PART I

You know that old trees just grow stronger
And old rivers grow wilder every day
Old people just grow lonesome
Waiting for someone to say, “Hello in there, hello”

John Prine, ‘Hello in There’

There are fourteen guitars in the room where I am writing this. Most of them are mounted on wooden rectangles, about two-and-a-half feet by five, upholstered with muted tweed shades of green, grey, and blue. They are hung, hopscotch-style, in an ascending stair-step pattern that wraps around three walls, and terminates at the cathedral-style ceiling, twelve feet off the ground.

Interspersed between the guitars are professionally framed and matted posters –with matching ticket stubs– from a dozen shows from around the Pacific Northwest: Bob Dylan and John Mellencamp at the Yakima Fairgrounds; Leonard Cohen at the Key Arena; Kasey Chambers at the Aladdin; John Prine in Missoula, and half a dozen others.

The instruments and framed posters –all beautifully and meticulously crafted– represent the treasured memories of life-long music fans, but they aren’t mine.

With one exception, I never attended any of the shows on the posters. And, although I wish I did, I do not play or own any of the guitars nestled on their swinging hooks. There is a passion for music that radiates from the memorabilia and paraphernalia so lovingly attached to these walls, but it isn’t mine. It is that of the long-time friends who have graciously taken me into their home.

This is their music room, and I’ve come here to die.

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