In the start of our story, which some may say really looking at it logically, ought to have been at the end, but I had to write it so to remind the world. It was Godfrey’s story and he lived his life on the inside looking out. So now and then he questioned, whether the end was the same as to begin?
“Its the way things is, mate” Said shearer Harry Finsterwald who gave Godfrey his guitar, and I quote,”Naught to understand, it all just is”..When Beatrice handed me the Chupa St Guitar, I noticed sifting from it’s insides very fine sand. There was a dent in it covered by a sticker , a peace symbol and the words “Books not Bombs-Save the Common Land”.
A rainbow web of life was painted on by hand. The pegs were old with tarnish, blistered was the varnish, from being set too close to fire and stove. In small letters on the neck Godfrey had written, in here are kept all the songs that I love, it could use a dab of glue, fell off the back of my bike a time or two.
Worzel, The old Chupa St Guitar I leave for you..he had taught me three chords, C,F,G, long ago when we first met up out on the wide prairie. He wrote, “Clementine could not pronounce “Judah”, the street we lived on those three years in Lima, Peru. She pronounced it “Chupa”, and after a time I did to”.
“I lived a settled life and most of the day, sat out on our Casa steps and taught my self to play. And at eve I would serenade my fish lady’s daughter, we’d dance The Peruvian Armpit Waltz as the moon rose oer the water.
..You may ask of the sand, twas a very rare, very saddest year of my life. I challenged my destiny. Thought long, long thoughts of letting the out going tide and the roily surf beach take me. Slept this long day out on a sandbar. As always by my side sat the Chupa St Guitar.
I awoke near dark, and listened, there was a very odd music on the breeze. This was a lonely beach, a place of legend and deep, old mysteries. I sat up as a spider ran across my hand, realized that the music was my guitar strings, being played by the fine, drifting sand..the spirits in the wind, oer those dunes unseen, restored in time my joy in life, and future well being.
.When people ask I always call it, The old Chupa Street Guitar, never even thought to shake out that fine sand, I play it now and then, the songs he loved, we handle it with care, and it hangs on our living room wall, in a place of peace above my Turquoise Chair.