THE ONCE AND FUTURE ROCK STAR

During my freshman year in high school, my father paid for yet another in a series of guitar lessons for me.  My plan was to become a rock star and fight off girls who attempted to tear off my clothes and, of course, never have to work a day in my life.  This particular teacher was named Lee--a tall, balding, blonde haired man with glasses whose wife, Clarissa, was beautiful, had a lovely singing voice, and happened to need a ride each day to the same company where my dad worked.  

Thanks to my father, Clarissa got a ride, and I got guitar lessons.  One of the first skills Lee taught me was something called a "chord melody," which meant that you played some of the individual notes and then sometimes--for emphasis--hit a chord that resonated during certain parts of the song.

When Lee asked me what song I wanted to learn to play using the chord melody, I immediately brought out an old Beatles songbook I'd had since the last time I'd tried to learn to play guitar.  Flipping through the pages, I landed on one of my favorite songs by The Fab Four:  "The Long and Winding Road."

For several weeks, Lee would come over every Tuesday evening and spend an hour teaching me to play that haunting Lennon/McCartney masterpiece.  I always wondered who they wrote it for or about and who they were hoping to find at the end of that meandering path.  In a month or so, I could play the opening quite well, but was still stumbling my way through the rest of the song.  I got a little better over the following weeks but, even at fourteen, didn't quite seem to have the focus or patience or whatever particular skill it took to find the road to rock stardom. 

Eventually Lee grew frustrated with my lack of progress, spent a number of minutes every lesson chastising me for my lack of practice the previous week, and eventually we grew tired of each other and he ultimately quit.  I was never quite sure what my father said about driving Clarissa to work, but all these years later (over thirty), I still have pleasant memories of playing "The Long and Winding Road," fingering the chord melody to a song written by two of the greatest songwriters in rock and roll history, and if forced, could probably still play the opening two or three notes on the old acoustic that is gathering dust in my clothes closet. 

But, mostly, what I am left with is the memory of my father's selfless generosity. 

And that's music all by itself.