Lately I've been disappointed more than somewhat in the support my family has been offering an aspiring guitarist. After a couple dozen times of hearing, "Not now, Dad!" when I bat out my opening G chord, I was beginning to feel a little wounded. The cruelest cut came this weekend after we had returned from a short trip to our getaway house in the western part of the state. My wife remarked how fortuitous it would have been if I had taken my guitar out there -- and then forgotten it and left it a two-hour drive away. I'm sure she meant it as a joke.But all was forgiven on Father's Day, which had a musical theme. The family gave me five framed album covers -- from an era back when recorded music came with artwork that was 156 square inches, instead of 25 -- and my daughter made a collage with guitar picks.
It pleases me to think that of all the middle-aged, middle-class, middle-of-the-road fathers in our little suburban county, that I am almost without a doubt the only one who's been thumping out "Smoke on the Water" and "Wild Thing" as the coda to his Father's Day.
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