I don't remember exactly how old I was that Christmas morning.
Maybe ten... or somewhere around there.
Funny thing is... I remember the box.
It was long.
Kind of triangular.
There wasn't a name on it, and I had no idea who it belonged to
Finally there was only one present left.
Dad picked it up, looked over at me with that unmistakable grin and said,
“This one's for Billy Boy.”
I looked at Mom.
She was smiling just as big as he was.
Inside was a Silvertone guitar Dad had bought at Sears.
It wasn't a very good guitar. The strings were high, it drifted out of tune, and learning on it wasn't easy.
But it was mine. I still have it today.
Guitars come and go, but that one never did.
I don't think Dad was giving me a guitar.
I think he was giving me a chance.
Not because he knew what would happen.
Because he wanted to find out.
A few years later a family friend who sold guitars introduced me to a Japanese-made Yamaki twelve-string.
Now... that was a guitar.
I wish I still had it today.
That old Yamaki sounded pretty damn good.
The Silvertone made me want to learn.
The Yamaki made me want to play.
Somewhere along the way my brother and his friends started asking me to play with them.
One day I was listening from the edge of the circle.
The next... I was sitting in it with a guitar in my hands.
That was a pretty big deal to me.
Music has a funny way of introducing you to people you never would have met otherwise.
Every time someone invited me to play…
my world got just a little bigger.
By the time I was fourteen I'd taken guitar lessons, piano lessons, played recitals and competitions, and spent summers traveling with our church youth group playing at camps and church events.
Somewhere between that Silvertone…
and that old Yamaki...
music quietly stopped being something I did…
and started becoming who I was.