I was raised in a musical family. Both of my parents play instruments and sing. Dad plays guitar. Mom plays guitar, banjo, and piano. My two younger sisters each play and sing. My maternal grandfather was an awesome guitar player and, as a young man, he had the chance to play with some world-famous musicians, such as Ernest Tubb. Had he chosen that path instead of his partying lifestyle, my life might have taken a different trajectory.
As a side note, my parents now live just a few miles from where Ernest Tubb was born, so I guess life sometimes swings around full circle.
While I was exposed to music at the earliest age, I took a different path. I learned the guitar chords growing up, but instead of practicing with the family, I buried myself in books. Instead of being enraptured by music, I was caught up in the imagination of literature and became a writer instead.
From about the age of three, I could see my youngest grandson, Nathen, taking an interest in music. He loved to touch the keys on the piano and, rather than bang them like most young children, he could actually make pleasant sounds. I noticed it again later as he took an interest in guitars. So I decided I'd help him along and taught him some chords on the guitar.
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In May this year, my wife's youngest daughter got married. So we packed up the family and headed south to Texas (from Gettysburg, Pennsylvania). We went a week early so we could spend time with my folks in East Texas before heading south to College Station for the wedding.
My parents' house is full of musical instruments. At that time, Nathen was 11 years old. He couldn't keep his eyes (and hands) off my dad's guitars. So in our spare time, he and I would pick up the guitars and begin to strum. My parents noticed and immediately jumped in to help us, giving us both pointers on the fingering and picking. They even went so far as to print out some lyrics to popular songs they wanted us to sing and wrote down where the chord changes were to occur. Nathen and I spent the entire week playing the guitar together. We made pretty good progress.
When we got back home, we continued our daily practice. And I have to say, we started to sound like a couple of well-practiced amateurs. One of the songs we liked to play is Bob Dylan's "Blowin in the Wind." In case you aren't familiar with it, here's what it sounds like:
I'm not saying we do it the same justice Dylan did, but we did pretty well for a couple of amateurs.
Nathen has since moved out (he was living with me at the time). He's living with his Mom in another abode, and he says he still practices. I know I do. In fact, just a week ago I wrote a song. It's a gospel ballad, with a blues bent.
One day, while we practiced "Blowin in the Wind" together, Nathen got a pensive look on his face and said, "Those are some good questions." I always thought so too. And from time to time, I've pondered them.
How many roads must a man walk down,
Before you can call him a man?
Personally, I've walked many roads--figuratively and literally. I don't know exactly when it was I became a man. I can guarantee it wasn't at the legal age. It was some time later. But it was such a gradual process that I can't put my finger on it exactly. And I think that's precisely the meaning of these lyrics:
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind
The answer is blowin' in the wind
Nathen didn't stop with his innocent praise. We played a refrain and he stopped, placed his forearm on his guitar, and grinned. "Sometimes, I lie awake at night and ponder these questions."
I laughed. "So do I, Nate," I confessed. "So do I."
I don't know if Nathen will ever figure out what this song means, but I hope he figures it out before I did. And if we meet that subterranean Robert Zimmerman between here and heaven, perhaps we'll have a chance to croon together as we search for answers that don't blow in the wind.
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