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

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...

Sweden Called . . . They Said No.

Have you ever wondered about  the Nobel Prize? Let's look at Where Genius Meets “Wait—Where’s My Medal?” Every October, the Nobel Prizes are announced, and humanity pauses to celebrate the "greatest benefit to mankind." And every year, like clockwork, a specific type of person appears online to complain—at length—that they were robbed. (Well, maybe this year more than most.) The Origin: A Legacy of Guilt The prize exists because Alfred Nobel, a Swedish inventor, had a crisis of conscience. Nobel held 355 patents, but he was most famous for inventing dynamite. When a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the " Merchant of Death, " he decided to buy a better legacy. In his 1895 will, he left the bulk of his massive fortune to establish five prizes (Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, and Peace). Because he was Swedish, he entrusted the selection to Swedish institutions, such as the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The only outlier...