It was an incongruous setting. The harsh artificial lights turned bright ceremonial garments neon and cast a strangely-angled glow on the pink walls of a deep canyon of stone, steel and glass. Snowflakes fell and spectators were swaddled in their warmest for the ten degree Fahrenheit weather. In the background, men on folding chairs surrounded a large central drum and sang loudly to the beat, telling a story, I can only surmise, that was unintelligible to all but a few. The dancers swirled and shook feathers and streamers. The eagle feathers were not, for once, in support of Philadelphia.
The End of a Dream
I saw this guitar being built. I held the raw wood in my hands, and pinged the ancient European white spruce panel that was made into it’s sound board, marveling at the richness of the ringing. I watched as the luthier shaved a little here, a little there from the neck to fit it perfectly to my old friend David’s hands. I watched him learn to play it to its potential, as formidable a guitarist as he already was. And now, nearly forty years later, I witness the end of that dream.