Under Grumpa's Hat

Music has always been part of my life. I grew up pounding out hymns and cheesy traditional pop tunes on the organ, and for ten straight years, I even took lessons. Picture a pre-teen me, hair slicked, shirt tucked, playing in concerts once a year like it was my grand entrance into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Fast forward a few decades, and along comes Costa Rica. The peace, the palm trees, the smell of fresh mangoes, and that famous Pura Vida vibe had me itching to get back into music. I wasn’t about to drag an organ down here, though. That would be like bringing a snowblower to the beach. So, I bought a guitar. It seemed portable, elegant, and let’s be honest, a whole lot cooler than an organ.

“Piece of cake,” I told myself. After all, half my family can strum away like mariachi stars. A guitar is small, it fits in a case, you can take it to the beach, maybe even charm a few monkeys. But no one told me the truth: learning guitar at my age is not for the faint of heart.

First off, there are the fingers. Do you know how stubborn fingers get after six decades of doing other things? They’ve been typing, pointing, fishing, pulling triggers, playing different sports and occasionally wagging in disapproval. Suddenly, they’re asked to press down tiny metal strings with surgeon-like precision. They rebel. They knot themselves together like spaghetti, they refuse to stretch, and sometimes they tremble as if they are auditioning for a horror movie. I had imagined flowing chords; what I got was something closer to a raccoon trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube.

Then come the fingertips. Those soft, pampered little pads have not suffered like this since the few years I have spent as an electrician in the 90’s. Pressing down on steel strings is about as comfortable as kneeling on a bag of marbles. Everyone says, “Don’t worry, you’ll build calluses.” That’s supposed to be reassuring? It is like saying, “Don’t worry, the pain only lasts a few weeks, and then you will have the fingertips of a lumberjack.”

Memory is another hurdle. At this age, the brain has to juggle names, passwords, where the glasses are, and now, on top of it, chord shapes… and learning a third language in my new country! My mind is like a crowded bus, and when “G major” tries to get on, “¿Dónde está el baño?” elbows it right back out.

Still, Costa Rica has a way of keeping me grounded. I sit outside in the evening, the warm breeze brushing past, the sound of cicadas filling the air. The neighbours probably wonder if a wounded iguana has taken up residence, but to me, each plunk and buzz is a step forward.

Here’s the thing I’ve learned: the guitar does not care how old you are, how stiff your fingers feel, or how lost your memory is. The guitar only rewards persistence. Every string buzz, every muted chord, every painful fingertip is part of the price of admission. And if you stick with it long enough, one day you’ll strum a chord and it will ring true, clean and beautiful, like the sound of the ocean rolling into shore.

So yes, learning guitar at this age is like trying to salsa dance in flip flops. But I know this: Pura Vida is not about getting it perfect, it is about showing up with heart. I will wrestle those stubborn fingers, toughen up those delicate tips, and let the rhythm stumble until it learns to walk straight. Because one day, whether at the beach or on my porch, I’ll play a tune that sings with the peace of Costa Rica itself.

And when that day comes, I will smile, because the real music will not only be in the guitar, but in the proof that perseverance can still teach old fingers new tricks. That’s until I ruin it by trying to sing!