While My Guitar Gently Weeps
My husband and I performing “Californication” on our porch. Doug’s branches soar above us.
I look at the world
And I notice, it's turning
While my guitar gently weepsWith every mistake
We must surely be learning
Still my guitar gently weeps~ While My Guitar Gently Weeps, by the Beatles
In 2015, I had the urge to learn to play an instrument and since I’m a dancer, I thought the bass guitar was the place to start. I have excellent rhythm and can follow the drum line with no problem, so why not learn to hold down the beat? Thus I asked my husband for a bass guitar for my 43rd birthday and of course, he bought not any old bass guitar, but a gorgeous Fender Custom Shop Time Machine 1964 bass relic. Essentially, a remake of a jazz bass from the sixties. It was perfect. I loved the way the neck felt in my hands. I was fortunate enough to find an amazing teacher named Terry who patiently taught me off and on for five years.
Playing the bass was always a hobby for me, like knitting, but one that allowed me to make music with others. First with my husband, and then later with people in the community. One of our friends, Charlie, who is an experienced, professional musician, has always been one to encourage novice musicians to hang out with him around the fire and learn things. Once I got to play “American Girl” on stage with the band that performed at our summer parties each year. I never aspired to anything other than to learn new songs and with time, I acquired quite a collection. The bass was soothing to me. It gave me a reason to sing. My favorite moments were practicing on the porch outside of my bedroom, under the watchful eye of Doug.
I’ve written about Doug, formally called D’ougal, our tree-friend who lived beside us for thirteen years. Wedged between our garage and our home, Doug was a two-hundred-fifty-foot-tall Douglas Fir that towered above our hot tub. It is not a stretch to say I loved him. Doug died on 8/19/2020 in the CZU Fires and as I documented in my essay A Eulogy for a Tree, on the last full night I would spend in my home, with the power out and no one else around, I sat on my porch, under his branches, and played my bass guitar for hours, serenading him with every song I knew over and over, like a Spotify playlist on repeat. I’m still not sure why I did this. I felt as if he’d asked and I had no choice. Even though it was smokier than a jazz club in the 1920’s, I didn’t think it would be our last night together. I had no idea that 24 hours later, my mountain would burn, as well as my house, goats, cat, Doug, and all of our belongings, including my bass guitar.
I haven’t played the bass since that night and it is now November 29, 2023, and my insurance claim is about to close. I must replace what I’ve lost soon, else the bill is on me if I do it later. When you lose your stuff in a disaster, you have to report it in what is called an inventory. You document what you lost and what it would cost to replace it, as well as the age and condition of the item. In the case of my Fender bass, given the year of the replica, insurance considered it old and had depreciated the item by thousands of dollars. They give you the full amount when you replace it and as such it made monetary sense that I buy a new bass. To be honest, I wasn’t sure I would ever play the bass again. Whenever I thought about it, my heart ached. Still, this is a big-ticket item—my husband paid a lot for that bass, it doesn’t make sense to leave this money on the table.
A few weeks ago, we went back to the local music store and told them what we needed. My stomach was a flutter. I’ve had no problem replacing furniture, clothes, tools, etc. The only other time I felt like this was the first time I entered a yarn store after the fire. I trembled inside, nerves dancing—not a good feeling like going out on stage to perform, more like waiting outside of the principal’s office. I stood in front of the wall of bass guitars at the store and wanted to run away. None of them were my guitar. They didn’t feel right in my hands. I became petulant--if I couldn’t have my guitar, I didn’t want one.
The young man helping us happens to be a bass player himself in a local band we absolutely love. He offered to see if he could uncover the record of my husband’s purchase back in 2015 and determine if they might be able to find me another like it. A few minutes later, he had the make, model, etc. and while the store didn’t have any in stock, there was one online that might interest me.
I left feeling relieved, like maybe I wouldn’t be able to find the right guitar and then wouldn’t have to buy one. Why did that make me happy? None of my feelings made any sense. I sent the guitar listing along with the picture above to prove ownership to my insurer, hoping deep down they might reject it, but legally they must replace what I lost so a few days later, they approved the purchase. The guitar would be mine if I wanted it. With a heavy heart, I placed my order, and it arrived late last week.
Interestingly, while I magaged to order the guitar and amplifier from the company, I failed to purchase a cord to attach the two. I’m sure this was that part of me acting out. The one who doesn’t want to know why this particular purchase hurts her so much. So yesterday, we went to town and bought that cord, and I no longer had a choice—I had to touch the guitar and play it.
The first thing I thought was, this is NOT my guitar. It has more scratches and wear and tear than mine did. It was obviously played a lot, probably by some real bassist, not a silly girl like me. The neck is worn where his hand ran up and down with every song he played. Yes, sexist of me to assume the previous owner was a man, but when I held it, a vision of a tall guy in a bar playing his heart out filled my mind. As I considered my imaginary bassist, my heart slowed a bit. Rather than be annoyed by the wear and tear, I felt drawn to it. This isn’t my bass, but the bass wanted to be played and I had no choice but to obey.
So I plugged it in and started with the first song I ever played, “Fever,” the Elvis version. The first note, B in this case, made me cry. Where do I go from there? I couldn’t recall in my head, but my fingers remembered. D. Soon I was playing the whole riff. Then I was singing it, my voice quivering because I was crying. I’m still crying as I type this. It was good to hear the notes. Good to feel the strings under my fingertips. Why have I waited so long?
After a moment, I remembered another song, “Witches,” by the Cowboy Junkies. Again, I let my fingers do the remembering and as they did, I recalled singing for friends on my porch, as shown in the image above, taken by a friend at one of our parties: Me sitting in the same place I sat that last night on my porch before it burned. As I plucked the last chord, I let the G reverberate in the room—knowing now why I was so afraid to touch this instrument.
My guitar reminds me of that last night at home, when again I was crying without understanding why. Yet it’s more than that. The guitar also reminds me of my failure to evacuate properly that night. I’d left my bass behind, as well as my husband’s guitar. Who does that? Just like the knitting supplies reminded me of how I’d left my goats. All the things I did wrong still hurt. I may have reconciled the fact that my home is gone, but not the fact that I left so much behind.
I can knit now without tears, and I can go into a knitting store and see a spinning wheel without shaking. I may not have forgiven myself yet, but I’ve accepted my goats’ deaths. There are new goats that live down the street from me and every time I jog by I stop and call out, “Hello babies!” the way I used to with my own Barttimus and Abigail. I tear up, but I no longer feel like I belong in the principal’s office.
As I sat in the hot tub last night, I gazed at the tree line under the night sky, still so lovely even with all the destruction. Yet, someone is missing. Doug should be there. I understand now that I still long for him, and some part of me is embarrassed by this fact. Who loves a tree like that? Am I crazy? As I write this, I’m looking out my office at his stump, all that remains of him in the earth, and again I’m crying. I know my husband might not understand why playing the bass terrifies me, but at least he understands this love I have for Doug, for my husband has felt it as well. He spent several days wrestling with the Yerba Santa to uncover Doug’s trunk down in the Mourning Meadow, a place where Doug’s body now rests, as well as the graves of our goats and our dog who died a year after the fire. My husband’s fealty to this tree and the land gives me comfort, even if the whole thing might be crazy or silly to anyone else.
I miss Doug, but I also miss playing music with others. I want to sing with my friends again. I want to sing for the trees as well. I guess I’ll let my fingers be the guide and see where they lead me. How wonderful that the body remembers what the mind has lost. This gives me great peace, even if I’m still sad.