Joining the ranks
My parents always believed that musical education was important. Still do, I imagine. I was an early pupil for such social instruments as the chanter (which could have grown in to bagpipes, in my little fingers had grown more quickly). I took to drums like, well, a drummer. The fiddle still hangs around, trying to shame me. And then, there’s the guitar.
I have distant memories of going “down to Trenton”, where I learned to play silly little songs on a guitar that was too large. My aunt had a (better) smaller model, but it was hers. One thing about musical instruments that have been adopted is that they loan poorly. Something to do with the communion that melds a player and a played. I had other things to do, so the “git box” got gone from my day-to-day, although the one my sister bought when her turn came still draws me in on the rare visit to her neck of the woods.
Recently, I found myself “checking out the curves” in various places; flea markets, small malls, on the web. A siren song, in the back reaches of my mind. And today, in a fit of “the last days of summer”, I went to see a merchant that I’ve known for decades (literally), ready to become a member of the brigade. Not the Guitar Hero, which sits in a corner of our living room, but a guitar hero in the rough.
The merchant is old enough to know that he doesn’t need to lie: when asked if we could deal, he answered me nay (not really, but it recalls a great old folksong). What he did offer was support, a guarantee that means something (you don’t stay in business for a lifetime by cheating the customer, unless you sell gasoline) and a selection of models. There were four other “shoppers” in the place, so I knew that his product was in demand.
I now have to toughen up my fingers. Get calloused. Practice (not that I haven’t promised that many times before). I’ve run out of excuses.
