It was Sunday afternoon. A small crowd gathered on the front porch of Ruth Elliot's new shop. The Band-Aid was more successful than she had hoped. She'd chosen the name to symbolize the work at the rescue shelter she ran for sick and orphaned wildlife in the area.
Ruth and her friend, Sandy Miller, had opened it several weeks ago. It showcased the work of local craftsmen and artists. But the primary goal of The Band-Aid was to educate folks to respect animals in the wild and to recruit volunteers to help out at the wildlife rescue shelter.
Sandy asked local musicians to play on Saturday nights and Sunday afternoons as an added attraction. The response was heartwarming. Hobarth Stricker agreed to teach young people interested in learning to play the guitar. The fact that Hobie had consented to give free lessons was a boon for the shop.
Hobarth Stricker was a legend in the area. Not only did he play stringed instruments, he made them.
"He's just got the knack," musicians would say. "Hobie knows when an instrument is gonna sound right."
Famous celebrities had purchased Hobie's guitars. In his little brick shop near Windy Creek, Hobie worked fourteen to sixteen hours a day churning out acoustical guitars just for the love of it.
Every day, he turned an ordinary piece of mountain hardwood into something magical. Nobody could explain it.
Hobie would sand and saw and glue, just like anybody else. But somewhere along the process, he left a piece of his soul in any instrument he made.
The mellow sound of his babies could not be replicated, no matter how hard anyone tried. Hobie Stricker wasn't your everyday craftsman. He was the master. And he played the instruments he so lovingly created.
"Hadley Pell!" Lou Edna exclaimed. "You'll strain something Doc Emory can't repair. Those little kiddie seats are not made to hold up an adult. You're gonna go crashing down and bust your behind!"
"I'll admit," Hadley said, "these tiny chairs aren't the most comfortable. And I think I'm gonna need a crane to hoist me up.
But I want to learn to play a guitar, Lou Edna. I swallowed my pride and got here first, this afternoon. Hobie is teaching these kids. I decided I wanted to get in on the lessons. I'll swallow my pride and look ridiculous any day just to have Hobie teach me."
"But ain't it just for kids?" Lou Edna asked.
"There's no age limit on the poster advertising the lessons today. I'm the biggest kid at heart. So, I qualify."
"Yes, you are, Hadley," Hobie said, walking up with his instruments. "Where'd y'all get all those little brightly colored chairs. It looks like a rainbow up on this porch."
"The five-year-old Sunday School Class donated them," Hadley said.
"Hobie, do you mind if I learn along with the kids?"
"Shoot no," Hobie said. "Somebody took the time to teach me. I apprenticed under Minta Bartholomew. All it takes is somebody who's really serious about learning. It's a code we go by. It's what keeps the music alive. I'm just passing on the tradition to the next generation. Anyone who wants to learn is welcome on my porch."
"Thanks, Hobie. Could you give me hand? I really don't think my oversized frame was made for this munchkin chair."
"No problem."
Hadley thought Hobie Stricker was the nicest man.