The Guitar I Wasn’t Allowed to Touch

Have you ever longed for someone’s approval—even years after they were gone? 

Have you ever held onto guilt so long, it became part of your story? 

What if picking up a guitar could help you finally let it go?

In 1980, I was a depressed 8th grader trying to find my way. I started writing lyrics to cope.

Around that time, my dad—who didn’t play guitar and wasn’t into rock music—bought a stunning Gibson Les Paul Heritage Standard 80. It looked just like the one played by my hero, Gary Richrath from REO Speedwagon.

I never understood why he bought it. He was into Elvis and The Platters, not arena rock.

Even though I couldn’t play, I’d take it out and stand in front of the mirror, strumming along to REO songs, wearing a leather jacket and pretending I was onstage. That’s when I made the mistake.

The jacket scuffed the back of the guitar. I lied about it, but it was obvious what happened. My dad wasn’t the kind to forgive easily, and I wasn’t allowed to touch it again.

That one moment became a metaphor for our relationship—me always wanting his approval, him always seeing the reckless teenager I once was.

The guitar became off-limits. And so did part of our connection.

Still, music was a huge part of my life. I made mixtapes, DJed parties, built an alphabetized wall of cassettes and CDs. But I never learned to play.

I tried lessons in the ’90s, but they didn’t stick. I have significant hearing loss, and without hearing aids, I couldn’t distinguish notes. I felt like I just didn’t have the gift. So I gave up.

When my dad passed away in 2022, I ended up with that same Les Paul. Still beautiful. Still scarred from my lie. Still symbolic of everything we never resolved.

He’d asked me to sell it for my mom. So I took it to Guitar Center. They cleaned it up, restrung it, and made a solid offer. I took it home, listed it online. Got even better offers. But I couldn’t do it.

Something inside me said: Don’t sell it. Learn to play it.

A few musician friends encouraged me to keep it. Unless my mom truly needed the money, they said, hold onto it.

Eventually, my mom gave me her blessing to keep the guitar. But I still didn’t feel worthy.

Instead, I pulled out an old acoustic and started from scratch. This time, I wore my hearing aids and—suddenly—things clicked. I discovered how much my hearing loss had held me back.

With proper sound clarity, everything changed. I joined Tony’s Acoustic Challenge and began practicing daily. Slowly, painfully, steadily—I got better.

My wife, who minored in music and has an incredible ear, started noticing my progress. “You’re playing real music,” she said. She helped correct my mistakes from across the house.

Eventually, I switched to an Epiphone Les Paul to prep for the big moment. I still hadn’t touched my dad’s guitar. But I was working toward it.

Then came the Guitar Story challenge.

When I saw the deadline—May 30th—I decided it was time. I made it my mission: I would play that guitar for the first time by then. I would be ready.

And I was.

On May 30th, I picked up my father’s guitar—the very same one I had scuffed as a teenager. My hands trembled a little. I plugged in. I strummed a few chords.

And then I played my first song: “My Way,” Elvis’s version. The same one my dad used to sing at Christmas parties.

That was the moment everything changed.

For the first time, I felt like maybe—just maybe—I had made him proud.

And maybe, just maybe, some of the weight between us lifted too.

Next, I plan to write music for a song I wrote shortly after he passed.

I’ve never felt more ready. My wife and I will be playing a few Elvis songs for my mom on Father’s Day. Maybe even a Platters tune too.

Because now, after all this time, I can finally play whatever I want.

And I’m playing on my father’s guitar.