When I (Gerry, here) first laid eyes on the tiny front porch of the tiny house we were moving to, I knew it was built for acoustic guitar pickin’. I pictured myself like one of the photos of blues legend, Robert Johnson- sitting there with guitar in hand, minus a few chickens, roosters, and a bottle of moonshine. I figure I’ll stick with my average guitar playing, rather than meeting the devil at the crossroads to trade my soul for extraordinary talent. I had a fairly happy childhood, and I’m just fine with mediocrity. There is something about this setting that makes you want to dig up the old Dylan and Neil Young songs, and commence to strumming. With those two, you’re never too challenged with sounding good, vocally.
So, the writing was on the wall- our wall, where my guitar now hangs. I often found the guitar on the wall to be common in many tiny house pictures. It’s always ready for me to pick up, and play. Tiny house living is a
wonderful challenge, and quite unique in the area we live. In Eastern North Carolina, most cannot figure out why you’d want to live in a space smaller than your pickup truck or your boat. That is the whole point. I drive a Honda and would never want a pickup truck, and if I want to spend time on a boat, I do. My guitar, along with my Cannondale Mountain Bike, are my prized possessions. Both hang stoically on the wall, always ready for me to engage.
“I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees. I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees. Asked the Lord above for mercy, save me if you please.” -Robert Johnson
I never made it off my front porch, instead I sat comfortably in one of our rockers, asking no one for forgiveness as I’m not feeling much humility. The important thing is, my guitar was, as is quite common, in hand. Mediocre playing is the order of the day, and I feel quite content.