Like so many guitar origin stories, this story starts with a man and a guitar... and a little girl who craved the music, and the embrace of the guitar and her father.
@Matthew-Williams, on his 1st birthday with his Grandfather
My dad taught me the 1st two things I ever learned to play on the guitar, "Smoke on the Water," and "Wild Thing." My dad wasn't a patient teacher though, I'm afraid, so my next batch of lessons came from my sister, and then finally, my mom sent me for lessons at school and with a private teacher called Mrs Higgenbotham.
I'm surprised to be honest, that with a start like that, that I continued to play my guitar at all because Mrs Higgenbotham had no interest in the kind of music I wanted to play (although there is a Spanish piece she taught me that I will never forget, and I play it every time I pick up a guitar). It was also clear that without the right guidance, I would never play the way my father did.... like he did with so many instruments, but especially the guitar... like an extension of his own body. He'd move it and make it sing as if it were part of him.
Eventually, I started messing around on my own, and found great pleasure in writing my own songs. I eventually wrote over 100 of them, but I am only starting to actually finish them and perform them live, thanks to 
I think this need to be just like my Dad has probably hindered me from my own guitar journey. Perfection was everything. A note could not be out of tune and neither could a voice. I struggled a lot with that and I think that's why it took years before I had the confidence to sing loudly enough to be allowed to join the school choir.
I suppose, since my Dad's passing, just a few weeks ago, I realise now that none of that matters... and ultimately, I cannot pick up a guitar without thinking of him. I remember singing along to "Summertime" and watching his face beam with pride. It was really all we had together... The Music. And I suppose that is why it has always been central to my being.
I have known for many years though, that the guitar is not my primary instrument. My voice is. And once I really learned to embrace that, I actually found the guitar far more enjoyable to play. I don't need to be brilliant. I just need to be good enough to compose and to teach the children the basics.
And the Children are the other extremely important element of this story.
One of our most special and magical activities as a family is the Friday night bonfire with music. We now have enough guitars for everyone to join in, but we just need the weather to play along!! It is beyond cold here in Cape Town at the moment, so we'll just have to hang on for a sunny afternoon to get us all outside and making a wonderful racket.
So here it is.... my father's guitar. Broken on the day he had his life-altering stroke 7 years ago, and that has been sitting gathering dust as it was too painful for any of us to deal with. My mother, sister and I all made a pact to not even let Dad know it was broken, as we hoped beyond hope that he would make a full recovery.... which he did not. My father spent the next 7 years, completely paralyzed on his right side, rendering him unable to play. He would occasionally try to tinker on the piano, but it would only bring him tears and sadness. When the music inside my father died, so did he. The last time I went to see him, I was speaking of
On the other side of things, was my own guitar, which I gifted to Aime and Meren when I first met them. They did not own a musical instrument and were absolutely thrilled when I brought music into their home. Meren showed incredible promise as he picked up the guitar and, after very little instruction, worked things out for himself started composing and even discovered harmonics!! Unfortunately, the strings eventually snapped, as they do, and the guitar was dropped a few times, which broke the tuning pegs. I expected all of this and made peace with it because I knew I was going to replace the strings anyway, and I was pretty sure I'd be able to just plonk something on in place of the broken tuning pegs. As life does with three kids though, it ran off and before I knew it, years had passed, with the guitar lying broken next to my father's. Neither one making any music.
Upon my father's death, I finally had the courage to open his guitar bag and pull the separated pieces gently from the bag... and I wept.
I did my research and realised that there was no real way for it to be restored, BUT it did have pieces that could be reused and transplanted... in order for the music to live on through my beautiful children.
Together, we embarked on this journey of remembrance and honour, and together we were able to make a beautiful-sounding guitar out of two broken ones.
When the time came, I placed what was left of the guitar, and a book from my father's favourite author, into the casket with my father, so that he could have it to play, on the other side.... and a book to read when he became weary.
I am so proud of the love and reverence that went into this process and am comforted greatly by the fact that my father's music will live on through the next generation of beautifully talented musicians: my children.
Thank you for this gift, Dad. I know you would be so proud of them now.... and I hope you would be proud of me too.
Uncle Barry Visiting for the Memorial and playing our newly restored family guitar
