"One day you will learn to play well, too," the father said trying to encourage his only daughter. He and his daughter were the only people-- except their dog, blacky-- who lived in the small red brick house.

"Will you teach me? Please, daddy," she begged. Every night after their supper her father would play music, then they'd do their usual night time routine. The routine involved taking a shower, telling old wise tales, then her father, John, would tuck her in to her cozy bed.

"Here. Come over here," John commanded. "Put this on your lap." He put the curve of the guitar on her thigh. The body of the guitar reached up to her neck.

He began teaching young Abigail the different parts of the guitar, giving her the names of the parts, and explaining what to do with it. "These are called frets." He pointed to the spaces between the lines of the neck of the guitar.

He began retelling stories o

"Really?" she asked, somewhat skeptical. "But nobody's better then you!" She wasn't exaggerating. Her father has performed in front of the town during celebrations. People in town had very little musical expertise and the few who did was no match against John Short's talent.

Her father could tell how upset his little angel was. "Sweetie," her father began to say. "Shorts never quit." As if he were reading her mind. At times he knew what she was thinking. "You'll get it sooner or later. Don't worry." He soothingly placed his arm around his daughter's shoulder. It still didn't help his daughter.

I'll get this, she thought. She was determined that she would be able to play a G chord, even if it may be the last thing she ever did. She was going to give it her all to play the guitar just like the generations of Shorts on her father's side.

She'll get it some day, John said to himself, just like a did when I was her young age.

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