Skip to main content

Lessons at Sixty

Guitar Center, Sunset Blvd., Hollywood
“Your taking guitar lessons at 60?”

Absolutely! It’s my way of always learning something new and having some fun in the process.

“Haven’t you ever heard the cliche, You can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”

“Of course, but let me be completely clear,” Education is not a bag of tricks and humans are not dogs. Some resemble their  ole’ dog, anyway . . . 

For years I heard that platitude from students who would use it as excuse for not being able to successfully learn a new skill to their satisfaction or expectation. Agreed, learning a new skill is challenging. Let’s be honest, it’s downright hard. We tend to get entrenched in our comfortable ruts.

Think back a minute. Remember what it was like to learn to ride a bicycle? It was exhilarating! Well, maybe not at first. Did you have training wheels? I’m sorry. What happened when your Dad removed those training wheels. I’ll bet you fell - over and over again. But with a determination that refused to quit, you learned to ride. It was simply a matter of practice, or as some would say learning the tricks.

You see, to remain young and active, life is about learning and teaching new skills. In today’s educational lingo it’s called “skill development”.

I’m enjoying learning to play the guitar. Admittedly it’s a formidable way to practice skill development. It's a craft I’ve always dreamed of doing but were afraid to try. Everything I’d read kept encouraging me; dare to dream to re-invent yourself go back to what you loved as a child. It’s never too late to learn something new. So, I did. Every morning I began practicing guitar. At first basic chords, G, D, C, and E, man was that tough. And rather boring. I struggled to play some Buddy Holly tunes. Simple enough, three cords and a few straightforward licks. Not so. It took me eight months to develop the strength, flexibility, and coordination to play a G chord with consistent results.

Try it sometime.

Then the breakthrough came. I overcame my stubborn nature and enrolled in guitar lessons. Yes at 58 years old I decided it was time to stop dreaming and start playing.

Face the facts, there comes a time when the teacher becomes the student. One who studies: an attentive and systematic observer. A person formally engaged in learning a new skill. The key word here is engaged. This means dedication to daily practice. Directed instruction from an observer who can correct for inconsistencies in technique. And a fresh perspective on what works. That’s what my guitar tutor provides.

I’ll admit he exceeded my expectations from the first lesson. He did not say, “Here is the fretboard, here are the notes memorize them, then we will get started.” Not at all.

My first lesson was a question and observation session. “What chords do you know. Play them for me.” Then an amazing thing happened. He asked, “What do you want to play?”

“Blues guitar, maybe some Jazz,” I responded.

“Ok, let’s get started.” He took out a blank sheet with eight sets of six lines. This represented the guitars fret board and in handwritten symbols gave me the tablature notation to play Basic Blues in “A”.

He played it to demonstrate the rhythm and fingering. Then he asked me to give it a try. I could not believe my ears. Was I really playing a blues riff? It was magical.

“Good, practice this. Next week we will begin to build on this foundation,” he said.

Granted it’s still early in my guitar learning curve. I can almost play something that resembles music. Thank goodness my coach doesn’t treat me like a dog and his systematic approach to guitar is not a bag of tricks. Give me a few more months before I debut on stage with my Fender Telecaster.

No tricks - just consistent, persistent practice.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...