Lucida

This is my guitar. I call her Lucida.

Okay, that last sentence just made me laugh, because I've never called her anything--not even "her." My imagination doesn't lend itself to naming inanimate objects unless called upon to do so by my granddaughter. Then I usually say, "Name it Grandma." But "Lucida," as you can see, is written on the sticker inside the guitar, and, well, it is a pretty name. As good a name for a guitar as any, if I thought mine needed one.

Right now, my guitar needs someone to play it.

I actually played obsessively for about ten years. Hearing that might make you think I'd be pretty good. I'm not. I did learn how to read music, though, and I know where to find the notes and chords on the guitar. I also spent a lot of money on CD's and books full of classical guitar music. Oh, and lessons, for a while. I even memorized a largish repertoire of pieces that I could play without music. Not that you would ever want to hear them.

I have a favorite story about playing for some friends once, when I first started. I played a lovely piece taught to me by my instructor. (I eventually had to leave him before he could dump me, which I knew he was about to do because of the hopelessness of the situation, but that's a story for another day.) Anyway, after I finished my recital, one of my friends sincerely told me, "You make it look so hard."

I probably should have stopped then, but even as those around me were begging me to stop, I just couldn't stop believing in myself.

The nice thing about classical guitar is that you can play it very, very softly--so softly that someone reading the paper and drinking coffee in the next room can't even hear you. I used to get up at 4:30 in the morning so I could practice as I had my first cup of coffee. I would listen to the music that my--my very own--fingers pulled forth from my Lucida, and I would be pleased.

This is the time of year I would be murdering some beautiful Christmas carol with my strings. As I "played," I would imagine my family gathered around my feet on Christmas day, listening raptly, smiling at one another as if to say "aren't we glad she's ours?"

But not this year. Sorry, Lucida. I still think you're beautiful, but I'm trying to keep it real.