My guitar teacher

The man who taught me how to play the guitar was Dave Peters, a phenomenal mandolinist who lived and worked in Houston and, later, across the world. His fingers fairly flew over the strings of the tiny instrument, bringing to vibrancy everything from Doc Watson's bluegrass "Sheep in the Meadow," to the classical jazz of Django Reinhart.

He was the one who introduced me to bluegrass festivals -- Nacogdoches, Winfield, KS -- and he was the one who gave me a book of poetry by Sara Teasdale.

Dave had an impressive book collection and he had no reservations about sharing or even giving away his tomes. He lived in a big house with several other musicians in the hip part of town and one night he invited me to come and sit in on a jam session. I had absolutely no intention of trying to play in front of that bunch -- one of them was a string bass player for the symphony, another was a teenage phenom from the piney woods of East Texas who later went on to make a name for himself.

No, I just went to listen and to join in on the conversations. And to see my teacher's book collection. I'd heard tell it was varied and interesting, just the type I like to browse.

And so I left later that night with the collected works of Sara Teasdale, a gift from Dave who said he'd read it enough times he'd memorized all the poems worth knowing. Teasdale, who died in 1933, was an American poet famous in her day and whose work entitled Love Songs received the first Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1918.

There were many good pieces in the book and I held onto it for many years, long after I'd stopped taking guitar lessons, long after I'd lost touch with Dave, and long after I learned he'd died suddenly in his sleep.

I still remember one of the poems, because I loved the image of "a fire that once was singing gold."

Ironically, the poem I remember is titled, "Let It Be Forgotten."

Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,
Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold.
Let it be forgotten forever and ever,
Time is a kind friend, he will make us old. 


If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long-forgotten snow.


Dave Peters has been gone nearly 12 years now.
They buried him in Kentucky, home of the blue grass and the music he loved so much.