[Critique Group 1] Leonard's comments on Martia's piece

[tuchyner5 at aol.com]

All I can sayh about this is beautiful. Iwouldn’t change a word. The story is wonderful. It is not only a story about adream and a guitar, but also of the redemption of a young girl and the passingdown of a tradition of music . So you had music in your  heart and it was picked up by  your step daughter and your daughter. Bravo.

 

MyGuitar

MarciaJ. Wick, The Write Sisters

April2020

WordCount:  1404

 

 

Atabout age 10, I dreamed of becoming a folk singer like Joan Baez, JoniMitchell, or Carole King. I envisioned myself playing songs on a guitar arounda campfire, strumming along with a choir, or sitting alone in my bedroomwriting songs.

 

ThatChristmas, my parents presented me with a starter guitar. It was black, as Irecall, but it was new and sized for a child. I cradled it, I adjusted thestrap, I practiced standing with it and sitting with it, legs crossed,imagining myself playing for a small group of friends. The trouble was, afterreceiving the instrument, I was left to learn to play it on my own. I’m sure Iwas given some song books, but I was never taught to read music. No lessonswere offered. I attempted to work out the notes by ear, but there were noYouTube videos or tutorials in the 1960s to guide me. I don’t know what everbecame of my childhood guitar.\

Hard to believe that they gave you aninstrument  and no way to learn it.

 

Adecade later, after I graduated from college and accepted my first professionaljob, I rewarded myself with a new acoustic six-string. I still couldn’t readmusic 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 asmall town in western New Yorkwhich 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. Thestrike plate was decorated with a flowery design, very ladylike.

 

“Thatone,” I pointed. 

 

I wrotea $300 check on my new bank account, a fortune to me at the time. I deservedit, I reasoned. I had moved 2,000 miles away from my family, I was living alonein a strange town, and I was embarking on a new career. As I accepted my newinstrument tucked inside a sturdy black case, I looked like a folk singer, evenif I still couldn’t play guitar. Before departing the store, I inquired aboutlocal 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 apotential boyfriend? I was on cloud 9, floating in my fantasy.

 

Hisapartment was at the top of a long narrow stairway in a building older than myhome state which had just celebrated its Bicentennial. I entered a tiny roomand struggled to find a seat in the dim light. I attended diligently to mylesson, wanting with all my will to learn to play. The teacher never asked meout, but he worked with me and worked with me. I told myself if I couldcoordinate my fingers on a typewriter keyboard, I could learn to finger asix-string guitar. I tried and I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t produce amelody.

 

Aftermonths of futility, I parked the instrument in a corner of my apartment, onlyoccasionally to unpack it, hoping I had magically learned to play while itwaited. Another year passed but I didn’t give up on my dream. I found a newguitar 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 hadnever received as a child. In her living room on weekends, I strummedchildren’s songs, achieving some proficiency as a beginner…with a long way togo. 

 

Afterseveral months, in an attempt to encourage me, my teacher asked me to accompanyher third grade class for one song during their school concert. She gave me asimple tune to learn (I don’t remember the name of the song). I practice andpracticed. I studiously memorized the chords; I picked the strings carefully,plucking my way along until I gained confidence. 

 

“Ican do this!” I told myself.  I could accompany a class of eight-year-oldssinging a familiar song, but what I didn’t anticipate was stage fright.

 

Thecurtains opened. On cue, I advanced from the wing onto the small stage and tooka seat on a folding chair next to a cohort of giggling students on risers. Icouldn’t seem much past the stage lights, but the small auditorium was packedwith parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, teachers…you getthe idea. 

 

Themusic teacher cued her young singers and they took off. Like rockets, theylaunched into the first verse before I had found the fret for my first note. Itried to catch up. I skipped ahead and fell behind. I couldn’t hear myselfplay. I stopped playing. The children and teacher forged ahead. I felt thecolor rise in my face and I sat paralyzed until the song concluded. After thathumiliating experience, I never played my guitar again, although it traveledwith me from western New York to northern California back to Colorado.During that time, I married and had two children.

 

Anotherdecade passed. Unexpectedly, my stepdaughter came to live with us. At 16, shehad decided to drop out of school and live in Coloradowith her dad instead of moving to Iowawith 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’tthrilled to have a moody teen, unemployed and lazy, adding to my work load. Asa 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. Irelished the gentle melodies produced by my cherished guitar; if I couldn’tplay it myself, I was happy to hear it played by anyone, even my delinquentstepdaughter.

 

Ultimately,my stepchild became involved with a “young man,” to be generous; a “thief,” tobe honest. They moved in together and she soon found herself pregnant and introuble with the law. In order to buy her way back home to her mother in Iowa, she pawned herbelongings 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 guitarhad 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 theage of her half-sisters, my daughters, her children were closer in age than shewas to my girls.

 

Oneyear, I had an opportunity to travel out of the country, but as a singleparent, I had a dilemma. Who could I trust with my adolescent children while Iwas so far away? My daughters were overjoyed with the prospect of spending twoweeks in Iowawith their half-sister, nieces, and nephews. I packed them up and they flewoff. I assumed they wouldn’t miss me much. All went well. Reunited at home, we sharedstories of our adventures.

 

“Guesswhat,” my older daughter asked. “Anna still has your guitar!”

 

Mydaughter had heard the guitar story many times. I had hoped that she would wantto play an instrument herself and fulfill my dream.

 

Thenext week, I couldn’t fathom why I was receiving a delivery. My guitar arrivedhome in a box big enough for a dining room chair. Upon opening the container, Idid a time warp dance. When I hoisted the guitar case, I was transported back40 years. I looked like a folk singer again, even if I still couldn’t play onenote.

 

Later,I shivered when I saw my 16-year-old daughter cradle the instrument, bend herhead down to examine the placement of her fingers on the frets, and begin toplay a sweet song. The vivid memory of her half-sister strumming the samemelody a decade earlier was replaying live in my living room. Although I neverlearned to play, I was overjoyed to hear my guitar played by my daughter thatsummer as her aunt walked down the aisle. Funny sometimes how dreams do cometrue.

 
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://bluegrasspals.com/pipermail/group1/attachments/20200529/675e1e9c/attachment-0001.html>