The summer we found Whirligig Wilson in Kentucky

My former mother-in-law insisted that all folk art was ludicrous while she considered Picasso’s figures of women with both eyes on the same side of their noses the height of culture. As they say, art is in the eye of the beholder.

While I think that most artists would like their work to be appreciated by others, I would suggest the artist creates to please his or herself first.

Which brings me to a little story about an artist whom I encountered many years ago who I’m sure not only enjoyed creating his art but loved to watch people observe it.

He went by the moniker, Whirligig Wilson. I was first introduced to his work when I was 10 and immediately became a huge fan.

Assuming you may not be from the culture that I am and may not be familiar with the whirligig, perhaps it’s best described as a wooden construction that depicts an animated object powered by wind.

An example might be a duck which flaps its wings when the breeze gets up. Mr. Wilson’s creations went way beyond that. Way beyond.

My family was on a trip, and we were passing through a rural part of Kentucky. We were traveling on a two-lane highway in the eastern part of the state when we passed a hand-lettered sign which read, “Free Whirligig Show Every Saturday at 3, 4 & 5 PM, Windy or Not, Next Right.”

My father was, to put it mildly, frugal, so when he saw the word “Free” we took the detour.

About a quarter mile later we stopped on the side of the gravel road behind five or six other cars. It was 10 minutes till three. It being summer our windows were down and my two brothers and I somehow jammed ourselves halfway out the rear window of the Fairlane.

There on the lawn of a small frame house was the most amazing display of wooden sculpture we had ever encountered. Sitting atop short wooden posts throughout the yard was an assortment of metal fan blades connected to gears and metal rods running to a variety of brightly painted wooden figures and contraptions the likes of which left us all sitting there open mouthed.

It was a beautifully landscaped yard with flowering plants around the base of each whirligig. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. On the front porch sat a gentleman in overalls and a tee shirt. Sitting next to the man was a lady in a house dress and a flowered apron. In front of them was a board which had a series of levers attached.

Looking around the yard, I immediately recognized a figure depicting my favorite movie star, Harpo Marx, sitting motionless at his harp, his arms at his sides. Suddenly his arms came up and began moving. And there was music! Mounted below Harpo’s seat were a collection of hanging pieces of brass pipe tinkling as they made contact with one another. It was the first set of wind chimes any of us had ever seen.

Then Harpo stopped playing and our attention was directed to a large gray goose who began pecking at an ear of corn. Suddenly its head came up, and it began pooping popcorn. My little brother almost fell out the window laughing.

Next it was a woodsman with a raised ax. A shapely gal appeared from behind a tree and the distracted man chopped off the end of his boot and his bleeding big toe appeared.

That one stopped and a fellow in a boat suddenly jerked his pole, and a large bass flew out of the water and knocked the man overboard with a splash.

Then our attention was directed to an old outhouse with the requisite quarter moon painted on the front. Suddenly the door crashed open and an old man with white whiskers came running out, the rear flap of his long underwear fluttering. Out the door the head of a skunk appeared.

My brothers and I were laughing so hard I was afraid we’d all disgorge the chocolate milkshakes we had slurped down just before we encountered that roadside sign.

Then came the grand finale. A fellow bending over in the front of a Model T Ford truck gave the hand crank a spin and suddenly there was a huge explosion and the hood of the old pickup flew off and landed in the yard.

The line of spectators began cheering and blowing their horns. The man and woman on the porch stood and waved. Then the fellow bowed at the waist, grimaced and grabbed his back as he straightened up with a grin. His wife curtsied and threw us all a big kiss. Then they both gave a final wave and went into the house.

Each car in turn backed into the gravel drive, turned and headed back out to the highway. But my father pulled into the drive and got out, climbed the front steps and rang the bell.

Mr. Wilson came to the door and stepped out onto the porch. My dad, having been a machinist’s mate in both the Navy and the Merchant Marine during the war, was interested in just how all this machinery had been made to come to life without any wind.

To which Whirligig Wilson grinned and nodded at the system of leavers there on the porch railing. By this time Mom, Eddie, John, and I had climbed out of the old Ford and were standing on the porch steps listening wide eyed.

Whirligig announced, “Them levers operate each step in the proceedings. That first one there turns on a good-sized blower motor down in the basement which is connected to a series of round four-inch metal heating ducts. Each one of them pipes runs underground and comes up in a flowerbed by a whirligig aimed directly at the fan blades. Then it’s a simple matter of pulling a lever for each contraption.”

Now that’s art.