This story begins when we were visiting my Mom in Ohio for Thanksgiving. I was helping her clean out an old storage chest and we found my Father’s old guitar strap. He bought this in the mid-1960’s, it's literally older than I am.
Mom asked me if I wanted it and, almost instantaneously, so many memories came flooding back of sitting on the floor watching my Dad play his electric and acoustic guitars. He taught me to play at a very young age and I use the word play loosely. It's been decades since I've picked one up though.
Needless to say, I ended up taking the strap home. Well, one thing led to another and during Cyber Monday an ad for a Fender DC-60 acoustic came across my newsfeed (damn you Google). This is the result. I have a lot of work ahead of me and may the Good Lord help all those who are within earshot.
What a beautiful instrument this is in person. My Mom told me my Dad always wanted a Fender so I'll play this in honor of him. It's all tuned and ready to play.
Last night my wife, son, and I visited the Christmas market at Landmark Center in St. Paul.
The gorgeous, fully restored, nineteenth-century courthouse was filled with Christmas cheer and local craft vendors.
To think this building was just weeks away from demolition in the 1970’s before citizens stepped in to save it at the very last minute from the wrecking ball.
It made for a great evening and our Christmas shopping is nearly done.
I’ve had more than my fill of turkey for the year. We finally finished all of the Thanksgiving leftovers and have frozen what we can’t eat. Thankfully we can move on with our lives now. : )
All for now. Trust your instincts, invest in you, live boldly, and take chances.
~Eric Vance Walton~
(All photos are original.)
Poetry should move us, it should change us, it should glitch our brains, shift our moods to another frequency. Poetry should evoke feelings of melancholy, whimsy, it should remind us what it feels like to be in love, or cause us to think about something in a completely different way. I view poetry, and all art really, as a temporary and fragile bridge between our world and a more pure and refined one. This is a world we could bring into creation if enough of us believed in it. This book is ephemera, destined to end up forgotten, lingering on some dusty shelf or tucked away in a dark attic. Yet the words, they will live on in memory. I hope these words become a part of you, bubble up into your memory when you least expect them to and make you feel a little more alive.
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