Jake Brennan

He was having a party, and he needed music.

If George didn't move fast enough, his father would cuff him.

If he didn't sing well enough, his father would punch him.

And if George tried to quit playing too soon after his father passed out, sometimes his father would wake up in a fury and then his old man would beat everyone in the family.

So, George would race across the living room and strap on his guitar.

And even though his hands were shaking and his heart was pounding, he learned to quickly focus on a tune in his mind.

He would close his eyes, open his mouth, and let out the words of Gene Autry or Ernest Tubb, blues songs or a gospel.

He could sing it all.

And when he did, for a few moments, he would be transported to his favorite place in the world, out under a tree with no one else in the world, just him and a guitar singing a song.

After a dozen or so songs, George would open his eyes and he would find himself back in the living room.

His father's head would be drooping with his hands still clutching the neck of a whiskey bottle.

And this was the most dangerous time.

George learned to keep playing the guitar, softly, as he edged towards the front window.

Without missing a beat, he would use his knee to slide the window up a little bit at a time.

And he'd keep singing as he slid one leg out the window and then another.

And then as quietly as possible, he would slide the window shut, humming the tune the whole way.

He would creep across the porch, climb through his bedroom window, and finally fall asleep.

At least that's what happened on good nights.

On other nights, George wasn't so lucky.

30 years later, the memory still made him freeze with fear as he recalled his first live performing experience.