Looking for Frank Ferrel

"There isn't any hell or heaven except for how we relate to our world. Hell is just resistance to life." — Pema Chodron




I came within inches of meeting Frank Ferrel, the fiddle player, on Sunday as we were leaving the new Portland family dance.

I listened to his playing when I was first beginning to play, as my teacher in Port Townsend Washington had given me a bootleg tape of Frank playing in a closet at Fiddle Tunes. All these years have gone by, and I’ve lost the tape, but never lost my admiration of Frank’s playing, even though I have no recordings of him, and have never heard him play live.

All during the family dance I’d been asking if Frank was there yet, asking anyone who might know, because I knew he’d be coming to play for the later contra dance. He didn’t arrive before we left, and so I left disappointed.

Then out in the frigid air on the sidewalk, all packed up with two totally exhausted kids, up strides Frank Ferrel in his beret and overcoat. I recognized him by his age, and his height (which had been described to me), and the nice fiddle case, and the fact he was headed into the Empire Dine & Dance around 6 p.m.

He was about 15 feet away from me when I said to Jeff, “I think that’s Frank Ferrel.” Jeff replied, “We have to go. I can’t manage this on my own.” Fifteen years of waiting and he was fifteen feet away. I was profoundly disappointed and so angry at Jeff that I thought I might have to divorce him over this (OK, slight exaggeration). I took a deep breath. Within minutes the thought came that over breakfast at Maine Fiddle Camp — should we ever get there — might be a better place to talk to Frank and tell him my story, and the anger passed.
*
Janet Fischer had mentioned yesterday that Frank lives in Bath and teaches. Bath is only a half hour away. Today, while the kiddos are at Sierra’s, I’m playing some music, some songs on the guitar, and some tunes on the fiddle. I had already decided that I wanted to get a lesson with Frank, but today while playing I’m realizing that I’m up against that old foe: doubt. The same doubt that kept me from ever calling Ruthie Dornfeld or Martin Hayes while I lived in Seattle and asking them for lessons.

But I can't google the guy.

So, I call Ed Pearlman, a fiddler, a local dance organizer, Janet’s teacher, and a friend of Frank’s to see if I can get his phone number. Ed doesn’t have it but gives me his email address. Instead of announcing my experiment, since I don’t know Ed very well, I leave it off, say thanks, and proceed to 411 Frank Ferrel. No listing in Bath. What’s a girl to do? I leave a message for Janet, saying that I have a fiddling question for her. I don’t tell her I need her to email Frank Ferrel and get his phone number.

Since she’s not home, I decide to 411 some old contra dance friends in Seattle, one of whom must have Frank Ferrel’s phone number. There are no listings for: Cathie Whitesides, Warren Argo, or Sherry Nevins. I give up. Then slowly I remember Cathie’s husband’s name, Hank…Hank….Hank Bradley.

I 411 Hank Bradley in Seattle and he picks up. Cathie’s out for an hour. I explain—I’m a former student of Cathie’s, and am trying to get Frank Ferrel’s phone number, and thought she might have it, and isn’t it funny that I’m in Maine and can’t seem to get his phone number, but that I’m off the internet so it’s led me to Cathie.

Hank takes down my phone number, commenting that our area codes are one digit but a country apart, and that if we could just fold the country in half we’d be right next to each other. Yes, I say, if we could just collapse the middle of the country we’d be very close by, but then I’d lose my cousins in the midwest. We laugh and I thank him and sign off. Now I need to wait for Cathie to call me back.
*
There isn’t much story in obtaining someone’s email address. It’s a lot quicker but the story gets lost, or, rather, never happens.

I’ll let you know when I finally get in touch with Frank.