All About You FRIDAY – If it’s Broken, I am Interested

Selective focus of Scratches on the old acoustic guitar

“You brought me a guitar?!” I asked as a patient walked in carrying a small wooden guitar that looked like it had seen better days.

“It’s the kid guitar I told you about. It doesn’t work.” she replied. “You can try to fix it if you want. But if you can’t fix it, just throw it out. Maybe you can smash it up on the stage at your next gig.”

Her last statement made me smile. That actually would be kind of cool. But then I’d have to get the outfit to match. Black leather pants and ripped shirt and maybe even tease my hair out so I looked a bit crazed. I mean, if I went up on stage looking like I normally do and smashed a guitar at the end of a song, I’m not sure people would get it.

But I digress.

I took the guitar home because its been that kind of week. A week where my world had some “broken” things in it: emergency board meetings that made my long days even longer, a friend’s mom who suddenly became critically ill, having to see a whole day of patients by myself because none of my staff was available to work. I felt stretched and challenged and in many ways powerless.

And in the middle of all of that, Dolly Parton dies. I don’t know why that even affected me. But it did. Maybe it’s because she had poured so much kindness into this world, I just thought she’d get to live forever. She deserved to.

I just wanted to fix something.

I strummed a chord on the guitar. It sounded like a dying cat. The brittle strings buzzed as they cut into my fingers. I tried to tune it and it creaked like an arthritic joint. I removed the strings and the bridge fell off. This is going to be interesting, I thought.

I checked the frets and pounded the high ones down. I sanded each one with several grits of sandpaper until they were buttery smooth. I treated the fretboard with lemon oil, adjusted the height on the bridge and put some new strings on it.

I strummed a C chord. Not bad, I thought. I stretched the strings a bit and lowered the action. I strummed a C, an Em, an A, a D and a G, all the chords I knew my patient would want to play. I did all of this while sitting in the living room watching Project Runway.

“I can’t hear the TV,” she said. The guitar works. Mission accomplished.

As my head hit the pillow, I wondered what I would write about today. I fell asleep reading an article about the Six Word Memoir.

Popularized in 2006 by Larry Smith and SMITH Magazine, A Six-Word Memoir is a tiny form of autobiography: tell a meaningful piece of your life story in exactly six words. The idea is that severe constraint forces you to choose what matters most.

It was inspired by the famous six-word story often attributed to Ernest Hemingway: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

The Hemingway attribution is probably apocryphal, but the concept became the inspiration for asking ordinary people to sum up their lives—or a chapter of their lives—in six words.

What makes a good six-word memoir interesting is that it usually suggests a much bigger story than it actually tells. Some of the best six-word memoirs capture one era, relationship, realization, mistake or turning point. It can be funny, poignant, hopeful, regretful, or wonderfully ordinary. Here are some examples I found:

“Found my way by getting lost.”
“Still becoming who I already am.”
“Raised children. They raised me too.”
“Took the risk. Changed my life.”
“More guitars than anyone actually needs.” 😄 (This one does not make sense to me)
“Turns out, ordinary was pretty extraordinary.”

I decided my six word memoir was the title of this blog: If it’s broken, I am interested.

Broken bodies. Broken bikes. Broken guitars. There is, after all, something to be said for fixing broken things. Or at least giving it a shot.

For now, that old guitar has a second chance at life. Or at least a second chance at changing one. I bet Dolly could have made it sing.

You should give the Six Word Memoir a try. I’d love to hear your story.

It’s been a long week. Don’t forget to celebrate.

Until next time…