This is a student guitar I picked up forty years ago to go with my twelve string guitar and my classical guitar at that time. I had thought I would teach others to play having abandoned playing for money in coffee houses because I had become an teacher and principal with my first child born and a second one on the way. The guitar was passed down to my children who let it sit unused, playing piano instead. Then it made the rounds of all six of my grandsons who have also left it to sit in its battered case.
I picked it up from behind the sofa in the basement of my son’s house. My youngest grandson had shown some interest last year, but that has waned. It didn’t take long to tune it and play. I remembered the fingering as well as the intricate patterns of an old Long John Baldry song, as well as an old Gordon Lightfoot song. However, it didn’t last long as it has been years since I have played. Being a musician is not one of my present ways of being. In the distant past, I played folk music venues through much of Canada, as well as playing as an extra in various bars and dance halls.
Today, my music is found in the words that I write. Yet, at times, I feel the pull to return to playing. I know that all that it would do would be to frustrate me to no end. For, the time I would invest in playing would be time stolen from writing with the result that neither the music nor the writing would satisfy. And so, I put the guitar back in its case and turned to the keyboard and the stories that were waiting there for me to write.