I remember when we were children, and how Dad loved to play the guitar. He brought the old Gibson home the year I was born, so I virtually grew up in a house filled with beautiful music, thanks to my dad.
Before bedtime I would run to the living room where Dad played a variety of songs for anyone who cared to listen. I remember resting comfortably in his lap, between him and the guitar, so I could get the most of the moment, and I would marvel at the calluses on his fingertips when he paused to rest.
Sometimes we played a game where he would pick out a bit of a tune and I would have to guess the name of the song. Other times I’d try my own hand with the huge instrument, but look up in embarrassment when I’d lose the pick inside the hole. I remember Dad lifting the guitar over his head, turning it upside down and shaking it until the pick fell out.
Oftentimes when I lay in bed, I could hear Dad playing the guitar for his friends, or for Mom, or just for himself. His little girl would hear him until she drifted off to sleep.
Daddy’s girl is all grown now, and so these days “Poppy” plays for his grandchildren, on a brand new guitar. The old Gibson, looking a little worse for wear, rests silently in a corner, a poignant reminder of the days when Daddy and I shared a love, put to music, and he played his heart out for me.
Jennifer Kelland ~ 1986