For my 8th birthday, I wanted a guitar. My father had played a little back in his day. He said he dreamed of being a rock star with a traveling band surrounded by beautiful women. He said Grandpa could never afford a nice guitar for him, but he wasn't going to let that happen to me. He had an idea.
"Let's get lucky," he said.
I hopped into his old Wagoneer, and we drove to the auction house on Main Street, where they were selling off instruments that day. "So what kind of guitar do you want?" he asked me.
"A wooden one," I said.
"It's called an acoustic. You sure you don't want an electric?"
"Mom said wood ones make less noise."
Inside the big, echoing room, about 60 people sat in rows, and a man stood at a podium holding a ukulele. "We got one-twenty for this here fine piece of craftsmanship, do I hear one-thirty?"
Someone shouted, "One-thirty!"
"Sold for one-thirty!"
"Next up," the auctioneer said, "a classic Gibson with custom sunburst finish, no dents, no scratches and the most magnificent sound you've ever heard. This is why you started playing. This baby goes for over a grand in the stores. The bid's open!"