<div style="font-size:10pt;font-family:arial,helvetica,sans-serif;color:black;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">All I can sayh about this is beautiful. I
wouldn’t change a word. The story is wonderful. It is not only a story about a
dream and a guitar, but also of the redemption of a young girl and the passing
down of a tradition of music . So you had music in your <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></font><font size="3">heart and it was picked up by</font><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><font size="3"> </font></span><font size="3">your step daughter and your daughter. Bravo.</font></font></span></u></b></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">My
Guitar</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">Marcia
J. Wick, The Write Sisters</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">April
2020</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">Word
Count: 1404</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">At
about age 10, I dreamed of becoming a folk singer like Joan Baez, Joni
Mitchell, or Carole King. I envisioned myself playing songs on a guitar around
a campfire, strumming along with a choir, or sitting alone in my bedroom
writing songs.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">That
Christmas, my parents presented me with a starter guitar. It was black, as I
recall, but it was new and sized for a child. I cradled it, I adjusted the
strap, I practiced standing with it and sitting with it, legs crossed,
imagining myself playing for a small group of friends. The trouble was, after
receiving the instrument, I was left to learn to play it on my own. I’m sure I
was given some song books, but I was never taught to read music. No lessons
were offered. I attempted to work out the notes by ear, but there were no
YouTube videos or tutorials in the 1960s to guide me. I don’t know what ever
became of my childhood guitar.\</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">Hard to believe that they gave you an
instrument<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></font><font size="3">and no way to learn it.</font></font></span></u></b></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">A
decade later, after I graduated from college and accepted my first professional
job, I rewarded myself with a new acoustic six-string. I still couldn’t read
music but I was determined to play. As a working adult, I could afford lessons,
I rationalized. I told myself it wasn’t too late to learn. I was motivated,
committed, and eager to make my childhood dream come true. I had moved to a
small town in western New York</font><font size="3">
which made it easy to find a music store– there was only one on </font><font size="3">Main Street</font><font size="3">.
Displayed on the wall, I spotted a folk guitar with a shiny natural finish. The
strike plate was decorated with a flowery design, very ladylike.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">“That
one,” I pointed. </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">I wrote
a $300 check on my new bank account, a fortune to me at the time. I deserved
it, I reasoned. I had moved 2,000 miles away from my family, I was living alone
in a strange town, and I was embarking on a new career. As I accepted my new
instrument tucked inside a sturdy black case, I looked like a folk singer, even
if I still couldn’t play guitar. Before departing the store, I inquired about
local music teachers and was given the number of a young man in the next town,
a college student trying to earn money on the side. Hmmm, guitar lessons and a
potential boyfriend? I was on cloud 9, floating in my fantasy.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">His
apartment was at the top of a long narrow stairway in a building older than my
home state which had just celebrated its Bicentennial. I entered a tiny room
and struggled to find a seat in the dim light. I attended diligently to my
lesson, wanting with all my will to learn to play. The teacher never asked me
out, but he worked with me and worked with me. I told myself if I could
coordinate my fingers on a typewriter keyboard, I could learn to finger a
six-string guitar. I tried and I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t produce a
melody.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">After
months of futility, I parked the instrument in a corner of my apartment, only
occasionally to unpack it, hoping I had magically learned to play while it
waited. Another year passed but I didn’t give up on my dream. I found a new
guitar teacher, a young woman who taught music at the local elementary school.
She was round and short and jolly. She gave me the basic instruction I had
never received as a child. In her living room on weekends, I strummed
children’s songs, achieving some proficiency as a beginner…with a long way to
go. </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">After
several months, in an attempt to encourage me, my teacher asked me to accompany
her third grade class for one song during their school concert. She gave me a
simple tune to learn (I don’t remember the name of the song). I practice and
practiced. I studiously memorized the chords; I picked the strings carefully,
plucking my way along until I gained confidence. </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">“I
can do this!” I told myself. I could accompany a class of eight-year-olds
singing a familiar song, but what I didn’t anticipate was stage fright.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">The
curtains opened. On cue, I advanced from the wing onto the small stage and took
a seat on a folding chair next to a cohort of giggling students on risers. I
couldn’t seem much past the stage lights, but the small auditorium was packed
with parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, teachers…you get
the idea. </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">The
music teacher cued her young singers and they took off. Like rockets, they
launched into the first verse before I had found the fret for my first note. I
tried to catch up. I skipped ahead and fell behind. I couldn’t hear myself
play. I stopped playing. The children and teacher forged ahead. I felt the
color rise in my face and I sat paralyzed until the song concluded. After that
humiliating experience, I never played my guitar again, although it traveled
with me from western New York</font><font size="3"> to northern </font><font size="3">California</font><font size="3"> back to </font><font size="3">Colorado</font><font size="3">.
During that time, I married and had two children.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">Another
decade passed. Unexpectedly, my stepdaughter came to live with us. At 16, she
had decided to drop out of school and live in </font><font size="3">Colorado</font><font size="3">
with her dad instead of moving to </font><font size="3">Iowa</font><font size="3">
with her mother. My husband wanted to be his older daughter’s best friend,
which turned me into the wicked stepmother. With two toddlers in tow, I wasn’t
thrilled to have a moody teen, unemployed and lazy, adding to my work load. As
a saving grace, my unwelcome house guest picked up my neglected instrument and,
to my envy, began to play. Where or how she had learned, I couldn’t say. I
relished the gentle melodies produced by my cherished guitar; if I couldn’t
play it myself, I was happy to hear it played by anyone, even my delinquent
stepdaughter.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">Ultimately,
my stepchild became involved with a “young man,” to be generous; a “thief,” to
be honest. They moved in together and she soon found herself pregnant and in
trouble with the law. In order to buy her way back home to her mother in Iowa</font><font size="3">, she pawned her
belongings and left town one night on a Greyhound bus. My guitar was gone,
forever gone. After two decades of holding onto a dream, I assumed the guitar
had been pawned, never to be seen again.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">Again,
ahead10 years. My children were now teenagers. Meanwhile, in Iowa</font><font size="3">, my stepdaughter had matured, married,
and settled down. She produced three more children, two boys and another girl.
Ironically, she blossomed into the “mommiest” mommy I had ever known. Twice the
age of her half-sisters, my daughters, her children were closer in age than she
was to my girls.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman"><font size="3">One
year, I had an opportunity to travel out of the country, but as a single
parent, I had a dilemma. Who could I trust with my adolescent children while I
was so far away? My daughters were overjoyed with the prospect of spending two
weeks in Iowa</font><font size="3">
with their half-sister, nieces, and nephews. I packed them up and they flew
off. I assumed they wouldn’t miss me much. All went well. Reunited at home, we shared
stories of our adventures.</font></font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">“Guess
what,” my older daughter asked. “Anna still has your guitar!”</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">My
daughter had heard the guitar story many times. I had hoped that she would want
to play an instrument herself and fulfill my dream.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">The
next week, I couldn’t fathom why I was receiving a delivery. My guitar arrived
home in a box big enough for a dining room chair. Upon opening the container, I
did a time warp dance. When I hoisted the guitar case, I was transported back
40 years. I looked like a folk singer again, even if I still couldn’t play one
note.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">Later,
I shivered when I saw my 16-year-old daughter cradle the instrument, bend her
head down to examine the placement of her fingers on the frets, and begin to
play a sweet song. The vivid memory of her half-sister strumming the same
melody a decade earlier was replaying live in my living room. Although I never
learned to play, I was overjoyed to hear my guitar played by my daughter that
summer as her aunt walked down the aisle. Funny sometimes how dreams do come
true.</font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font><p style="margin: 1em 0in;"><span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN;"><font face="Times New Roman" size="3"> </font></span></p><font face="Times New Roman" size="3">
</font></div>