An Old Story
Get ready, folks; I’m about to make another one of those “let’s pretend I’m a genius” generalizations.
Context Is Everything
No situation, idea, or statement can be understood in isolation. The larger the context, the clearer and less ambiguous the meaning.
Chronology is a great tool for giving meaning to events. Timelines are an effective and easy way to provide some context.
I hate them.
Back When The Credit River Was Cash Only
At family gatherings, when I talk about the 60s or 70s, I get the feeling that my nieces and nephews are wondering if I ever had a gig with Mozart.
In my youth, which was when the Dead Sea was still sick and giant lizards roamed the earth, there was a pivotal incident that requires perspective.
I Have No Choice
I reluctantly include age and dates because this story would be meaningless if I hadn’t been a young lad at a certain place in history when it occurred.
An Axe To Grind
My first guitar cost five dollars. It had no finish; the frets were anything but polished, but it worked. It was a factory reject that a friend found in a dumpster as I recall. He brought it to my house in mid-October 1964, a month before my eleventh birthday. My father said it looked like shit, but after satisfying himself that it could be tuned, he shelled out the five-dollar bill, and I had an early birthday present.
Two months later, my fingers bleeding because the action was so high, I asked for something better for Christmas. I got a shiny new no-name Spanish Guitar which still had terrible action but by now I had thick callouses and I could practice without losing too much blood.
Two years later, a friend in my eighth grade class, Jimmy McDonald, got an electric guitar—a cherry red Gibson Melody Maker. He invited me over to see and play it.
It was heaven. I couldn’t get over how easy it was to play.
That was 1967. I began to crave an electric guitar. Later that following summer, my cousin Marlene generously loaned me her guitar and amplifier. It took 30 years to return it, but that’s another story.
It served me well for a year and then the neck started to bow. At the time, I figured it was unrepairable.
Within days, just by coincidence, Jimmy McDonald called and asked if I was interested in buying that same Gibson Melody Maker I had lusted for over a year previously.
I asked if I could use it for a while. He said okay, and within a month I was in my first real band. That was May of 1968.
I would give him two or three dollars whenever I could. Finally, after I had paid him fifty dollars, he said he wanted a lump sum of $100, or he would take the guitar back. I was 14 years old. One hundred dollars was a fortune in those days.
No, Please, Not That
I went to my father, who said, “Get a bank loan. I’ll co-sign if you go alone first and apply for it.”
In my neighbourhood, there was a little plaza with a variety store, a barber shop, a hairdresser, a dry cleaner, and a branch of the Toronto Dominion Bank.
I had been in the bank just a few times. Once, when I was nine, I reported that I had a counterfeit nickel. They gave me a new one.
The bank manager there was an older man, overweight, with thinning hair and round rimless spectacles.
I remember seeing him through the open door of his office. He looked imposing, like a school principal.
So here I was on a hot, humid, mid-August day in 1968, standing on the curb next to the plaza, trying to work up the nerve to proceed. My best friend, Marty, was encouraging me.
“Don’t be a suck,” he said. That was meant to build my confidence….
“Here goes nothin’,” I said after a few failed starts, and I marched into the bank and lined up to talk to a teller.
It was a long wait, and I just about bailed twice. When the teller finally motioned for me to approach, I was terrified. I blurted out, “I’d like to see the manager.”
Big Money
A gate was opened, and I was led into an office that smelled like tobacco, old leather, and money.
Wearing a double-breasted, grey, three-piece suit and smoking a cigar, the manager was even more intimidating than I remembered.
Without getting up, he peered over the top of his rimless glasses and asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I want a loan for one hundred dollars.”
“What the ……how old are you?”
“ I’m fourteen, almost fifteen years old, Sir”
“You can’t get a loan; you’re too young.”
“What if my father co-signs?”
“Well, where is he?”
“At home. He said he’d agree to it if I came and asked on my own. I’ll be back in half an hour.”
And I returned, bringing my father with me.
They’re Writing Folk Songs About Me
I made twelve monthly payments of nine dollars and ten cents each. Although it was a real scramble at times, I never missed or was late with a payment. I entered into the folklore of our neighbourhood (I was amazed at how quickly the story spread) and established an excellent credit rating that served me well later when I needed to buy some expensive keyboards.
Because of the good credit rating that I established early, I didn’t even require a co-signer at 19 when I needed eight hundred dollars to buy some music equipment.
I recommend to all parents that if any of their children show a little bit of responsibility, co-signing a small loan for her or him will be beneficial later…..that is, if they make all their payments on time.