Although my eldest sister plays guitar, and I watched and listened avidly as a child, her guitar was not the kind that you hand to a small roughhouser. Very understandably, she did not let me touch it, except once, with my index finger.

I first held a guitar in sixth grade. I went to a progressive, wild, unruly school. ( We had lots of fun.) In sixth grade the teacher's friend brought in her two "beach" guitars, and left them in the class for us to use. They both had nylon strings and one was "folk" style and one was "classical" style. I preferred the "folk" neck because of my smaller hands, and my friend with long fingers played the classical one. As sixth graders will, we competed a little-- "I can play a G, can you?" "You can't switch from A to E as fast as I can."

Then came junior high "Guitar and Drum" music class. (Eleanor Rigby and The House Of The Rising Sun still make my skin crawl; we played them to DEATH.) There were about five "beach guitars" available for us students to use, and we treated them with surprising respect for seventh graders. Not long thereafter, mom learned that an old friend of hers had a "beach" guitar he was willing to part with, so for twenty bucks I had something to strum at home. Actually, for a beach guitar, that one was pretty good. Nylon strings, of course. (Every guitar player should have a nylon-strung beach guitar leaning in the corner of their family room.)

As usual, Dad was watching, and listening. I think it was on my twelfth birthday, in the dining room, Dad appeared standing at the dining room table between his chair and the front entryway. He was grinning, with his hands held behind his back. Suddenly there was a Twang-- just one-- and his eyes twinkled. Baffled, I looked around. Twang again. I still had no clue. He chuckled, and from behind his back, proudly produced a small Yamaha.

It was just right for a tall twelve-year-old. The very remarkable thing was, it was new. The area in the bridge by the pegs holes had cracked, and the fellow in the store had had it epoxied-- nice job, hard to see-- and sold it for half price. The epoxy made it stronger than the original had been, and there was no danger of the split reoccuring. So, I had a new guitar. What a wonder that was. Very few new things were coming into the household during that time in our lives, and this-- this one was for me. I probably couldn't have expressed it, but viscerally, the new guitar symbolised my parent's encouragement and approval.

Can words describe?

Soon thereafter, the friend from sixth grade-- remember the chord competitions?-- also got a Yamaha of her own, and between guitars, flutes, and recorders, we spent hours and hours at her house making music.

THe Yamaha came to college, of course, and had many happy hours in the stairwell and in dorm rooms. A little rock, some blues, and a lot of folk-- ever been to The Folkway at Peterborough?-- Betsy taught me bass runs and country picking, and Kit taught me some Jazz.

Senior year, I meandered into someone's dorm room and saw a guitar lying on their bed. "Oh, that. It's busted. Gonna put it in the dumpster. Sure, you can have it." It had been sat on, or something, and the place where the neck curves, widens, and joins the body had cracked along the grain. I took it back to my dorm room, looked at it, thought about it, and headed for the hardware store. Two pipe clamps and a screwdriver later, I was tuning up and playing. It buzzed in a couple of places, but it was big, loud, and had a sweet sound. So now there was a beat-up Alpha to contrast with the elegant little Yamaha. They stayed with me through my first charismatic church for over a hundred worship songs.

Then came the Vineyard, and leading worship. At first I just did vocals and keys, but before long, I was needed on guitar, but the sweet little Yamaha didn't have enough power to carry a crowd, and the big Alpha was powerful enough, but it buzzed. The buzzing was too much for Gary, and before long, we were signing on the dotted line for a new Takamene.

The Alpha has gone to live with my brother, who removed the hose clamp and had some surgery done, and it looks more civilised now. The Takamene performs well during kinship and ministry time and is becoming a good friend.

Twenty four years later**, the little yamaha is still the guitar I relax with.

** edit: now thirty-four years later. Man, is this webpage that old?

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