six little strings.

I started playing guitar when I was in 10th grade. With a
hand-me-down guitar from my sister's college years, I was instructed to
practice, practice, practice. Dear H. Harvey was my instructor's name.
We'd meet in a closet sized classroom for an hour every other week.
Facing each other, knocking our knees together when tapping our toes to
the beat, we'd play all throughout the session. Mr. Harvey had a
collection of hawaiian floral print shirts which he'd only button up halfway. A gold chain with a detailed medallion
hung from his neck, hands adorned with jewels and hardened fingertips that told stories of stages he'd entertained. A bluesrhythm he
could play best- an inspiration to my musical dreams he had become. I
remember walking into those sessions (having never practiced.
practiced. practiced.) and always walking out wanting to one day be as
good as he was on that guitar. I'd bring recordings of Sting, Jewel and
other artists' showing him the songs I longed to play on my own.
Listening closely, he'd scribble letters. Many, many letters. Letters
and numbers at times. He'd play the recording again. Adjust a few
letters. Then a few numbers, then, he'd turn the wrinkled paper towards
me and say "here ya go."
The code of numbers and letters apparently
were supposed to be some sort of secret musical code that my fifteen
year old mind couldn't decipher on it's own. Ah, yes. Chords. They were
chords. Of course they were! I could never read sheet music, but H.
Harvey's scribbled chords mapped out every song that had ever inspired
me to play guitar- only one day, I went for my music lesson, and there
was no bumping of knees. No tapping of toes. Nohawaiian cruise wear. Only rain, my guitar and a long wait in my mom's Thunderbird. Thirty minutes passed. Thirty five. Forty.
H. Harvey had passed away that evening. No more guitar lessons.

Rest not, dear acoustic beauty. I still love to play.



..(i've also started to pack. no, really. i have.)