I can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a guitar in my house, probably because I grew up in a very musical family.

My grandfather, Ted, was a gifted musician who played everything from the guitar and mandolin to the organ and jaw harp. We couldn’t have a family get-together without him eventually firing up the organ or running into his bedroom to get his mandolin to entertain us with a tune. And it seemed like he always carried that metal harp in his shirt pocket in case he encountered an instrument emergency.

My father, Clarence, inherited his father’s gift for song and is also a musician. He played rhythm guitar for the band in the travelling version of the Grand Ole Opry radio show when he was young. The band backed up big country stars like Minnie Pearl and Jim Reeves.

I grew up listening to my dad singing country and western songs while he picked out the tunes on his guitar. Tunes by artists like Chet Atkins, Johnny Horton, Merle Haggard, Ferlin Husky, George Jones, Marty Robbins, Johnny Cash and the great Hank Williams. Dad also used to sing special songs to us kids. My Gal was a family favorite because it had funny lyrics like these:

A rich girl she wears fancy perfume.
A poor girl wears the same.
My girl she wears no perfume at all,
But you can smell her just the same.

Dad still writes and plays songs on his custom-made Framus guitar, and had a few of them professionally recorded just a few years ago. I learned my first few simple chords—C, D, G, A and the L chord, which is little-used because it sounds like L—from him when I was so little I can’t remember how little I was. I took up the guitar more seriously when I was in my early teens, formally studying classical and jazz guitar while I informally jammed on heavy-metal tunes by Led Zeppelin, Nazareth and Black Sabbath.

With a lot of practice, I could play almost any song reasonably well. But I didn’t inherit my father’s ear, natural sense of rhythm, or willingness to boldly entertain a crowd. I often froze in public. No matter how much I practiced beforehand, my mind tended to go blank on stage.

I desperately wanted people to know I was talented, of course. All teenagers want to feel special, and most adults, too. One night I remember my parents had a party at the house. I set up an amplifier outside my bedroom, locked the door, and played my best versions of the flamenco song Malagueña, a jazz interpretation of the Beatles’ Michelle, and a few other tunes. I heard later that everybody was very impressed by the gifted yet reclusive musician who lived alone in the basement with only his instruments and sheet music for friends.

I rarely play the guitar these days, but still own a handful of them because I love everything about them, from the way they look and sound to how they’re constructed. They make me salivate. The longest newspaper story I ever wrote—four full pages in a tabloid—was about guitars. I’d decorate my living room walls with them if my wife, Kerry, would let me. I fantasize about owning a vintage mid-50s Gibson f-hole electric archtop. They look stunning, are easy to play, and have a mellow tenor that can’t be replicated by modern guitars.

I still have my first guitar, a handmade Alvarez classical Spanish guitar that I bought from a small shop in downtown Colorado Springs when I was about 14. It’s not the best classical guitar in the world, but it plays well and it’s a beautiful instrument. I don’t think I could bear parting with it even if I never play it again.

I meant to photograph it for today’s theme, but discovered that it’s missing three strings due to neglect. So I photographed a newer Gibson Epiphone steel six-string guitar that was lying around instead. I love the sunburst coloring, which appears to be shaped like a guitar pick in this photograph, and looks and sounds very similar to my father’s Framus.

If only I had his talent, too.