The notes always seemed to flow so fluidly. There was never a beat missed, the strings were always bent right on cue to the exact spot they were meant to. This man could play the guitar.

He was Steve Vai, Jimi Hendrix, Eddie Van Halen and Eric Clapton rolled into one. Forget the fact that he never cut a single record and never signed a multi-million dollar deal. Ignore the fact that his days of touring with his band, playing in bars and ripping solos across his Fender, wearing white Converse All-Stars while the rest of his band wore cowboy boots, had long since been replaced by working the night shift and caring for a family.

I can still remember with great clarity, sitting outside my father’s makeshift music studio, located in my parents’ garage, listening as he played along to the music of six-string giants. He has played guitar since 1966, and four decades of skill always shined through.

But my dad was the only six-string giant I cared about.

Music has an amazing ability to unify and heal wounds that could not be overcome any other way.

As I grew up, it was never a question of whether I was going to play guitar, but simply a matter of when my dad would give me my first “axe.”

It was a gift on my ninth birthday and it was a jet-black Sears knock-off guitar. It would be years before I began to learn to play. Every time my dad would try to teach me I became frustrated and swore he was trying to show off. Such is the angst of youth.

After a few years of watching me fumble along, my dad finally asked me one day if the strings were too close together for my liking.

Without anything more than his knowledge of his son and music, he could tell I wasn’t destined to shred the six-string. So he bought me a bass guitar; the funky slap-bass solos soon followed. My dad had pointed me in the direction meant for me.

Some of my fondest memories of my early teens are the rare occasions when I could overcome my silly, angry attitude and sit down with my dad; he played lead and I followed on bass.

Regardless of our issues and our arguments, we could always sit down and talk guitar.

But in 2003 he suffered a stroke, the magnitude of which would have killed many. But my father survived. He can still drive and keep himself busy.

But he cannot use his left hand. He will never play guitar again.

His guitars hang on the walls, collecting dust. I catch him looking at them sometimes; I can almost see his brain working out the melodies his brain remembers but his hand cannot recall.

And I feel great guilt as my guitars collect dust.

But a few years ago, we recaptured the magic. Like a Jedi master instructing his apprentice, my father stood over me at the kitchen table as I built a guitar from scratch.

He guided me as the instrument came together, piece by piece. He told me where to solder and when.

Just like when I was a kid, music brought us together, overcoming our petty arguments. It couldn’t heal his physical injury, but it definitely helped us both feel better.

And even though he can’t play anymore, every time I pick up that particular guitar, I remember him teaching me to play, to build it.

Even if he never uses his studio again, he is still the only six-string giant I care about.

David Thill is a senior journalism major and can be reached at 581-7942 or DENopinions@gmail.com.