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Speak Up

In the fall of 1976 I remember having a teary conversation with my mother. I wanted a guitar for my birthday. My father played guitar and drums. He was in a band and when my parents had house parties, dad always got his guitar out and played for his friends.

I always marvelled at Dad's skill. He was self-taught and could play pretty much every country song on the radio. I loved his voice, and always watched his fingers as he played. I fell in love with the guitar at a very early age.

One of my favourite pictures is that of my dad sitting in the kitchen playing his guitar, my baby brother in a little booster seat on the kitchen table and me in a little blow-up chair on the floor playing along with my plastic toy ukulele.

The night I cried over wanting a guitar, I remember my mom asking me a lot of questions.

She was worried about spending a lot of money on a musical instrument and lessons and wanted to know if I really wanted one, how often I'd practice and whether I would take care of such a special gift.

I remember the conversation happening before bed. I am not sure if my tears were because I was a tired 8½-year-old or if the waterworks were related to my being scared a guitar might not be in my future.

I had asked for one before and hadn't gotten it. I remember feeling desperate. My dad's guitar was huge and hard to handle for my little hands. I wasn't allowed to 'play' with it unless he was right there.

In mid-December, when another birthday came and went without a guitar, I was upset but tried not to let it show. For the first - and, if I remember correctly, only time - I was allowed to have a birthday sleepover that year.

Five of my closest friends moved my bed to the corner of the room and slept on my floor that night. We were allowed to stay up late and have treats before bed.

My parents had made my birthday special even without the wanted gift and I was grateful ... but still disappointed.

Closer to Christmas when my mother was out somewhere and I had just gone to bed, my father slipped out of the house to bring something in from the car. I was coming down the stairs to go to the bathroom and saw him come in with a large, triangular box.

"What's in the box, dad?" I asked.

"Flowers for your mother" he said, not missing a beat.

"Don't tell her," he added.

I went to bed with a big grin on my face, happy that my mother was getting some special flowers from my dad for Christmas.

I was too young to over-analyze the moment. If I were a year or two older, I might have questioned how the flowers could survive until Christmas, why they were in a box, how my dad would be able to water them after he wrapped this special present, and why he chose a gift that dies after only a few days.

On Christmas morning I remember seeing the shape of the box leaning against the wall beside the tree.

My dad was going to surprise my mother with a beautiful box of flowers and I was so excited for her that I nearly burst. I have no idea what I imagined these flowers to be. I suspect my young mind was probably more concentrated on how my mother would react than what type of flowers were in the box.

In keeping my secret from my mother, I imagined my father to be one of the most romantic men in the world - hiding a special present from the woman he loved.

On Christmas morning, because I knew the large present was for my mother, I got right to work opening my own presents.

It wasn't until all of my Christmas gifts were opened and I was playing with something or other that my mother went over and picked up the big triangular-shaped box.

I waited for her to open it and was shocked when she passed it to me. When I looked to my dad with my mouth gaping wide, he had a big grin on his face.

"You said it was for her?" I asked, incredulous.

"I lied," he said.

I don't remember what I said when I opened the box, I don't remember if I screamed or cried, but I do remember how it made me feel.

I took the guitar out of its box and inspected it carefully. I remember touching the pick plate, running my hand behind the neck, and strumming the strings. It felt amazing to finally hold this perfectly sized guitar in my hands. It was not an expensive guitar - but to me it was priceless.

I took lessons for nearly five years.

When I outgrew my 'youth-sized' guitar, my parents bought me a very beautiful and very expensive Ibanez guitar.

And while that guitar has travelled with me to three provinces, has serenaded each of my children, and sounds better with each year that passes, it doesn't hold a candle to my first little Christmas guitar.

Theresa Blackburn is a wife, mother and New Brunswick Community College instructor who lives and diets in Woodstock. You can email her at theresa@mybigfatlife.ca, or join her group, Big Fat Life, on Facebook.