While the other kids were counting sheep or enjoying wet dreams I lay awake in bed at night worrying about rust ever starting on my '32 Ford body. Hot rods were really not in style at my snooty high school. Neither was I. We were poor. I didn't know. My mom managed to spoil me with everything that I wanted and she did it on an information operator's salary. A single mom, she paired up with my grandmother, Lottie, to spoil me with love, too.
Now I find that I don't care so much about stuff. I like hot rods but I don't want one. It took me years to figure out that I have no mechanical aptitude. I love guitars, too. I always seem to have too many. I've had every one that I could ever want. Only one means anything to me. It's my pal, Rock Bottom's old National steel body. I played it on one of his records. Jack Bellew gave it to me. He said he thought that I should have it.
The point that I'm trying to get to here is that the love mattered. The stuff- not so much. I don't worry about rust any more. In fact, I like it. Pardon me for boasting but I've got a lot of love. It was given to me.
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