Rocking Mama
OK, I don't know what I've gotten myself into. My 14 year old son has made up his mind that his mission on this planet is to teach me to play the electric guitar. Let me back up. I've always had a secret fantasty to become a whiz on the guitar--shredding the fret board with wall shattering riffs, tooth loosening power chord sequences and mind numbingly complex palm muting. Part of me wonders if I was truly a famous rock guitarist in a former life. Hopefully not one of those who drowned face down in their own puke, but beggars can't be choosers. The more believable reality is that I was one of those bums on the street playing an old guitar with three strings missing just to get a couple of bucks for a beer. But a girl can dream can't she? Anyway, moving on. I did take up the guitar 20 years ago--bought myself a candy apple red Peavey that brought me all the way to songs like Red River Valley and Row Row Row Your Boat. My fingers had callouses the size of cow patties But with doctoring, five kids coming one after the other and other activities building up on my Palm Pilot over the years, I just couldn't find the time to continue. I got to that level where teaching myself wasn't going to work. Besides, I didn't want to play stupid folk songs, man! I wanted to play Dire Strait's Telegraph Road solo. I wanted to play Lynyrd Skynrd's Freebird solo. So I quit. Now, I'm even busier, but Erik has his heart set on reforming my priorities. Not that he's super good, mind you, but he's a damn sight better than me! We had the first lesson yesterday. He's actually a patient teacher with good teaching techniques. He had me plying something from Jimi Hendrix's repertoire within 30 minutes. Of course my fingertips are still oozing blood, but he says they'll heal and toughen up with more shredding. Wish me luck, folks.