You've heard of a man following in his father's footsteps. But how about a dad who takes after his son?

   Anders Lunde, a retired demographer, appreciated art but never tried it himself. Twenty years ago, his son Tony, a painter, encouraged him to give it a whirl. Lunde and his wife started by drawing live models. In summers on Cape Cod, they painted the view. In 1981, Lunde went to the lumber yard and bought some soft, white pine. He drew and then sculpted the scene he imagined: a gathering of people whose eyes follow a man's palm pointing to the sky. At the encouragement of his son, Lunde showed his piece in a Durham Art Guild competition. He won first prize in sculpture and $150.

   "I said, 'Oh, gosh, I can do it,'" Lunde said.

   A few months later, his search for a challenge led Lunde to the whirligig, a toy he remembered from his youth. Lunde, who had no background in woodworking, started making soldiers whose arms spun in the wind and cardinals whose wings flapped. He studied their design, testing different models until he got it just right. Decades later, they're his trademark.

   Lunde, who is 87, has shown his whirligigs in museums across the Triangle. With his son's encouragement, he wrote four how-to books. Even after Tony died 10 years ago, Lunde kept creating. But his art stopped for a time in 1998, when his wife passed away, too. It was hard for him to find energy for anything. But now, in his apartment at Carolina Meadows, Lunde's whirligigs live all around him -- a red-haired woman on his work table waits to spin bouquets of flowers, models of Mr. and Mrs. Sam clasp hands and wait to wave the flag together on a nearby shelf.

   Though his wife and son are no longer with Lunde, their spirits live on in his heart and his work. Lunde talks about his whirligigs and what art brings to his life:

   Q. How hard was it to keep creating after your wife died?

   I told my son-in-law Ronnie, "You take the tools." I asked him and my daughter to clean up the house. I missed Eleanor so much. I had a feeling my life had ended. It took a little time. One of the things that helped me was my son-in-law taking my tools and putting them out in the country in a workshop at his home. That made a lot of difference to me. Now, I go there and work when I can.

   Q. Your son started you on this path. Do you ever think of him when you work?

   I think of him all the time. He would encourage me and tell me I was good. I didn't have much confidence when I first started. But he kept encouraging me. I miss him a lot.

   Q. You're self-taught. How difficult was it to learn how to make whirligigs?

   I saw them in one or two museums, and I was fascinated by them. I tried my hand at them and got more interested as I went. I looked around and couldn't find any books on how to make them so I taught myself. The hardest part is getting ideas. I had a big architect's drawing board and I drew them to scale. I made them and if they didn't work, I would change my drawings. When I made my first armed whirligig, I made the arms flat because that's how the picture looked in the museum. I put it out in the wind and nothing happened. I looked at it for a long time wondering what was wrong. I finally figured out that the arms were propellers. It took me days to figure out that one.

   Q. Have you ever amazed yourself by what you've created?

   The first time I got an award for sculpture, it knocked me down.

   Q. Do you think of yourself as an artist now?

   Others think of me that way. One newspaper writer referred to me as a folk artist, an artist who doesn't have formal training. I guess I am an artist though I never planned to be one.

   Q. You've made hundreds of whirligigs. Why do you keep going? What does your art bring you?

   The pleasure of seeing things develop out of a block of wood. Michelangelo used to say there's soul in this stuff. I feel that way, too.

   Contact:
   Michelle Westrom
   Marketing Director
   (919) 370 - 7160