A Different Tune

 

It was a nice-looking guitar leaning against the wooden rocker on the front porch.  No one had seen the old man in several days, yet each walker and jogger to pass, glanced over to look.  His singing was familiar to everyone who passed and he was well liked.

Most people lived in the new houses that had been built around his old farmhouse.  They had never bothered to walk up and talk to him.  I doubt they even knew his name, but now his absence was being felt. 

The questions grew throughout the new housing development, was he sick, in the hospital? Had he passed away? “Someone should go and check on him.” Yet no one did.

The wind eventually blew the guitar over and the days of rain pounded against it.  The sight of the abandoned porch began to bother people.  They no longer seemed concerned about the old man, now what they wanted was to have the place torn down, maybe build a park for their kids.  “It’s an eyesore.” they said.  “It doesn’t fit in with this neighborhood.”  “It’s bringing our house values down, someone should do something.”  

Some years later, little Bobbie Henson was playing on the swings in what was now called Farmer's Park, just next to Lakeview Estates.  There was never any lake and the view was nothing to write home about.  The houses had been built years ago and the farmhouse torn down to make room for the park.  The general complexion of the neighborhood had changed a few times, but there were still a couple of families who remembered the old farmhouse and the guy who used to sit on his porch and play his guitar.

Excited at his discovery, Bobbie ran into his kitchen to show his mom what he had found by the swings.  "What is it?  Look, what is it?  Bobbies mother took the small piece of plastic from her son and ran it under the faucet.  As she dried it off she smiled.  "It's a guitar pic, Bob.  A very old guitar pick.  Maybe after dinner I'll tell you the story about it."