Story Of Guitar Life

When Dad uttered the words, "come over here and sit down," I thought I'd had it, the way a twelve year-old who's been mouthing off to his mother used to in those years. Actually, I was amazed that he had not taken me immediately in hand, but that didn't mean I couldn't see that coming, too.

Looking back, I think Dad must have had his mind made up for some time. In fact, he recently related facts to me that make that even more clear. I still don't know his mind as the events of that morning played. I can't say that he sat there listening to me giving Mom hell and thinking, "He's gonna get it," in the way I finally got it. However, the mystery of why he didn't just bounce me like a basketball has grown a bit less foggy.

You see, he knew I'd been going up the road a bit to play rock songs with my friend, Glen Companion. The father of my friend Bobby Miller -- who played drums -- had told my Dad. Of course, I didn't know that... not that it would have mattered to me.

You see, he knew I'd been going up the road a bit to play rock songs with my friend, Glen Companion. The father of my friend Bobby Miller -- who played drums -- had told my Dad. Of course, I didn't know that... not that it would have mattered to me.

Now, I've never forgotten any of this. I think Dad thinks I have, but it's one of the clearest pictures in my memories, and always has been from the moment it happened. I remember exactly where the chair was positioned in front of the window; I remember exactly how the burning island sunlight was streaming through the window over my shoulder as I sat in the straight armless chair, and I recall the odd note of authority in his voice as he said it: "Come over here and sit down."

I had a big question mark in my mind. "Am I in serious trouble, or what?"

I should have been, which is why, of course, I was asking myself the question, but there was also something missing in his tone: I wasn't hearing any of the menace that I figured I should have.

And it only started to dawn on me when he cracked the case of the 1952 Gibson L-47 acoustic guitar that he'd owned since he bought it with the money he'd saved as a teen-ager delivering newspapers and setting bowling pins, and set it on my lap.

I wasn't in trouble. I was into something else altogether.