When I Finally Said: “It’s Time”

I fell in love with the guitar as a kid growing up in the 80s and 90s. Music was everywhere—Willie Nelson, Black Sabbath, Eric Clapton, Nirvana. If it had guitar, I was hooked.

My dad played guitar. So did my grandpa. Every time my grandparents rolled into town, they’d pull out the guitars, show me a few chords—G, C, D—and let me strum along. I was honestly terrible, but I loved every second of it. Grandpa always let me play “The Gibson,” his smaller-bodied guitar that fit me better than his big Guild jumbo.

But I struggled. Between sports, school, and every other distraction of being a kid, I barely practiced. Watching Clapton, Buddy Holly, Jimmy Page, SRV…I just assumed those guys were born with something I wasn’t. So I quietly gave up, convinced I’d never be “good enough” to really play.

Decades passed.

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Then, out of nowhere, my nephew started playing—and fast. My dad picked up guitar again, too. Around the same time, my mom mentioned something that stopped me in my tracks:

Grandpa had told her he wanted me to have “The Gibson” when he passed.

This was early 2021. Grandpa wasn’t doing well. My main hobby—competitive target shooting—had become insanely expensive during COVID. Everything pointed in one direction:

It was finally time to learn to play guitar.

I did the research, bought an Epiphone ES-335, and immediately called Grandpa to tell him. Even though talking was hard for him at that point, he lit up. He told stories, gave advice—we talked for over an hour.

Two days later, he was gone.

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That conversation became the spark.

When I finally got Grandpa’s guitar, I learned it wasn’t just “The Gibson.”

It was a 1959 Gibson LG-2 he’d bought brand new when my mom was one year old. It now hangs on my studio wall beside a photo of him playing with his Navy buddy from WWII. It’s impossible to look at that guitar without feeling him close.

I’ve been learning for four years now—better than I ever thought I could be. But more importantly, guitar has carried me through some of the hardest seasons of my life.

When my mom passed a year and a half ago, right as my wife and I were moving into a new house, building my studio became therapy. I’ll never forget the first moment I sat down in that room with my gear set up.

I picked up a guitar and played “Wish You Were Here.”

I cried out loud through the whole song. I still get choked up every time I play it.

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I dive headfirst into my hobbies, and guitar was no exception. I now have over 20 guitars. I’m building guitars. I work on guitars for friends. I do all the setups for my nephew’s band. My dad and I have bought guitars at Norm’s Rare Guitars. We even met Joe Bonamassa because my dad bought his Epiphone signature Les Paul.

Guitar has opened an entirely new world for me. And honestly?

I wish I hadn’t waited until I was 43 to start—just because I thought I wouldn’t be “good enough.”

But now I know better.

Even that small spark from Grandpa lit something I didn’t know was waiting in me.

And every time I pick up one of my guitars—especially that old LG-2—I feel the connection between what was, what is, and what’s still possible.

It’s never too late to start making the music you were meant to play.