I Finally Played for Her

Have you ever looked back and realized all your practice was preparing you for something you didn’t even see coming?

That’s what today’s Guitar Story reminds me of—the way music has a way of showing up exactly when it’s needed.

—Tony

The Funeral

As we gathered at the cemetery, I tuned my guitar.

It was a sunny day with a gentle breeze, swallows flying overhead—it reminded me of a funeral scene in some forgotten movie.

Family gathered. Prayers were said. Poems were read.

Then it was my turn: to play Mom’s favorite folk song from church.

Her Gift

Mom encouraged my music from the beginning—piano lessons, private music school, voice training. She attended recitals, school concerts, musicals.

When I graduated high school, she gave me a gift: a brand-new Ovation Matrix guitar.

It was 1980. She was excited about the “new tech” round back that promised a fuller sound—she was always a sucker for new technology.

She even splurged on the deluxe case, so it could withstand college life and travel wherever I went.

Dormant Years

I strummed it some during college, mostly singing away stress and youthful angst.

Later, life filled up—career, marriage, kids. The guitar came out for campfires, but I was always a background player.

Somehow, my musical training didn’t translate to this instrument. I could explain theory on a piano keyboard, but I couldn’t even tell you which note I was plucking on guitar.

I occasionally thought of lessons, but always felt too busy. Time raced by.

Rekindling

Decades passed. The kids moved out. I retired.

One evening, chatting on the phone, Mom asked, “What ever happened to my musician?”

I mumbled something about campfires, but the question stuck. It was time to rekindle that passion.

So I committed: ten minutes a day. Just play. Learn something new. Don’t worry if it sounded good today; tomorrow would be better.

For two years, I kept at it—fumbles and all. Scales, picking techniques, bar chords, bass walks, pentatonic shapes, twelve-bar blues, fun little riffs.
 
Gradually, the black-and-white sketch of my playing filled with color.

The theory I’d always known finally clicked with the guitar in my hands. That Ovation was making real music.

Shyness

Still, I only played at home.

For Mom’s birthday I even wrote a song, but when I sent her a video birthday card, I asked my son to play guitar while I sang.

Alone, I could make the guitar sing; with others, I stumbled. Around the campfire I sometimes felt worse than before I started this journey.

I knew my next step was to use these skills with people, not just by myself.

The Call

Then came last February. Mom was hospitalized, and this time it was serious.

All five of us kids were with her when she passed. We tried to sing for her, but grief choked the words.

Her funeral came later, in the spring. I suggested closing with “Let There Be Peace on Earth,” her favorite from folk Mass. Everyone agreed.

Then my sister said: “You should play guitar.”

My jaw dropped. Terrifying—and perfect. I said yes with some trepidation.

Even though I only had a few days to learn the song and then (gasp) play it in front of people, it felt right.

The Tribute

My sister printed lyrics, my son joined on guitar, and I strummed the opening chords.

Voices rose: “Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me.”

The changes came fast, but I kept up.

Our little two-guitar band transported me back to church with Mom, singing alongside her. She always said music brings people together.

In that moment, I imagined her smiling down, hearing her favorite song from her favorite people.

Full Circle

I finally played for her.

And I think Mom would have been proud of her musician.