The Heart of My Guitar

Part 1 - Julia

It all started when I was about twelve years old.  I don’t think there was any specific thing that drew me to the guitar.  There was no sudden epiphany. There was no specific artist that I wanted to emulate, not at that time anyway.  But I do recall having an almost clandestine desire to play an instrument of some sort.  The guitar just seemed like something that my parents might have been able to afford, and no one else in my family played that instrument.  For me, that was important. My older brothers and sisters had all taken piano lessons and could play with varying degrees of proficiency, although none of them were what you’d call “good” at it. You see, growing up in the sixties, many parents still required that someone in the family take piano lessons, whether they wanted to or not.  I remember thinking that if I was ever given that chance, I would play it, and be good at it, too.  However, when I came of age, that tradition had come to an end in our house.  I never did learn to play the piano.  

I was just a kid when I realized I was in love with music.  I was about six when I began to feel a connection to songs that touched my soul.  By the time I was ten, someone had bought a 45 rpm record by Ramsey Lewis. I remember that the “B” side had a song called “Julia.”  I instantly fell in love with this song.  I also fell in love with Julia, whoever she was. I imagined how beautiful she must have been, and longed to meet her some day.  I played that record until it warped.  That’s how much I loved music. But I was terribly shy and I decided to drop the idea of piano lessons.  My first wrong note would have brought on heckling from my siblings that could have lasted weeks, months - or a lifetime.  Being born smack in the middle of seven wasn’t exactly the best ranking to have in a family where making fun of each other was the daily pastime.  Eventually, I grew into my role as middle-child. We were one, big, almost-poor, struggling family, but we were in it together, and I came to accept that having fun with each other was our way of getting through the rough times.  Still, I had made up my mind that there was no way I was going to ever let them hear me stumble my way through “Chopsticks.” No way.
 

So one day, I said to my father, “Dad, I want to play the guitar.” 

A week later, my father took me for a ride in the Ford Country Squire station wagon.  And when we parked the car and headed into the music store inside the Towson Mall, I had thought I was merely tagging along with him on another one of his grown-up errands.  There, guitars of all shapes and sizes dangled from the ceiling, suspended like ornaments in a life-size mobile.  My father politely introduced me to Lester Hess, a very nice man with a friendly, non-threatening moustache, whom I was surprised and delighted to know would become my very first guitar teacher.

G.

(This is the first installment of a continuing story).