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I was so taken by her lustrous green eyes, her dry lips, the frame of her golden brown, middle-parted, Judy-Collins hair.She lived in Kansas City, Missouri, and I, half-a-state away, in Columbia.And it has struck me since that the song going into the world is the point, as though song, an entity all its own, chooses the impassioned young to bear its message.A singer-songwriter-guitarist wields power because the song—at folk festivals and coffeehouses, antiwar rallies and Boy Scout camp—has big audiences, invites the call-and-response of a culture much larger than the tempest-toss of any soloist. But then, the person singing was important only in so far that the song got sung.By noon, I was cooked and I’d go for a swim in Lake Mendota. Eventually my fingers dropped the pen and I picked up the guitar. That ax was my pal, a yellow-blond Yamaha FG-140.Back at my desk, my guitar would be on my lap, my writing journal open before me. Either I noted down the rough cut of a song, chords and lyrics, or I sketched in prose my latest anxiety, trying to say exactly what it was I was after by re-enrolling, this time at the University of Wisconsin. I’d bought it in Nashville nine months earlier on my way to Louisiana with a buddy; we worked in the Gulf of Mexico on boats supplying equipment to oil rigs.
The player’s hands on a guitar curl back toward him.At fifteen, I’d taught myself guitar, shelved it during my first stint in college, and was now re-animated.I was pushing myself beyond a strummer, an accompanist.The fingerpicking minstrels were part of the folk music boom in the 1960s.I loved the sauciness of a singing voice and a talking guitar—Mississippi John Hurt and "Spikedriver Blues," Dave Van Ronk and the "St.