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I plunged into the deep end of the nostalgia pool by going with Bea to the music shop This here I had spent soto custo for Bea to take us ho con

We passed by Aunt Franny, as sitting up front by the register, reading a ht red lips gave her a fabulously edgy look, as always Today she wore jeans and a denis, a turquoise necklace, and big, round, turquoise glasses The woister was one of lass bowl held a huge collection of guitar picks, with a sign that read, "Take a pick, leave a pick" Customers could have one if they needed one, and others could contribute to the supply Those who contributed usually had very nice-looking picks: often brightly colored and decorated with ads for so, I used to spend hours ruh the pick bohen I was a kid

But today I didn’t have time to admire picks Before Franny and I could have even the briefest welcome conversation, Bea whisked me down the narrow back corridor to our destination: the workshop of the old guitar forger, Uncle Carl

Carl and Franny Geiger weren’t really my uncle and aunt They weren’t even related to Bea--just fellow grifters But I spent sothat they became the best aunt and uncle anyone could have Certainly better relatives than htas they pertained to the huht touch needed to pick a pocket, and how to cold-read people froe But an even better skill was taught toa uitars and built copies of rare ones, he also taught ed in Carl’s workshop Every wall--floor to ceiling--was still covered with guitars Instru with scraps of wood, metal, and other materials The dusty old display case on the side was so covered with grilass was nearly opaque I remembered when it was cleaner, and I could still s, frets, capos, and musical detritus, piled everywhere and i, I spent plenty of ti in that display case Al at the pick bowl