Look Dad, I’m playing your guitar!

I’d given up on playing instruments, until an old acquaintance came back in my life

The Don Rust acoustic guitar my dad played and now I’m learning to play.

I was sitting in another room on my phone when I heard a familiar sound.

But I hadn’t heard that sound in a long time. Feelings flooded back.

The sound made me put my phone down and walk into the room where my wife was holding my dad’s old guitar and strumming it.

I’d tried to play that guitar before. I was sitting on the floor in our house’s extra bedroom with my dad and he started showing me how to play. But, for whatever reason, it didn’t get far. I had a great father — I see much of him in the things about me that I like. But patience wasn’t always his strong suit. He decided I was tone deaf and, for 30-plus years, I decided playing instruments wasn’t something I had talent for.

But my memories of that guitar are far from bad. I remember when my dad first got it — the guitar was made custom for my dad by guitar maker Don Rust in Ursa, Illinois, and we went to Rust’s home to pick up the guitar. We walked around back and there was a pool with this gorgeous girl climbing out of it — Rust’s 18-year-old daughter, who to 12-year-old me might as well have been Rachel Hunter getting out of that pool.

Dad got a lot of mileage out of that guitar. It was his main guitar at home and family functions, but he also played it in his various bands — Tin Star, Aces and Eights and Cornerstone among them.

My dad, Rick Conn, taking requests on his Don Rust acoustic before he sanded and refinished it.

The guitar had a red, rosewood finish, but it took on some scratches and nicks through the years. But instead of letting it grow old like Willie Nelson’s guitar, Trigger, Dad sanded it down and refinished it — not recommended by purists. But it didn’t affect the sound.

Since my dad died in 2005, my mom slowly got rid of most of his musical equipment. It took awhile, but she finally sold his Fender Mustang five years ago or so. But that Don Rust acoustic sat in my mom’s closet for close to 17 years when my wife, Liz, suddenly decided she wanted to take up the guitar. She was looking at buying one, but I remembered my dad’s guitar and knew he would have wanted someone playing it.

Liz took the guitar in and had some minor repairs done to make it playable and got some new strings for it. The sound it made that night when I first heard her strum it … it was like my dad was back in that room, and I wanted to hear more.

Liz gave guitar a try and … it wasn’t for her. So the guitar started collecting dust again. I considered giving it to my cousin, Matt, who plays guitar. My dad would’ve liked that — he would’ve wanted someone playing it.

But I couldn’t get that sound out of my head. I would see the guitar out of the corner of my eye in our bedroom and think about picking it up and playing it, but I didn’t know how.

I had experimented with singing along with Matt while he played, but I couldn’t find a comfort level there. Matt was wanting me to join up with his friends and jam on Thursday nights, but I didn’t think my voice was good enough to pull it off without having something else to offer.

My cousin Matt Brewer demonstrating a chord progression.

So I decided to ask Matt to teach me how to play my dad’s guitar. I told him to treat me like Jack Black treats his subject in the Tenacious D song “Cosmic Shame”:

“Now, after a couple years of you focusing on your craft, we will check in on your progress and we will encourage you to continue. Or we will say ‘Stop,’ and then, seriously, you must stop, or penalties will be created and enforced.”

I’m only a couple months in, but Matt hasn’t told me to stop yet. I could tell early when I’d played the wrong note or my guitar was out of tune — I wasn’t tone deaf. Matt did admit to me recently he was skeptical about my coordination after my first lesson, but unlike my first attempt with my dad all those years ago, I didn’t give up. The next time we practiced, he told me was blown away by the progress I’d made.

There are times I get frustrated — it seems like a LOT to learn, and I’m still on the ground level. But I can play a 12-bar blues and get smoother every time I play it.

The great Marc Ford.

But I’m not trying to be Stevie Ray Vaughan, Dickey Betts, Marc Ford … or even my dad or cousin. I’m going to keep working at it, though just being able to make notes and form a song on that instrument brings me pride and joy.

Yes, my dad would’ve wanted that guitar being played by somebody. But I know what he really would’ve wanted was for ME to be playing it. Well, Dad, it took awhile, but I finally did it! I hope I do it justice.