I remember all those years ago, with babies, toddlers, and then
little kids,
I'd just try to sneak out my guitar. When they were busy, when they were sleeping. I'd just play a little bit, softly. Revisiting my old friend, and the songs I loved. Or picking out some semblance of a song I'd heard recently.
But if you know little kids, then you know it's no use. Specially mine, who all were equally wiggly. With their open eager beautiful smiles, their fingers itching to pluck the strings. Coming and throwing themselves on my lap, as I got the guitar and swished it out-of-the-way at the last minute.
Finally, when the youngest were maybe five and six, I could play, by incorporating it into bedtime.
Each of them nestled into their own beds, I'd sit in the hallway, between them, keeping a good eye on them, taking requests.
These days, the three of them are grown, and gone, off to the lives they've created for themselves.
This year, my daughter told me how much she'd love to teach herself to play, and did I think she could have my 12 string.
I taught them to always feel free to ask.
But I spit out my water I was drinking, when I heard that. R-i-g-h-t.
You know, I don't play well. I dont' know how to play well enough to play with anyone else. I remember a handful of chords. But I've always loved playing.
It's a beautiful Yamaha 12 string that a boyfriend left with me, when I was 21. I'm as close to the dusty thing with the million year old strings as I am to my left arm.
I retuned it so many times, without any clue, that I'm sure it's off in some weird hemisphere, and if either of my genius guitar brothers got their hands on it, they'd be shocked. Or maybe they would just laugh a lot.
But that's OK. Because whatever the hell that tuning is that it slowly wandered toward, the dusty old body still fits in my lap under my arm, cradled, as I sit alone on a sunny afternoon, resting in bed with my dog, my cats, and the sun begins to go down.
So that its' golden glow only touches the tops of the trees that surround me.As everything else darkens.
So that I'm old enough now, that who the hell cares how well I play, how well my fingers fit onto those chords.
I love this instrument. I sit here crooning happily to myself some Gillian Welch song, transported, the music settling deeply into my mind.
I'd just try to sneak out my guitar. When they were busy, when they were sleeping. I'd just play a little bit, softly. Revisiting my old friend, and the songs I loved. Or picking out some semblance of a song I'd heard recently.
But if you know little kids, then you know it's no use. Specially mine, who all were equally wiggly. With their open eager beautiful smiles, their fingers itching to pluck the strings. Coming and throwing themselves on my lap, as I got the guitar and swished it out-of-the-way at the last minute.
Finally, when the youngest were maybe five and six, I could play, by incorporating it into bedtime.
Each of them nestled into their own beds, I'd sit in the hallway, between them, keeping a good eye on them, taking requests.
These days, the three of them are grown, and gone, off to the lives they've created for themselves.
This year, my daughter told me how much she'd love to teach herself to play, and did I think she could have my 12 string.
I taught them to always feel free to ask.
But I spit out my water I was drinking, when I heard that. R-i-g-h-t.
You know, I don't play well. I dont' know how to play well enough to play with anyone else. I remember a handful of chords. But I've always loved playing.
It's a beautiful Yamaha 12 string that a boyfriend left with me, when I was 21. I'm as close to the dusty thing with the million year old strings as I am to my left arm.
I retuned it so many times, without any clue, that I'm sure it's off in some weird hemisphere, and if either of my genius guitar brothers got their hands on it, they'd be shocked. Or maybe they would just laugh a lot.
But that's OK. Because whatever the hell that tuning is that it slowly wandered toward, the dusty old body still fits in my lap under my arm, cradled, as I sit alone on a sunny afternoon, resting in bed with my dog, my cats, and the sun begins to go down.
So that its' golden glow only touches the tops of the trees that surround me.As everything else darkens.
So that I'm old enough now, that who the hell cares how well I play, how well my fingers fit onto those chords.
I love this instrument. I sit here crooning happily to myself some Gillian Welch song, transported, the music settling deeply into my mind.
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