I have this old beat up guitar, my brother carried it with him around home back in the late 60's. Yeah I am that old.

My mom took all the fun out of music. We had to learn scales. My brother conquered my Mother, a steel string classical guitar. I stole his guitar. He died in Viet nam.

No one knows how I play. That is ok. My uncle Carl got me a few gigs in the studio. My Mom paid for 16 years of lessons....and I have spent much time in the wind and rain...much time laughing about a personal harvest.

I have never cried for Kenny while holding his guitar, I don't think that would be right. I have seen Water Street in Skowhegan plain as day, I have felt salt and spray from the Peaks Island mail run, but I have never cried. He danced across the things I fret about. But I never cried holding his guitar.

It is a dark thing held in for so long. I survived Vince Gill in a closed environment and never cried. There must be something wrong with me? Because that guitar tunes perfectly.