That little Stella guitar quietly witnessed one of the most important chapters of my childhood—my parents trying to hold a marriage together, my brother and me growing up together, my first awkward crush, and my first real attempt at learning something that mattered to me.
That's the essence of American Material Memory. Ordinary objects quietly remember the lives they once witnessed.
From the Artist
I remember staying at my Aunt Nancy's apartment while my parents had a weekend to themselves. She'd sit and sing Puff the Magic Dragon on her Stella guitar, and somehow the whole room felt calmer.
Before I went home, she handed me the guitar. "Keep it," she said.
I fell in love with playing.
Then Nancy Garavaglia and her family (our cousins) came to visit. She was twelve. I was eleven. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the Stella made me think I looked thirteen.
Later that summer, after hearing me practice one chord too many times, my brother rolled over, grabbed a hardbound history book, and launched it across the room. It hit the Stella square in the side, shattering the body. Yeah, that was my brother.
I eventually saved enough lawn-mowing money to buy a brand-new nylon-string guitar from W.T. Grant.
It looked better.
Maybe it even played better.
But it was never the guitar Aunt Nancy gave me.
That little Stella guitar quietly witnessed one of the most important chapters of my childhood—my parents trying to hold a marriage together, my brother and me growing up together, my first awkward crush, and my first real attempt at learning something that mattered to me.
That's the essence of American Material Memory. Ordinary objects quietly remember the lives they once witnessed.
From the Artist
I remember staying at my Aunt Nancy's apartment while my parents had a weekend to themselves. She'd sit and sing Puff the Magic Dragon on her Stella guitar, and somehow the whole room felt calmer.
Before I went home, she handed me the guitar. "Keep it," she said.
I fell in love with playing.
Then Nancy Garavaglia and her family (our cousins) came to visit. She was twelve. I was eleven. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the Stella made me think I looked thirteen.
Later that summer, after hearing me practice one chord too many times, my brother rolled over, grabbed a hardbound history book, and launched it across the room. It hit the Stella square in the side, shattering the body. Yeah, that was my brother.
I eventually saved enough lawn-mowing money to buy a brand-new nylon-string guitar from W.T. Grant.
It looked better.
Maybe it even played better.
But it was never the guitar Aunt Nancy gave me.
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