The Blue Guitar
Music is one of the greatest forms of expression and communication in human history. Every culture known to man, has used music to tell stories, or to express a certain emotions such as love, hate, sadness, and countless others. At times, everyone finds a song, or a collection of songs that complement their mood, or helps them through a difficult situation they are faced with. While at other times, they may find comfort just listening to music to relax. Music can also be a self-made discovery, or a reflection, of the kind of person you are. Personally, I found myself through music with the help of my father, and there is no material thing in this world that I treasure more than his blue guitar. My father originally started playing the guitar when he was seventeen because he wanted to get popular in high school. But when I was young my father used to play and record songs in his "music room," while he was taking a break from his medical school studies. I can still remember staying up at night listening to him practicing his guitar and singing to us, thinking "I want to play guitar and sing too! Just like Dad." It always put a smile on my father's face when we would sing and make up little songs as we were traveling in the car, or when we were out on family activities such as hiking. And he often encouraged us to try and play music any way we could even if we were screaming at the tops of our lungs banging on pots and pans. He never became upset when he caught us in his "music room" banging the keys on his old Juno-60 keyboard, although at the time I was more fascinated at the crazy sounds it made rather than playing anything that resembled a song. There was one time, when I was eight, that I went down to the basement and picked up an acoustic guitar that was leaning against the wall. I strummed the strings a few times when all of a sudden, SNAP! I accidentally broke a string on it. I was so scared to tell my father that I didn't even bring it up for days, but when it finally came to light, he didn't get upset in the slightest. He actually smiled and said it was no big deal. The relief I felt immense. He simply replaced the string and told me that I should be more careful, but also he was proud of me for trying to play. He promised to show me how to play but he never actually followed through until years later. But he never used music as a punishment, such as denying us the ability to play instruments, even when we were grounded. Eventually the time came when I became very focused on actually learning to play the guitar just like my father, that I basically begged and pleaded for him to teach me how to play while we visiting him in South Carolina. He finally conceded and showed me the E-Minor chord. Within minutes I could play it perfectly, and so he showed me another one, and then another, and so on. After about a day of practice I could play all the chords he showed me so well, it sounded like I'd been playing for years. After he ran out of chords to show me, he started showing me how to solo on the guitar by playing what's known as the pentatonic scale. I must have played that scale a million times out of fascination that I was actually making real music, and also the fact that I wanted to impress my dad. I was addicted and couldn't stop, all the while becoming very proficient at playing in only a few days. I was 12 years old at the time, and my father lived in South Carolina working to pay off his school loans. We visited him that year in the summer for about 3 weeks, but he'd go to work in the morning, so there were long periods though out the day that I found myself trying to cure myself of boredom. Playing my father's blue guitar in those weeks was the best escape. For years I'd play guitar for about 2 to 3 hours a day after school. I became so proficient at playing that he would sometimes come in my room just to listen to me play. Eventually he bought me my own guitar for my 16th birthday. He