Besides learning the intricacies of living with my father and his wife and her son, I learned to play the guitar. Alone in my bedroom, I was introduced to the joy and frustration of disciplining my fingers to approximate guitar playing. I checked a book out of the library that diagramed chords and fingerings. I learned to play all the songs of “Bread” and ” Paul Simon”. My father´s second wife, Rae, had a brother. He lived close to us and he taught me how to solo through some basic jazz chords. I was exhilarated and felt completely affirmed as we surfed the mild currents of the jazz world. Micky, my almost uncle, playing rhythm. I , with my head tilted back pretending to be anywhere else, was filling those all too infrequent evenings with music. I loved my guitar. If I registered love at all to anyone those days I guess I loved Mickey.
Mickey was a salesman at a large Ford dealership. My father worked there, as well. My father was a selling artist. I loved to watch my father sell cars. I loved to watch my father talk to people. My father was my very first exposure to an artist. He could absolutely convince you that he believed everything he said. He made everyone with whom he spoke feel as if they were the most important people on the planet. It was clear to me, through stringent observation and first person data retrieval, that at any moment, regarding any topic, my father could actually, fully and unequivocally believe something for the immediate benefit of those with whom he was speaking. Some might have seen this as a liability or character flaw. I am quite sure they did. I was learning at the feet of a master.
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