Dad's Guitar Essay

1397 words - 6 pages

The sun was hot on my neck as I got out of the truck. The end of a long Wyoming workday in June seemed about like always, high thin clouds laughed at the thought of rain as a hot sun beat on my dads trailer house.Looking at the big cottonwoods over the old trailer, I walked into the welcome shade they cast before pausing on the wooden porch. I hadn't heard it first, the swamp cooler that was a must on days like this running in the background. But the smell had damn sure caught me offguard.Who the hell could be smoking weed in my dads house?Then I heard the guitar. A sound I would never fail to recognize, dads old guitar. It was a thing I had grown into adulthood with, summer evenings and dads music. It never seemed to change much, kind of like the old man had learned what he liked and stopped. Some things shouldn't change perhaps.It was also a sound I had given up on hearing since arthritis had taken its toll.I had tried, my greatest hero being a guitarist had definitely lead me to take up the guitar, late perhaps but I had done it. One of the things I regret most I suppose is that when I had reached a level that would allow me to play music with my father, well, he no longer could.So I stopped. I stopped stock still and looked at my father hunched over his gitfiddle as he sometimes called it Wrapped over her, slowly slowly pulling music from her.Tears began to run down to the slow smile that hit my face, tears so bright I almost missed the source of the smell, a small roach lay cold in the ashtray surrounded by the normal pile of cigarette butts. Filtered , menthol PLEASE!Dad had always denounced my pot smoking, later in life we had had a talk about it, both tenacious, the marijuana issue had nearly broken something between us. Eventually I was granted the okay to make my own mistakes and he was granted the ability to remain a stubborn father.But I had never given up. Repeatedly I had pointed out articles about possible treatments for his chronic pain, and reports that some people gained relief from rheumatoid arthritis. The reports out of England and Canada were casually put in front of him, never too offensive, but never ending. Dad had always dismissed it all with a derogatory remark. Marijuana was the devil's weed, and nothing anyone said would make a diference. Sitting slowly, I watched the old man, he looked up and grinned, small sparkles of water in his eyes too.I suppose I can imagine what he must be feeling, if I were cut off from my music, and then to have it brought back, slow, painful but music, with the promise of more. yeah. I can understand that.Reaching over, both of us wincing as he missed a note he had always missed, even earlier, I looked at what he had rolled his joint from."You need a pipe dad, I will get you one" letting my fingers sift through the low grade weed he had in his bag, I set it back down and walked out to my truck. the sounds of wildwood flower following me out.It is amazing how, easy, we humans adapt.Five...

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