I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that some of my earliest memories of my dad put a guitar in his hands… Spanish-sounding chord runs, Puff the Magic Dragon, old hymns, Simon and Garfunkel.
I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that I spent every summer at camp, where beat-up Takamines and Yamahas and Martins rested awkwardly in the arms of skinny kids playing “More Than Words” and U2 songs by ear.
I don’t know if it has anything to do with my friend Rene, who used to play James Taylor songs for me in stairwells in college, when I was very sad or very happy.
I don’t know if it has anything to do with the fact that the first person I ever fell in love with… really, really fell… was a better musician than he was anything else.
It just is. I love guitar-playing guys.
Not that every boy with a pack of strings in his back pocket is worth listening to.
Some bring tunelessness or affectation or imitation or arrogance or obviousness. And no one wants that, not even a die-hard like me.
But.
I’ve always just had this sense that I’ll get my own someday.
So, in celebration:
One of my favourite songs, ever. And yes, my dad can play it.
A lullaby I sing to babies all the time.
Yeah.