daddy owned a recording studio
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Daddy owned a recording studio, so you could imagine me, my little pink dress, golden curls for hair, no more than 7 years old, sitting in his work chair doing my arithmetic and swinging my legs that couldn’t yet touch the ground.

I was used to that noise, famous musicians playing chords and recording riffs. It didn’t phase me at all. By the time I was 12 we had moved to a big house—much farther from Memphis and daddy’s studio too. That meant after school—since my daddy refused to pull me from my education, I would spend hours in that studio. Rockers that used to pick me up and put me on their lap became second nature. I’d wander in, a coke in my hand, drop my book bag on the floor and again sit in daddy’s chair.

It wasn’t the music that bothered me—it was the people. My dad and I had a conversation about that when I had just turned 16—a boy had asked me to a dance. That boy was in a band and that boy wasn’t a dirty rocker like my daddy’s clients (who were famous, and they knew it). He held an acoustic, he was quiet, and after our first kiss he wrote me a song. My daddy told me he just wanted me for him—and an opportunity at a record deal.

I guess I let it get to me—but still when he played that song at the moment where he slid from that sweet A chord to that dark yet joyful D I melted. I dumped him 2 weeks later.

Boy after boy followed—each one would pique my interest for a few moments, but I would lose it as quickly as I found what they wanted me for.

On my 17th birthday I was given a gift. I had learned to play guitar when I was 9, but I’d put it down in middle school because of time. Honestly, I didn’t put it down but hadn’t touched it since I was 16.

Daddy said I had a talent. And to this day they say the fact that there was always music in my ear gave me a gift. But on my 17th birthday I went up to my room and saw the most gorgeous acoustic on my bed. I went and looked at it, felt it in my hands, and more than that noticed a notch in the neck. As I recognized the instrument I tipped it to inspect it, hearing something toss inside.

Eventually I removed a piece of paper. It was on this tattered brown lined page. I opened it and read. They were his words, the ones he’d wrote for me after my first kiss. I picked up my head. My daddy, his arms crossed, was leaning against the door frame staring at me. “I recorded his first record last week,” he paused, “he played it all on that guitar.”

He winked at me, smiled, and then walked out the door. I put the guitar in my hands. I put my fingers on the e minor and strummed. Soon I was playing my song, humming to the chords.

I picked up the phone and met him downtown. We talked about what had happened, he had changed schools—had a record contract—and now a record. He explained to me how he’d never meant to use me for my father and farther than that, he had no idea who my father was when he met me. Needless to say, I came home at 3 am that morning after much talking.

Daddy said he didn’t rock hard enough—so he rocked—we taught him famous riffs and got him in with big bands and eventually his harder rock albums—very sturdy in nature—sold platinum. But never did I see a happier smile in my life than when he held that old acoustic signing my song.

He’s married now—three kids, two mothers—and to this day when I look up at the stage and hear him singing my song I swear that I can see tears in his eyes.