“The Tiple”

c. 2018 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-18)

Rhoderick D. Ice June 25, 1929 – April 27, 2018

Memories of Dad.

As I struggle to comprehend his passing, old recollections have emerged from the ether to give comfort. I sit in front of his abandoned desktop computer and let these colorful stories flow into text. With each recorded tale, I imagine that he is smiling, in eternity. For a writer, every experience is an opportunity. Even the loss of one so beloved as my father. So I know he would expect nothing less than an ongoing series about growing up on the folk music of Woody Guthrie and Pete Seeger, or Mad Magazine.

A recent session at the home-office desk documented another such familial reflection. While talking about childhood experiences with my sister, I had remembered a particular Christmas gift from sometime around 1970. It was a ukulele from the Sears & Roebuck catalog. The instrument offered a chance to tap into the creative continuum present in our household, much like using Dad’s Underwood typewriter.

A lesson book was included in the cardboard box. I can only remember its red cover. And, that it offered “My Bonnie Lies Over The Ocean” among some popular melodies. I learned the tune quickly. A crude chord chart provided basic knowledge of how to play the uke with some proficiency. But once I had practiced for a few weeks, my focus shifted in a predictable direction.

I began to write my own songs.

The subject matter of these early compositions varied wildly. I was around nine years old. One anthem boasted about the notoriety of Jim Stapleton, a broadcaster on local Virginia television, at WLVA-13. Later, I appeared on their morning show to demonstrate an electrical project. The experience produced a first attempt at doing something Dad had advised – writing from personal experiences.

“Hey Jim, how’s the weather? Hey Jim, how’s the news?”

(From left) Jim Stapleton and Wayne Tyler, 1974.

The ukulele was a perfect companion for basement sessions and visiting friends. A useful foundation for storytelling in the ‘folk’ tradition. But when my membership in the Campbell County 4-H program yielded a chance to compete as part of a talent show, the tiny twanger was upstaged. My father suggested playing his C. F. Martin ‘Tiple.’ It used 10 steel strings, arranged in four courses (2,3,3,2) that mimicked the uke pattern of four strings.

The Tiple had a bold, echoing presence. I strummed the instrument with a pick made of felt.

No one had ever seen such an odd plectrum. Adding to the mystery, I played a traditional ballad called ‘Froggy Went A-Courting.’ The obscure ditty had been recorded by everyone from Tex Ritter to Burl Ives and had roots back to Scotland in the 1500’s.

“Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, uh huh

Froggy went a-courting and he did ride, uh huh

Froggy went a-courting and he did ride

With a sword and a pistol by his side, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door, uh huh

He went down to Miss Mousey’s door

Where he’d often been before, uh huh...”

I won a week at Holiday Lake summer camp, with all expenses paid. As a kid, it felt like a million-dollar lottery prize. Later, the performance qualified me for statewide competition, where I came in second to a semi-professional Country & Western group. Though their moment of victory was sweet, the band seemed more interested in my Martin Tiple. After the extravaganza, I fielded questions about the odd plucker.

Though I did not receive a trophy, the moment represented another kind of victory. A triumph of the family’s individualistic nature.

Eventually, a passion for the Blues and early Rock & Roll records in my father’s collection took hold. Searching for the overdriven tones of Chuck Berry and Bo Diddley, I taped a loudspeaker to one of the full-size guitars in our household and connected it to an RCA radio which had phono inputs on the back. The result was lots of microphonic feedback. Something less grand than the mastery of my heroes. Yet it fit the mood.

My songwriting continued. Dad watched proudly as the seed he had planted began to grow and flourish.

From Mother Maybelle Carter, to Bob Dylan, to the stark, urban vistas of Lou Reed, my study of the craft continued. Though sonically diverse, each style was rooted in the same, fertile soil. That of rendering a tale in song. A tradition I sometimes likened to being a “reporter with guitar.” As an adult, I began to record demo tracks during quiet moments away from work. In the 1980’s and 1990’s these archived tapes grew to at least 500 songs in number. Many were real-time observations on daily life, sung over chord progressions or riffs. I wrote about friends in New York, motorcycles, job dissatisfaction, wanderlust, mayhem in my personal life, unrequited love, and the search for myself.

Perhaps the strangest of these audio ventures was a tune called ‘Farewell Old Soldier’ about my beige, 1981 Chevrolet Chevette. The unreliable car had expired with 77,640 miles under its wheels and became a storage shed in our yard, primarily for dog food. I sang with emotion about its many woes including a cracked piston, rusted floor, broken springs, worn 4-speed transmission and gutless highway performance.

“Farewell, old soldier, you served us well

Got us through three-and-a-half years of heaven and hell...”

Though much more sophisticated than my childhood experiments with the Sears ukulele, the pattern remained intact. I had learned much as a pupil in our household academy.

With or without musical accompaniment, Dad had sired a writer, for life.

Questions or comments about ‘Words on the Loose’ may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com

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