When I was five years old, my grandfather bought me a guitar. I thought it was a toy, but it didn't take long to learn otherwise. He was dead serious about teaching me and I didn't want to learn. This was not new to him as he had taught my dad in much the same way. My dad was quoted as saying, "You can make me do it but you can't make me like it."
Grandpap called me over into his studio, and of course I argued, but admittedly I was a bit curious. He called me "Friend" as he always did. It was one of the funny little eccentricities that made him special. Whenever I showed up at their house for anything, he always proclaimed, "Well, Hiya Friend!" I don't remember my first few lessons, but I remember liking the learning process. Probably because progress comes fast and easy at the beginning. I remember something out of a beginners book called "Two String Polka" being one of my favorite first songs to play. I was gonna be a pro in no time!
Fast forward a couple years and it wasn't so much fun. As I got better at playing, the lessons got harder. So I began plotting to escape them and my grandfather. I began trying to avoid my lesson times and look forward to the day of the week we weren't with that set of grandparents. My sister and I stayed with them after school and over the summers until one of our working parents picked us up at 5:00 PM. My grandfather was done work at 3:00 PM and would wrangle me soon after he got home for my 3:30 lesson.
My escape strategies grew more complex and kept escalating for a number of years, although I don't ever remember any strategy working. This man had more patience and persistence than Jesus H. Tap-Dancin' Christ. I occasionally resorted to tantrums, and these were serious tantrums. He should have killed me, but he didn't. Like all good parents he waited until I tired myself out and I gave up.
