The Heart of My Guitar (A Father's Day Tribute)

I don’t think there was any specific thing that drew me to the guitar.  There was no sudden epiphany, no specific artist that I wanted to emulate, not at that time anyway.  But by the time I had reached the age of six, I do recall having had an almost clandestine desire to play an instrument of some sort.  The guitar seemed like something that my parents might have been able to afford, and no one else in my family had played that instrument.  For me, that was important.

My older siblings had all taken piano lessons and played 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 required that someone in the family take piano lessons whether they wanted to or not. But tough times soon ended that tradition in our house and I never did get my turn at lessons.  Besides, I was painfully shy and my older siblings would have heckled me for a lifetime at the sound of my first wrong note.  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.  I came to accept that poking fun with each other was our way of getting through the monotony of the daily struggle to survive.  We never had much but I never believed we were poor.  Looking back on it all now, yes, we were poor but then so was everyone else and somehow we all got by.  

One chilly December afternoon my father took me for a ride in the old Ford Country Squire station wagon. I had thought I was merely tagging along with him on another one of his grown-up errands. It was common for him not to mention where we were going until we got there, and so I would never ask. I think he knew that I enjoyed the spontaneity and the adventure of not knowing where we were going. We arrived at a suburban mall and began our father-son stroll down the aisles. We passed several storefronts, mostly clothing stores that featured mannequins frozen in unrealistic poses and lifeless facial expressions.  We passed the indoor fountains and busy escalators before slowing our pace to a stop at a brightly lit music store.  That’s when it hit me – my father was going to buy me a guitar for my birthday. 

There were guitars everywhere, mounted on the walls, standing upright in racks, and several dangled from the ceiling, suspended like ornaments in a life-sized mobile.  My father introduced me to Chester Ward, a polite man with a thick but non-threatening mustache. I was surprised and delighted to know that he would become my very first guitar teacher.

Mr. Ward greeted my father as though they had been friends for years. They shook hands and 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.  The prices ranged anywhere from forty to four hundred dollars.  Some had cost even more. Before I could get too starry-eyed about which of the fancy electric guitars I would settle for, I was immediately escorted to the section of the store that contained the folk guitars.  Those were the ones with the hole in the middle.  The kind I had wanted was electric – no hole in the middle.  I thought about how my friends would not be impressed.

My father was elated to hear Mr. Ward affirm that the fancy electric 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. Ward, 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. Ward pulled the guitar down from the hanger and gave it a quick tuning. He sat me on a tri-legged stool and had me assume a playing position, placing the guitar on my knee. It felt awkward and unnatural but I was anxious to learn to play it. Mr. Ward then took a tiny, triangular piece of plastic from his pocket that had the name “Fender” stamped on it. 

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

My father watched this process, making certain there was no insincerity in my desire.  At the same time, he admired the intricacy involved in getting the thing to actually 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. Mr. Ward seemed stunned.

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

My father’s eyes widened. 

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

No, I didn’t like it. 

I wanted a cool guitar – a red one with knobs on it and a “whammy bar – and no hole in the middle. Mine was the cheapest guitar in the store.  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 had all become clear to me that my father had known that the guitar he had bought for me was not the one that I had wanted. It was simply the only one 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.  By the time we got home I didn’t just like my new guitar, I loved it.

A year later my father had still been taking me to my guitar lessons with Mr. Ward, and according to him I was learning at an incredibly rapid pace. 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 store where Mr. Ward had taught were still too expensive for my father to afford. So, off we went to an old music shop in Highlandtown, a little place on Eastern Avenue called Pete’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. That was the guitar that Jimi Hendrix had used, and that was what my heart had been set on.

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. We stepped lightly and spoke in hushed tones as if we were in a museum. Saxophones, harmonicas, bongos, tambourines, banjos, kazoos - these were just a few of the many instruments that cluttered Pete’s Music Store. 

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 which was slightly more organized and a tad roomier.  My eyes sparkled at the sight of all those guitars.

“There’s got to be at least one Strat in here,” I thought.

Sure enough, there it was. A candy-apple red Stratocaster with its own hard-shell case and the name “Fender” emblazoned across the body for all my friends to see and envy. A small paper tag dangled from a string tied to one of the knobs.  In hand-written blue ink, it read:  SPECIAL! $150.00 (case included).

My father took Mr. Pete aside. Meanwhile, I scanned the many beautiful shapes and sizes of all the guitars. Red ones, black ones, white ones, blue ones – they all captivated me.  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 as I took in all the beauty and awe, I knew that there was only one guitar for me.  It was that candy-apple red, Fender Stratocaster, with the hard-shell case included - for one hundred and fifty dollars. When my father and Mr. Pete returned from their chat, I crossed my fingers and awaited the verdict. It took only a moment for me to realize that I was not going to walk out of that store with my dream guitar.

 

“Take a look at this one,” Mr. Pete said.

He climbed onto a rickety step-stool and pulled down a well-used white, solid-body electric guitar. The neck looked like it had been hand-painted to cover up previous nicks and scratches and there were areas where the body molding had chipped off.  A heavy layer of dust had gathered around the tuning keys and covered the brand name. The man peered over the top of his glasses, and blew off the dust.

“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, I saw that his passion was sincere and there was no mistaking the fact that he loved those instruments, including the one guitar he was about to sell. He handed me the guitar the way a nurse hands over a newborn to its mother. That very moment I claimed that old guitar to be mine. It bore the name “Hagstrom,” a name which, at the time was never heard of by me nor any of the other thirteen yr-old musical experts 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 had gotten 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 (and yes, it has a hole in the middle). Although I now have the good fortune to afford a Fender Stratocaster, I have never purchased one. I don’t know exactly why that dream has faded, and 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 for him.  I would play it strong and proud – and I would play it from deep in the heart of me, just for him, and no one else. 

G.