My father had still been taking me to my guitar lessons with Mr. Hess, and according to him, I was learning at an incredibly rapid pace. In fact, the two of them had decided that I had finally reached the skill level that justified me being able to purchase an electric guitar. The new ones at the Towson music store where Mr. Hess had taught were still too expensive for my father to afford. So, off we went to Highlandtown to a place on Eastern Avenue called Petro’s Music Store. I had never been there before but somehow I just knew that there would be a used Fender Stratocaster there, just for me.
We entered the music shop to the sound of cowbells clanging against the back of the door. The place was dingy and dated. Musical instruments of every sort were crammed into every available space. There were no more than three customers inside at any one time during our entire visit. Saxophones, harmonicas, bongos, tambourines, and banjos - these were just a few of the many instruments that cluttered Petro’s Music Store.
You name it, Petro’s had it. It was like an indoor, musical flea market.
We inched our way through the narrow aisles, my father stopping occasionally to marvel at some obscure instrument that neither of us had ever seen. The elderly storeowner led the way, scooting his cat away from his more prized musical items. Eventually we reached the guitar section of the store. It was slightly more organized and was a tad roomier. My eyes sparkled at the sight of all those guitars. I thought to myself, “There’s got to be at least one Strat in here.” Sure enough, there it was - candy-apple red, two-toned sunburst, with maple fretboard, and it came with a hardshell case with the name “Fender” emblazoned across its body for all of my friends to see and envy. A large white paper tag dangled from one of the many knobs on my dream guitar. In hand-written blue ink, it read: SPECIAL! $150.00 (case included).
I watched my father take Mr. Petro aside, instructing me to look around and take in all there was to see. I complied, scanning the many beautiful shapes and sizes of all the guitars. Red ones, black ones, white ones, blue ones – they all captivated me. At that moment it seemed as though that dingy old store had magically transformed into a musical fantasyland. It was as if the guitars had all come to life, like the way puppies in a pet shop window perk up when passersby stop and admire them. Each and every model seemed to have its own personality, its own spirit - its own heart. But even as I took in the beauty and awe of such a collection, all the while I knew that there was only one guitar for me. It was that candy-apple red, two-toned, sunburst Fender Stratocaster, with the hardshell case included - for one hundred and fifty dollars. When my father and Mr. Petro returned from their little chat, I crossed my fingers and awaited the verdict. After much coaxing by the gentle store owner, and more rationalizing by my father, I accepted the fact that I was not going to walk out of that store with my dream guitar.
“Take a look at this one, here,” the old man said.
He placed one spindly leg above the other and climbed onto a rickety step-stool, pulling down a well-used white, solid-body electric guitar. The neck looked like It had been hand-painted black, and there were some areas where the paint had chipped off. Also, a thin layer of dust had gathered around the tuning keys at the top of the neck. The man peered over the top of his glasses, observing the brand name of the guitar.
“This is a very popular model in Europe, and it plays just as good as any one of those big name guitars you see in here.”
At first I did not believe him. But when he handed the guitar over to me, there was magic in his eyes. His passion was sincere, and there was no mistaking the fact that he loved those instruments. He passed the guitar to me the way a nurse hands over a newborn to its mother. At that moment, I claimed that old guitar to be mine. It bears the name “Hagstrom,” a name which, at the time had never been heard of by any of the musicians in my circle. I am now proud to say that I still own that guitar today, in spite of the occasional snickers and grins that I would get from my youthful friends.
I have since bought other fine guitars, including a Gibson Les Paul Standard, and a Takamine, classical electric, (currently my favorite). Although I now have the good fortune to afford a Fender Stratocaster, I have never purchased my dream guitar. I don’t know exactly why that dream has faded. Even more perplexing to me is the fact that I have not played my old Hagstrom in at least thirty years. But I do know this much - if my father were alive today, I would play that old guitar, and play it strong and proud – and I would play it just for him, and no one else. That much, I do know.
G.
(This is the fourth installment of a continuing story).
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