Washington, Missouri was “the big town”. It had everything Hermann did not. A small mall, fast food, one of the first White Castle burger places, and a guitar store.
Once a month mom, Jack, Jim and I would pile into the green Ford van and drive the twenty miles to Washington. I had braces and had to get them adjusted once a month. I hated it. Two minutes in the dental chair and two weeks of my teeth aching so badly that I would have nightmares about them falling out.
Mom knew this was no fun, so of course we’d head over to the mini-mall and visit the little shops. We really couldn’t buy anything. Money was very tight back then. But we loved to dream. Our favorite place to dream was the guitar store. They didn’t just have guitars; they had flutes, keyboards, pianos, drums, and tons of sheet music. Sheet music that cost only a quarter. I always had a few quarters handy, so I was almost always able to come home with some music to play on my mom’s upright grand piano.
Jim loved the drums and would always grab a pair of drumsticks and tap on the snare while Jack and I were occupied. It was a terrible day when he was able to afford a pair of drumsticks to take home. Anything and anybody became a target for those drumsticks. His rhythm has never stopped.
Jack loved guitars. I didn’t think much of that until one summer afternoon we were in the guitar store and the owner brought out a beautiful new electric guitar. I cannot recall the maker of it (Gibson Les Paul, maybe) but Jack and the owner had this look in their eye, like someone meeting God.
The owner plugged the guitar into an amp, strummed a few chords, then offered the guitar to Jack to try. Jack had plucked the strings on a very poor electric guitar he’d bought at a garage sale. It was badly tuned and sounded awful. Jack sat down on the chair in the store with this beautiful creation…
The brother I knew then, the one that was sometimes a real pain in the ass, changed immediately. He didn’t just strumm a few random chords like the owner did, he played a small composition that flowed from his fingers right on the spot. I was held in a kind of thrall; amazed that this music was coming from my brother. I never thought to feel such magic like that again.
This afternoon, I went to the mailbox and there was a package, a small one, from my brother Jack. I quickly opened it and found inside it, a silver CD with his name, PRIBEK, printed on one side. Slipping it into the cd drive of my computer, my little speakers were suddenly filled with the sound of a guitar, backup voices, drums, bass, and a voice… Jack’s voice.
This was my brother’s first music album. I haven’t heard Jack play a guitar, much less sing, in many years. It was beautiful. It held that same magic that I witnessed so very long ago in the guitar store. I couldn’t help it; it made me teary-eyed.
It still does. I listen to his music, and I hear the past.
