Jingles by S.E. Hicks

Jingles
Written by Fletcher “Butchwax” Ferguson

When the good Lord was passing out talent I didn’t get in the music line. It seemed to me that the ability to make music should be left to those folks who were seeking an identity that did not necessarily require the individual to be broad in the shoulders. Since that time I have grown to have the greatest respect for those blessed with musical talent as I really enjoy all forms of musical style and the various respective genres. Everything from Bluegrass to Beethoven, Blues to Rock, Pop to Country, I like it all, except I am a little burned out on Elvis. I really like hard to find obscure stuff, like Julia Lee’s “Snatch and Grab It” or The Dominoes singing the song “Sixty Minute Man.” I guess in lieu of talent I must have actually received great appreciation of music as both a form of entertainment and artistic expression.

Alas, making music, for me has been an act of futility. My first attempt I believe began in perhaps the third grade with a flute-o-phone. Excited I was to unwrap the plastic toy like instrument, black in color about thirteen inches long with a removable mouth piece. The mouth piece later served as a whistle which had nerve shattering effects on my kid sister that caused my parents to reprimand me. The flute-o-phone became nothing more than a noise maker. The flute-o-phone itself was taught to me and my classmates once a week by the traveling adjunct music teacher. In preparation for an all school assembly sometime later that year we learned how to play melodies such as “Hot Cross Buns,” “ Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” and of course “Mary had a Little Lamb.” I could not play any of these simplistic works nor could I hit a single note despite having great enthusiasm to do so. Consequently, I was instructed to pretend to play the flute-o-phone at the all school assembly as my goose bump causing notes would have been a distraction in our effort of entertaining the parents who came to watch.

The next year brought the melodica and with it came great expectations along with even greater frustrations, as I could not get my head around the thing. I produced sounds never before heard by man. Sounds that the engineers of said instrument had not designed it to make. The result was a confiscation. Neither of my parents wanted to hear or see the damn thing ever again. Nor would there be any more money spent towards my musical career. Consequently the next year’s instrument the harpsichord was not part of my educational development. The sixth grade year brought with it an opportunity to actually participate as I was introduced to the hand bell.

The hand bell was my salvation as a musician. Due to the simple fact that it did not require me to blow into or coordinate my fingers in order to make the musical note. All I had to do was shake the thing once or twice on cue in order for me to be a part of an ensemble of other bell ringers. Unfortunately, I could not follow the notes very well and was constantly ringing my bell at the wrong time. So the teacher gave me a dramatic role in playing the very last note to but just one song. The opportunity to do my bit was an exercise in patience as I could not wait to ring that bell at the up coming Christmas concert. Tremendous effort was put in place as my classroom teacher stood by me during the entire presentation and held the bell until it was my turn to ring it. I apparently fought her the whole time.

Seventh grade was worse as I was in the choir now. Blessed with puberty I was then beset with a voice cracking phase of development. My attempt at singing was not unlike any other musical skill I had. Singing for me was more like screaming has I belted out of key an irritating primeval screech that was thought to be purposeful on the part of my music teacher. Thus, I was incorrectly labeled a trouble maker. Got in trouble with the principle and was kicked out of choir for the year. Being disciplined for possessing an enthusiastic pubescent affected singing voice scared me for life. Stupid teachers.

It was around this time that Beatle mania struck. I along with three neighborhood kids bought Beatle wigs and entertained the neighborhood girls by miming the words to “I Want to Hold Your Hand. ” As the Beatles tunes were played in the window behind us on 45 records, we fake played home made wooden guitars and used cardboard boxes as drums to entertain the masses. I of course played the part of George. One older girl even tossed her bra at us during one of our concerts. We were a sensation that lasted a week or so until ultimately the other guys took up real drums and guitars. With my history, buying an electric guitar, speaker and guitar lessons was not going to happen at my house. So much for being a Beatle.

Eighth grade brought the attention of my musical handicap to a new more sensitive music teacher. She recognized my total inability and also saw that my confidence had been demolished by the past miss handlings of my musical career. She suggested rather than sing I get involved in the up coming musical which was by the way “Oklahoma,” some other way. When the try outs were announced for someone who could make the sound of a mooing cow, I was encouraged to try out. Success at last, I was one of two boys designated to dress up as a dancing cow and at one critical moment I was to moo. Unfortunately it was later determined that the other boy was actually better at the mooing. My musical career ended that night after I performed in the musical “Oklahoma” as the backend of a dancing cow.

Since then I have tried to play the piano as I married a piano playing music major who could play but failed memorably as a teacher. Thus undaunted, I made a feeble attempt to play the harmonica. Now the piano actually resulted in some success as I was very successful in learning to play by ear the famous Budweiser Jingle “When You Say Bud.” My rendition was however off key and played out of rhythm. The mouth harp was a real disappointment as well, a waste of money and time. I gave a good old college try at the didgeridoo, couldn’t figure that instrument out to save my life but had a blast drinking beer whilst I tried.

The making of a reed whistle with a blade of grass between my thumbs as I blew into my cupped hands overjoyed my parents as well. That idle habit was broken via the butter paddle. An attempt at lip whistling tunes didn’t work either. I could not shape my lips right which may be why I am better at kissing (all the puckering at whistle practice.) Thus, the development of a eardrum shattering, head turning wolf whistle resulted. That skill, seldom effective, graduated into a “come over here” or “hey you” whistle which didn’t work on women either, except in the movies but was very affective in calling the boys home for dinner. Yes, I whistle trained my three boys. I could call them home from three blocks away…..still works.

I am not done with my life long quest to contribute to the world of music. When time and money permits I intend to teach myself the Indian Flute. Maybe I’ll get that one right. Wrapped up in a buffalo robe in the dead of winter blowing melodies on a Indian flute while sitting by myself on a deer hide near a fire can’t possibly offend anybody. In the mean time I will continue to sing at the top of my lungs in the shower, irritate my music major wife and enjoy a minor skill at singing camp songs.