A Sunday afternoon. I pull into the parking lot of the local retirement home about 1:30. There’s supposed to be some entertainment at 2:00 for the residents. Guitar pickers and singers. I got invited to join in.

The truth is, I’m nervous. Always have been when it comes to getting up in front of folks with my guitar. It’s not the playing part that gets to me. It’s the singing part. I don’t trust my voice, and I sure as heck don’t trust my memory. The lyrics never seem to stick in my head no matter how many times I go over them.

Across the way a guy about my age gets out of his vehicle. He opens the back door and slides out a guitar case. Don’t ask me how I know this, but I can tell from the case that he plays a Takamine. Nice guitar. He picks up his guitar stand and case and heads for the building.

My fear of forgetting the lyrics goes way back to a week of summer camp in the hills of Tennessee. There was a talent show. Singing. Joke telling. Magic tricks. You know the drill. I had been leading camp songs all week, which is easy because everyone sings along. Then someone suggested that I sing a song in the talent show.

To say that it didn’t go well is like saying that The Hindenburg was a minor fender bender.

I got up in front of all those campers and when I started playing, I couldn’t remember the words. I started over. The first line of the song was gone. I made some awkward apology and tried again. Nada. I excused myself from the stage to go crawl under a rock. A friend consoled me and convinced me that I could do this. A couple of acts later, I went back up on stage only to crash and burn again.

That scene still haunts me. I am a player but not a performer. There’s a big difference.

The heat hits me like an oven as I step out to get my guitar out of the back seat. I have no idea what to expect as I walk up to the front door.

Straight ahead and just to the left is the dinning room. A nice lady greets me.

“Randy told me to expect you. Come right on in.”

It’s a big room. The sound system is already live. A couple of guys are tuning up. The Takamine I saw earlier in the case sounds crisp and clear.

“Hey, you did make it.” Randy walks toward me.

Randy and Darlene and Nona are a trio that has been playing Pine Mountain for as long as I’ve been around. They work the festivals, the big events, and just about anywhere they are invited. Their music is tight and entertaining and always spot on. Randy and I got to talking about guitars last week and he’s the one who invited me to join in today.

Musicians are intimidating to me. There’s a confidence and a calmness that oozes out of their pores that I don’t have. I’m the kid who always wanted to be good enough but never quite got there. I play at church every week with the praise band, but I’m in the background, which is where I’m comfortable. I’m not afraid to play with these guys, I just hope they don’t ask me to do anything up front.

I find a corner to set up my guitar. Everyone comes by to introduce themselves. Most of them are guys around my age and they do their best to make me comfortable. There’s no ego here, just a group of folks who love to play music. They love seeing the folks in the crowd enjoy themselves. If there’s any awkward feeling at all, that’s on me and my own uneasiness.

Randy says to me, “I’ve got a mic set up for you.”

“I don’t think I’ll be needing that today. I’m just gonna listen.”

It didn’t take long to figure out how this was going to work. Lee, on the far end, started out with a Gordon Lightfoot tune. The next guy, Phil, sang a song by Alabama. And so on down the line. The basic code of communication was to tell the group what you were going to play followed by a sidenote on the key. “We’ll be somewhere around the key of G fellas.” And if you wanted to play along, you simply join in.

The music was absolutely fun. Eight guitars and one bass. Some guys sat out while others played. Some noodled in the background. Most of us kept it clean and on time.

There was one older gentleman who played. Most of us were north of 65. This fella was a good bit north of that. His song choices were not country rock, 70s acoustic, or pop. He was more a Louis Armstrong, “What a Wonderful World” kind of guy. And he nailed it.

It came to be my turn in line. I passed. They prodded in good humor. I still passed.

“Hey, this is my first time. Just let me figure out how this works. Maybe next time.”

My friends from Pine Mountain were smooth as silk on Smokey Robinson’s “Ooh, Baby, Baby”. Followed by “My Girl”, and they really got the crowd up and out of their walkers with “Mustang Sally”.

For two hours we played together. Some of the songs I knew. Some I was generally in the right key. We did gospel songs. A little Rocky Top. Joe, a singer-songwriter in the group, did some of his original tunes. I loved every minute of it and wished it wouldn’t end.

I know I shouldn’t be intimidated, but I can’t help it. That talent show over 40 years ago still messes with my head. But once the music got going, I realized that this was not about performing as much as it was about a community of musicians who simply love music. And they welcome anybody that wants to join in and play, even somebody like me whom they don’t know at all.

Now some of them are really good and they gig all over the place. It was evident that a couple of them play together all the time. They don’t need lyric sheets in front of them. And their voices are easy to listen to. But they’re just regular guys who love doing what they do.

Lee, who did a nice job with “If You Could Read My Mind Girl,” told me about an acoustic group that meets over in Manchester once a month. Beginners to more experienced guitar players.

“You should come join us. There’s just so many nice folks to meet and the music ain’t half bad.”

I know how hard this instrument can be. I’ve been playing since I was 14. But what I saw Sunday afternoon inspired me to keep trying. Keep joining in. Keep playing the music.

By the look of this group, guitar players never get old.

They buy a lot of nice guitars, but they’re still young at heart.