We went to see Michael Perry and the Long Beds last night, and in the band was an amazing guitarist, a woman who could wail on a shiny, black electric guitar. This image flooded me with a memory of my own experience with the guitar.

I fancied my self as part Joni Mitchell part Simon and Garfunkel and a bit of James Taylor. It might have been even slightly more realistic if I could have played the guitar. I asked my parents for guitar lessons and a guitar. They agreed on the lessons but I was to borrow a guitar until I could prove I was going to practice and be worthy of the purchase of a guitar. My mom arranged for me to borrow a guitar from a neighbor. I went happily down the street to pick up my guitar and head to my first lesson.

The Clark’s, a family with 3 boys, handed me a shiny, black, Chuck Berry- style electric guitar. This guitar was bigger than me. My hopes of strumming on a blonde wood, acoustic guitar fell away and now came the horror of walking through town with this huge, un-cased shiny black, guitar.

I went to my lesson in a very un-cool little room above some stores in our small town. My teacher gave me a workbook, and some notes and chords to practice. The metal strings had cut into my fingers and I could not picture practicing being the mellow experience I had hoped for. The only remotely popular song he had was “Sloop John B”, so that gives you an idea.

To the rescue came my grandparents at Christmas with the blonde wood guitar and case that I proudly carried through town to my lessons. I learned a few songs and played with my friends.

Fast-forward 40 years……………. I’m scavenging through my basement to find old items to set up an interesting still life for my high school art classroom and there was the guitar. It had been in the attic and basement and in too many temperature changes and so the strings were hanging loose. I brought it to school and there it lived out its’ days. It was the subject of many drawings and paintings and that made me so happy.

Last spring I went back to substitute in my old classroom and saw that grey cardboard guitar case and could not believe that it was mine, so I looked inside and on a piece of tape, the kind that comes out of one of those little portable punch machines was my name. It was a reminder of my groovy days and my macramé guitar strap, flowy gauze blouses, bell-bottom jeans, and platform shoes.

I give many thanks to my family for not being too hard on me for my lack of success, but I can still play a mean C, D, G, E and even F.