The Heart of My Guitar - Part 2: Hole in My Heart

Mr. Hess greeted my father as though they had been friends for years. They shook hands and immediately turned all of their attention to deciding what type of guitar would be best for a twelve year-old boy who, in my father’s eyes, would likely be throwing his hard-earned money away on yet another childish whim, to be abandoned in a matter of weeks.  Even at that young age, I was determined to prove him wrong.

There must have been at least a hundred guitars there. The prices ranged anywhere from forty dollars to four hundred dollars.  Some cost even more. Before I could even begin dreaming of which of the fancy electric guitars I would settle for, I was immediately escorted to the section of the store that contained the guitars with the hole in the middle.  My father was elated to hear Mr. Hess affirm that the fancy guitars were not appropriate for me as a beginner, and that I should upgrade only when my skill level had sufficiently increased. After an in-depth inspection of the size of my hands by Mr. Hess, and a thorough interrogation from my father as to the quality and value of the instrument, they settled on an ordinary-looking undersized, folk guitar that they had agreed was just right for me.  Final cost after taxes, and including the flimsy, cardboard case: approximately forty-two dollars.

Mr. Hess pulled the guitar down from the hanger, gave it a quick tuning and had me assume a playing position, placing the guitar on my knee. He confirmed that the guitar was the proper fit. It felt awkward and unnatural in my hands but I was anxious to learn to play it. Mr. Hess then pulled a tiny, triangular piece of plastic from his pocket that had the name “Fender” stamped on it. 

“Hold the guitar pick like this. Now bring your other hand up here on the neck of the guitar and press your finger right here on this string.” 

My father watched this process intently, making certain there was no insincerity in my desire to go through with this business of learning to play the guitar.  At the same time, he was admiring the intricacy involved in getting the thing to produce a sound.  I struggled to press the thin wire down without touching the other strings, as my teacher had instructed.  It seemed impossible to do at first, and the tip of my finger smarted from all the effort.

“Now, use the pick to strum the bottom three strings.”  

I positioned my pick so as to be sure that I would only strum the strings that I was told to play. The three notes rang out in clear unison, and I immediately recognized the three-part harmony.

“That was great Gerald! You just played your first C major chord.”

My father’s eyes widened with enthusiasm.  

“What do you think, son? Do you like it?”

At first I didn’t like it. I wanted a cool guitar – a red one with knobs on it and a “whammy bar.” Mine was the cheapest guitar in the store.  It wasn’t electric, like I had hoped for. It had a hole in it.  I don’t even think it had a brand name.  But there was something about that experience with my father that brought a joy to him unlike any that I had ever seen. I didn’t understand it, but I knew it was from the heart, and that made me feel special. Later it all became clear to me. He had known that the guitar he had bought for me was not the one that I had wanted.  But it was the only one that he could afford. He had done his best to make me happy. That alone had made me happy.  He had bought me a guitar, and it was brand new, with its own case - and it was mine.  And by the time he pulled the station wagon in front of our northeast Baltimore rowhouse, I didn’t just like my new guitar, I loved it.
G.
(This is the second installment of a continuing story).