CP

[Mack.Hoover]

Commemorative Poem

Not much activity in the whistle shop. I have some on hand that need good homes. Discount prices.

I posted this 10 years ago. At least I meant to.
For what it's worth:

June 3rd 2006
I was thinking of having a contest this month ( well it was my webmaster's idea and a good one, too). Dale said I could, and I would, too, if it had seemed like my summer needed more things to do. But instead I'll just do a poem. Hopefully this won't seem like a commercial that would preempt another chance for one (in case I change my mind or circumstances change.)

This poem was inspired by thoughts of our family reunion that happens every other summer. This is the summer. At one many years ago when I only had one whistle (a red top Gen D)

A cousin (second or third, once or twice removed) liked it a lot. When we got home and I looked for my tooter it was missing.

I got another Gen D that squawked like a crow. I knew nothing about tweaking so I made my own version from scratch. I suppose you could say it was the ancestor of the Hoover whistle clan.

At all subsequent reunions I take whistles to give away or use in the fund raising auction where everyone donates their hand crafts, stitchery, canned produce, and cookies and breads, etc.

FIPPLE FLUTE FAMILY FEST

At a whistle reunion the tubes got together
Discussing their future, their past and the weather.
They all had a story and a Guinness or two,
Some in their glory about musicians they knew.
Most were bright colors, but a few black and white
Were attracting attention in the dim tavern light
Lifting their voices and Guinness to lips
Squeak free and sweetly with their newly gained tips.
"I'd been tossed in a drawer for I didn't please."
"I'd been tossed aside due to chiff and a wheeze."
"You should hear what awful things that they said
Simply because of my fiery red head!"
"They said awful things about my fipple, too,
Simply because my fipple was blue."
The black and the tan and three shades of green
Sang of the sad sorry treatment they'd seen
Before they'd experienced their resurrections
By fipple replacement or tweaking corrections.
And the diehards who came, tweak would never occur.
Playing Irish Tradition was the place that they were,
And chiff and an edge is the sound that they like,
So tweakers and makers could all take a hike.
We never play quietly; may we make our case clear:
If they don't like our sound then they shouldn't be here!

So the gathering was over, all went their own ways
Content with their own style and how their fipple plays.
--Mack Hoover, 6/3/06--

[Emrys]

Thanks, love your whistle poem. It inspires me to write one of my own someday soon.

[Mitch]

Thanks Mack!

was a time we traded poems - it was a good time:

"If your music is flat
And the people won't hop
Don't worry bout that - get a blacktop
from Mack."