Just How Bad Am I on the Guitar?

 This is my Father's Day post. The main tradition of the day, accepting collect phone calls from progeny, is no longer honored, because cell phones, so I might wind up buying lunch for my son instead. But, anyway, the post isn't about Father's Day, it's just Father's Day, and I'm posting here. 

But, since it is Father's Day, perhaps indulge me while I tell an excruciatingly boring story. That's another tradition, but I think I'm low on tradition, maybe, and anyhow my father wasn't one of those fathers. He actually told interesting stories--funny, leaning slightly toward self-deprecation. That is something I do, too, and as a matter of fact I submit that it is probably genetic, somehow, since I only met my father a handful of times, resulting in such a short span of accumulated time I could not possibly have "picked up"anything from him.

He played the ukulele, I know, and his father before him. In fact, Grandpa lived in a retirement nursing home whatever and organized a ukulele band with the other residents. The lyrics of the one song (intended to be a duet) my father sang one day in his kitchen in Hilo, Hawaii while accompanying himself on the ukulele were:

Aloha oy,

You smell like poi.

I know I do,

But so do you.

For the record, poi smells bad. Real bad. Also for the record, as an aside, I note that I think possibly the only persistent memory I have of my grandfather was from a time when he was younger than I am at the moment, at this writing. The main thing I took from him was that he took naps, so, genetics, and I can't be blamed and accused of being a ne'er-do-well layabout. 

My step-father gave me my first guitar when I was about 12. It was maybe one level above "toy guitar," and that is being generous. It was painted in a color and pattern that today would be called "tobacco sunburst," if that means anything to you. The action (distance of strings above the fingerboard) was so high that it was pretty much unplayable, and playing it anyway made your fingers hurt. Certain chords could only be accomplished with the use of extreme downward force, or a C-clamp on certain strings. 

The one advantage of this particular guitar as a beginner's instrument, compared to, say, a trumpet, or drums, was that it wasn't very loud and couldn't be heard that well. 

Anyway, for some reason I felt like I really had to learn to play this thing. Popular culture at the time told me so.  But, for me, the learning curve on this thing wasn't really a curve at all, nor was it a slope. It was more like being on a flat plain walking toward the mountains in the distance, but they never seem to get any nearer. Like driving through Nevada, let's say. 

Later that same decade, my mom and her boyfriend gave me another guitar. A Yamaha.  Ahh, this was much, much better. I picked it up and, instantly, I played better. I don't remember the exact model, but I wish I still had it. Of course, when I say "I played better," please note that the word, better, is by definition, a relative term. OK. 

I bought a brand new guitar when I was in my Twenties. Alvarez.  Better yet. I still have it, but sadly it is starting to warp, and to be honest, it never was a great guitar. It certainly wasn't that expensive for when I bought it in the early Seventies. This is the guitar I had when my son was born. At that time I had given up playing and put the Alvarez in a closet and pretty much forgot about it. When my son was two, I decided to drag it out so I could show it to him. 

He was very excited.  He pointed at it and said, quite clearly, "Loot!" 

Seeing a learning opportunity, I smiled and said, "This is a 'guitar.'  Can you say 'guitar?' "  

His little brow furrowed.  "Lute!" he repeated. 

"No, this is a guitar." I was such a good father. 

"Lute!" Now he was getting a little agitated in his efforts to teach me the word for this thing. I let it go, sat on the edge of the bed, him beside me, and made chords while he strummed.