Guitars

Dorado by Gretsch

I got the Dorado at a pawn shop in Key West for $25 in 1974. I loved it but probably played Conrad 12-string mostly. I really took it up once back in California after the Army and the 12-string stayed nestled in its case.

Still Life with Guitars

Once I retired I started writing as much of my life as I could remember – try it some time; it's not as easy as one might think. A side project was what to do with all the guitars I've both accumulated and given away: "Still Life with Guitars." The idea is not necessarily to showcase the guitars but have them in the background as part of the adventure. The Dorado's part would be Key West and subsequent year or so in SoCal after the Army ('74 - '77). The Strat kicks in mainly late '70s in Oroville, Washington, and a pathetic story from late '80s Bellingham, Washington. Not too many pics of the Dorado and even less recordings but I'm pouring through about a dozen reel-to-reel tapes from the time period. Found a couple – see bleow..

Pretty sure I got the Dorado after I left the Army but stayed in Key West. At first I lived upstairs in an old conch house with Donald - a friend still in the Army but soon to discharge – on Elizabeth Street, Solares Hill [highest point Key West: 12']. Downstairs were a couple sisters from Knoxville, Tennessee, and a scotty dog we called Doober. Next door upstairs were a gay couple we were friends with. They were. We weren't. We just liked them. I think one's name was Jim. His partner was a riot. Sort of the Nathan Lane character in "The Bird Cage." Donald especially liked them because they could talk about more than just the weather. Oh, yeah. Across the street lived this guitar player my age whose teacher's teacher was Andres Segovia! (or so he said - Key West - a lot is said!) But he could play classical guitar – he had gig for a few week downtown. Came over one morning and played a few songs for me.

Oroville, WA, 1980

Where's the Dorado? Probably in my bedroom. I told you, mostly just background.

One of the things Donald and I did, and did very well, was mushrooms. We'd head up to the mainland a bit west of Miami at night, sleep in the car outside some cow fields and get up at sunrise – got accosted once by a cop who woke us to tell us it was really wasn't safe as folks have disappeared in the area. We thanked him and he went on his way. We'd get into the fields and start looking. Actually, you don't find them, they find you. It's really odd. Stop trying and there they are. We'd get a bagful and head to Key Biscayne park and spend the day blissfully 'shrooming.

We may have been indulging a bit too often as at one point our better judgment was clouding over. We decided to head to the Everglades with a pot, a knife, and the Dorado [there it is] to live off the fat of the land. No food or drink, though. Supposed to find that! And the 'glades are fresh water.

It was a nice, sunny day, late afternoon when we got there, driving some back roads until we figured it was time to enter; might have seen a break in a fence [yes, there are fences, and canals, and bushes, and trees in the 'glades]. We pulled over and parked - now or never. I had the guitar, maybe the knife; Donald had the pot. We left the car and headed into the brush – I believe we were barefoot, but considering my aversion to walking without shoes, probably not. The "brush" was less than a foot high, so easy traversing. We came to a fence and found a break in it, leading to a canal? It was water about two feet deep and maybe four wide; we climbed out in relatively dry ground. I think we were heading south. There were a few more canals and as dusk was settling in on us we came to a fairly large bit of dry ground, even a clearing with pretty tall trees around it. The brush was also higher and thicker.

We settled down, pontificating how we'd be living off the fat of the land pretty soon, though we hadn't drank or eaten anything yet. It was getting dark. I think we had matches - can't cook your food without fire, but we hadn't gotten that far. Suddenly there was some movement in the brush, like some large animals were moving through it, LARGE animals. More than a few. We looked at each other and decided to climb one of the trees, and managed to get up, though we may have left the pot and guitar on the ground; can't play it in the tree. By then it seemed like there were a dozen or more animals moving around below us. It was DARK now, and we couldn't see anything, I mean anything. Pitch dark.

Bellingham – 1986

After what seemed like hours the animals moved on. There were never any vocal sounds: grunts, or neighs, or oinks or any normal animal sounds. Just them milling around, pushing the brush aside as they milled. After they left the mosquitos showed up, thick as gnats in your face – but no biting. Must be males I said happily but soon to be dismay. There were so many it became hard to breathe, but no bites. Uncanny. We continued in the tree, pushing off the horde of flying insects and finally said enough was enough. We may have been nonplused by the beasts below, but they seemed to have moved on. These flying hellions were unrelenting, though still not biting. We got down off the tree and decided to head back to the car. So much for living off the fat of the land. Hadn't even had a drink of water yet.

We picked the direction we figured we came from and headed home or at least to the car. It was the middle of the night by now, dark but no longer pitch dark; must have been clear with stars or the moon. And we walked, and walked, hoping but in no way assured we were on the right course - this is the Everglades. Dry ground, wet ditches, dry land, canals. It was starting to lighten and soon we could see a lot more clearly when suddenly, amazingly we saw the break in the fence we had come through hours before. Another twenty minutes and dry land, low brush, and a most welcoming Torino wagon coming into view. We'd made it back!

We got to the car, patted ourselves down and figured we'd survived a night in the Everglades. No alligators. No snakes. No critters going bump in the night, just the unknown herd that ran us up a tree. And no mosquito bites. But since we were wearing shorts and tee shirts [this is Florida and it's pretty warm even at night] the top eight inches or so of my legs were covered with bites, spider bites I'm thinking. Car started. We returned the way we came, marveling over our stay with Nature and surviving. Never did figure out what the beasts were. I thought horses, but no neighing. Or wild pigs, really LARGE pigs, but no oinking or snorting. Don't know.

. . . . . . .

That's it for Key West. I could tell you about bringing back a trash bag full of cow flop and spreading it out on a sheet of plywood in Donalds bedroom, which grew a whole batch of mushrooms, or some equally inane adventures on Elizabeth Street, but not now.

Back in SoCal

Laguna Niguel – 1977

I had no real plan upon getting home, but my mother, who was working at our local Saddleback Community College, mentioned they were starting up a federal program teaching printing and graphics technology and I should apply. I did and got in. Interestingly while in Key West I applied to Key West Fragrance and Cosmetics Company as a graphic artist. I had a bunch of drawings that showed my chops; they said they were nice but they were looking for someone with commercial graphics experience. Guess I was going to get that now, and I did. I think it was a nine-month course.

The guitar went with me every day to school and I carried it at all times, playing when opportunity presented. I remember one time playing in a bathroom after a guitar concert I attended - the acoustics were amazing. My big push was taking a course or two in jazz guitar. Man, if you can play all those chords and inversions up and down the fat neck with equally fat classical strings, you can play on anything. Well, not really – a narrower neck, like the Adamas and especially the Riviera – seems constraining, strings too close together. I remember playing "Giant Steps" and other standards at the time.