[Critique Group 1] Marcia's May submission

[Marcia Wick]

My Guitar

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

April 2020

Word Count:  1404

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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 which made it easy to
find a music store- there was only one on Main Street. 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.

 

"That one," I pointed. 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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. 

 

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. 

 

"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.

 

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. 

 

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 to northern California back to
Colorado. During that time, I married and had two children.

 

Another decade passed. Unexpectedly, my stepdaughter came to live with us.
At 16, she had decided to drop out of school and live in Colorado with her
dad instead of moving to Iowa 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.

 

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, 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.

 

Again, ahead10 years. My children were now teenagers. Meanwhile, in Iowa, 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.

 

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 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.

 

"Guess what," my older daughter asked. "Anna still has your guitar!"

 

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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

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