous pile of oily parts was back to mowing my yard in a few hours. I’m also happy to know that my son, who spent much of his preschool life with his grandpa, has a little of Gib’s mechanical ability; it’s going to come in handy someday.
I’ve often called one of my brothers-in-law to help me with electrical projects from time to time. Gene knows his stuff. What I assume or suspect will toast me on the spot makes sense to him. I simply don’t understand currents and resistance and figuring out exactly what I’m supposed to do with one of those little handheld testers. He always seems to have an idea as to where I can start when solving a problem, just about the time I’m convinced I have no options.
My brother, John, has made canoes, rebuilt motor boats, built cabinets and bookcases, remodeled bathrooms, refinished furniture, tanned hides, and has become quite a good cook to boot. What he knows, he’s learned by trial and error, by using his imagination, and by taking chances. I know I can do a few things he can’t do, but I think I’d rather know more of what he can do than what I can.
A good teaching friend, Mike Hardesty, is a computer guru; the man simply knows things about computers that I can’t fathom. I don’t know the difference between a byte and megahertz, but Mike eats computer manuals like breakfast. If there’s such a thing as technical common sense, he has it. He may swing a golf club like Fred Flintstone, but the man can scan, download, copy and paste and transfer with the best of them. He taught himself how to play the bagpipes and a half-dozen other instruments, too.
Over the years, I’ve come to marvel at what some people can do. Emma Jean Jackson makes some of the best noodles I’ve ever had; Carol June Wiggins and my mom sat for hours hunched over ancient quilting frames and made quilts beautiful enough to call art; my wife can do the Jumble we run in this newspaper faster than anyone on the planet. Phyllis Marsolf makes fantastic jelly; Dr. David Hay is a fine poet; Dan Collom and his crew of carpenters built history with their hands at Bridgeton.
Because I have a couple of college degrees and a few pieces of paper that entitle me to be called educated, some people may think I’m pretty smart. But I think I have them fooled a little. I can plant a tree, do some basic plumbing, take a decent photograph and quote Robert Frost. I was once told that I was good at trimming shrubs.
I’m smart all right; I know just enough to know that I don’t know much at all.
Mike Lunsford can be reached at hickory913@aol.com, or by regular mail c/o The Tribune-Star, PO Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808.
