I cannot remember the exact year, but I guess 1971 would be close to if not spot on the mark. It was Christmas, and under the tree was a present for me which, to the best of my knowledge, I had never asked for: A guitar! It was a nylon string model and it was out of tune, but I didn’t realize these things at the time, nor did they matter, because it was the very first day I ever held a guitar in my hands. It wasn’t going to be the last. As of this writing, roughly 45 years down the track, I can hardly remember a day that I haven’t. Of course these sentiments weren’t on my mind at the time. My brain was in overdrive with the anticipation of playing my favorite songs around campfires and wherever else they would be appreciated. But first I had to learn to play this new baby, so I started taking lessons, which I attended religiously, at least in the beginning. This was maybe the only discipline I ever exercised out of my own free will, and even then only until I had mastered the basics. In any case, I got to play and sing in various school concerts, where I could learn on the fly and reap the benefits of admiration simultaneously. The desire to study had just taken another giant leap backwards.