The girls and I went to the farmer's market. There were vendors with sticky buns, and backyard eggs, local vegetables, (that is if a hundred yards counts as local) and a baker selling fresh bread. On the air was the lilt of a classical guitar playing and I took my sticky bun to sit and listen. All of the folding chairs were empty so I had my pick right in front of the guitarist. His left foot was propped on a stool, and his fingers leaped across the frets like Mexican jumping beans. There was no stand for sheet music, so everything spilled directly out of his hands. No detour.

Playing to unpeopled chairs is not what you might call deeply satisfying, so I tried to express my appreciation with loud clapping after each piece and a few bucks in the tip jar. The musician smiled. He reminded me of the classical guitar teacher I had in college, back in Iowa, the one who gave me private lessons as part of my tuition costs. He was the first man I knew who had long fingernails. On one hand. I had no social life whatsoever, unless you count conversations over teeth brushing with my roommate, so I practiced more than he told me to. I improved. I can still play one or two of the Bach pieces by memory after thirty eight years.

While I listened, I wondered what it would be like to take lessons again. Probably I could afford him, using money from making pillows with little girls. Maybe three of my students' fees would cover an hour of his time.  It would be amazing to play like him. But then I remembered. It takes more than money to learn an instrument. 

It takes practice. Lots of it. 

I have more friends than I did in my junior year of college, a job, and an actual family. I would need more than a shoe horn to get two hours of rehearsing into my routine.

There are people who have tried to buy their way to proficiency. How many folks have forked over the price of a trip to Europe for a baby grand, only to have it sit in the living room? In my depressing and expired career as a guitar teacher myself, there were a parade of kids whose parents forked out good money hoping that eight weekly group lessons would do the trick. But almost none of them picked it up between Thursdays, and if you don't get better, you quit. 

I remember a scheme of listening to tapes in your sleep that were supposed to teach you a foreign language, or was it calculus? Anyway it didn't work, and the tapes people bought ended up at the thrift store. 

There are probably couples who want to buy an upgrade for their relationship. But skills take more than a credit card, or Hollywood would not be riddled with the crash and burn scenario. 

Marital music requires practice.