Two Guitars

One day this past winter the first guitar came into our house. My youngest son, Max, returned home from college for the winter break and announced he was going to move from the piano to the guitar. His roommate had been playing the ukulele and banjo in their small living room throughout the semester, so if they added Max and a guitar, there’d be apartment jam sessions for the taking.

Max snooped around online for a gently used acoustic and located a nice one nearby. He drove over to the guy’s driveway to look at it, plunked down his money, then proceeded to play all through the extra-long Covid winter school break. He’d sit in his little office nook downstairs where you could hear him at night strumming and finger picking his way through songs. He normally spends a lot of time practicing music, so his playing became beautiful quickly. The sound melted my heart because while the tunes were indeed lovely to hear, the thought of him making his own portable happiness during that stressful winter created almost too much gratitude in me to bear. Little private tears would pop out and I’d wipe them away as I went about my tasks while listening to Max play nearby. It was a scene that wove itself through the pandemic winter. Max and his guitar will probably never really know just how much they buoyed our home during that time.

But then it came time for Max to go back to UVA, where he was hunkering down in his apartment to virtually attend school. He packed his new guitar, and for the Spring semester his apartment became a nexus of music jams, online classes, boardgames, and group meals. Considering the state of the world at the time, they had it quite good, and I was so happy for them. The only problem was now the lovely guitar music was two hours away and my house had become quiet as the night. This is when I asked the curious question, “Well, what if I picked up the guitar?”

I knew of a high school classmate who was learning the banjo as my old graduating class inches its way toward sixty years old. If he could do it, why not me? I played the guitar when I was a girl, so I knew what was involved even if I barely remembered a thing. I flipped open my laptop to ask Google questions like, “Can you play guitar with rheumatoid arthritis?” and “Is learning a musical instrument good for the aging brain?” The answer to both is ‘go for it, girlfriend’, so I scanned Craig’s List for a local 6-string in need of a home. As it happened, a young guitar teacher’s aunt had recently passed away before she ever got to learn to play her new guitar. Since this teacher had her own higher-end guitars, she sold her aunt’s modest Fender to me in the parking garage of a Target one afternoon. Both of us were masked up for the brief exchange, so it was hard to read her face when I promised I’d take good care of her aunt’s guitar. As I handed her the cash, we said goodbye and to stay safe. I placed the bulky guitar case in the backseat of my car and gave it a little pat. It was a done deal. Elated, I could barely drive home fast enough. This is how the second guitar came into our house.

Straight away my first task was to toughen up my fingertips. I gave myself the goal of practicing 30 minutes every day. I believed ‘ole Marty Music from YouTube that a little bit of practice every day would turn me into a guitar player. What I quickly discovered was what a new kind of project this was for me. Instead of my typical and unreasonable desire to reach proficiency quickly, I placed zero expectations on myself. I was not doing this to become a musician or to prove myself. I was doing it, in all honesty, to connect with my son through a common interest, and to enjoy homemade music in the latter part of my life. There was no great rush and no pressure, only a simple commitment to show up. And guess what? It was luxurious. Suddenly I had space to enjoy being a student and embrace the learning.

So, the only pact I made with myself was that I’d sit down with the guitar for 30 minutes a day. Half an hour is super short. Gradually, I noticed something unusual. The easy pace and lack of strict performance measures left me with a friendly little relationship with my guitar. It became my buddy. I could stink at playing and hit the wrong strings with the wrong fingers. I could be foggy, “Wait. D-sus-what?” I could drop my pick inside the guitar, again. All of it with a shrug. What began to unfold, then, was a feeling of joy and curiosity as I progressed through the learning.

There were times when I wished I were better than I was, but I didn’t feel that for long. I simply turned the page of music, adjusted my posture, tucked my hair behind my ears, and continued to play. Just the pretty sound of the chords was enough to keep me going and trying.

Gradually my fingers toughened. I learned some strumming patterns, practiced moving between chords, and slowly, eventually I started strumming and singing songs I love.

I pretended to sing the song Clay Pigeons like John Prine did. The narrator in the song smokes cigarettes in the back of a Greyhound bus and plays his guitar for strangers. I tried to sing like I smoke cigarettes and know solitude, a little down on my luck but open to folks, trying to “get along with it all”. I sang as if I were this fictional character in the song who I’m nothing like, except that his story of pushing past the tough times is universal and is an example of why music and stories are so primary for us humans.

I sang Peaceful Easy Feeling by the Eagles, and about the way sparkling earrings lay against the woman’s skin in the song. I sang about what love can do to your soul. I hope my sons will know love but never know pain, and I sang the lyrics so heartfelt because I know there is never one without the other. Like love, music does this kind of thing to the soul, too, because it mirrors back for us the human condition.

My son Max is home again for the summer with his guitar (and ukulele). We’ve holed up together in his office nook to play songs, him on lead, me on background. It’s everything I ever dreamed might happen. It’s a simple connection, and extraordinary.

These days I finish up my practice by leaning the guitar against the wall in the corner of my bedroom now designated for this. I look at it for a moment, like I’m tucking it in for the night, then get up to go about my business, knowing tomorrow will be another day with another song. I give myself a little thumbs up, too. Nice job, Steph, for being a student and trying. I’m a complete beginner. I sing off-key and misread lines. I finger pick as if I have hooves. And you know what? It’s the most fun thing.