There once was a popular song called dueling banjos. I never played it, though I vaguely remember what it sounds like. Until this week we owned a third guitar, which would have made for a triplet face off, had John and Aurelle and I decided to have at it.  But I figured that three was more than we needed and I offered one for sale. A string of people were interested pronto, so I suppose the price I set was fair enough. 

A young girl arrived with her family to check it out, and I had a flash back to my first guitar. I hadn't dreamed of owning one, much less begged for it. Rather my insightful father had a premonition that music would enrich my life, and gave me one for my thirteenth birthday. A good one. Neither he nor I could have predicted the decades of joy that gift has rendered to me. And others, if I can believe the people who tell me such things. 

I dearly hope that girl practices. Almost none of my guitar students over the years ever did, and I grieve to think how poorly I passed on the craft. Maybe that should have come up when I interviewed for the job at a local arts center back in the nineties. Interview is a strong word. It was a conversation. 

"I was wondering if you are looking for a quilting instructor."

"Not really. No real interest. But we sure want a guitar teacher. People ask all the time," the woman behind the desk said.

"I play guitar," I offered. And just like that I was hired. When I got home the phone rang. 

"Hello. We realized it would be good if we heard you play. Could you come back?" she asked. 

Which I did. I think I was half way through a Beatles song when she waved me off. 

"When can you start?"

Yet as I say, session after session of eager children appeared with shiny new instruments, which lay untouched from Monday to Monday. At the end of eight weeks they quietly tucked them under their beds and signed up for ballet, or ceramics. 

There seems to be one thing that no amount of money or eagerness can replace.