Every year, I go to festival in Richardson, Texas called the Wildflower Festival. With a roster of twenty to thirty bands, each play for an hour or two, the festival draws a large crowd. The shows are usually pretty good, but not many are memorable. By the time the next festival comes, I usually forget about the last one. But there was show that I will never forget.

My grandfather, who I have always called Pawpaw, volunteers at the festival every year, and has VIP access to the shows. As he was taking me to the VIP area, I looked at the common seating in front of the stage. The trampled grassy terraces baked in the midday sun as people slowly began to file in with lawn chairs and towels. Already the place was half full. One side was enclosed by an office building, the other by a building and the VIP section. We walked along the sidewalk, and then down the rolling green hill, covered in white plastic chairs. After a bit of searching, we finally found seats that gave us a good view of the stage. The first show was a Beatles tribute. I had seen them play a couple of years ago, and really enjoyed it. Pawpaw, who worked in the foot court, wasn't able to stay for long though. The next show, which I didn't really care about, was Lou Gramm, the singer from Foreigner. I stayed though, because by now the VIP area was filling up, and I didn't want to lose my seat.

As I watched the show, Pawpaw came back. But in his hands was a guitar. But this was not just an ordinary guitar. This was my first guitar. The red body was still covered in finger smudges, and it had a dull shine to it in the evening light. He led me out of the VIP area, and into the crowded public seating. I followed him around the terraced hills and to the other side of the stage. There, we found a large metal gate. He somehow managed to get us through and to the area behind the stage.

The entire time I had been asking him where we were going, but he wouldn't tell me. I saw the Beatles tribute walking around, and finally he told me why I was here. I was going to have my picture taken with Joe Walsh. I was stunned. Only a handful of people got to see him before the show started. We waited as the line of people slowly went into a large, well-lit, tan tent. It was made very clear that he would not sign anything tonight. I listened to Lou Gramm sing, and looked at the back of the stage. Finally, it was my turn, but before I went to have my picture taken, one of the stage crew took my guitar and went through the tent with it. Just as he reached the other end, Joe Walsh spoke up.

“Is that his?” He asked, making a motion towards me. Upon seeing the crew man nod, he simply said “I'll sign it” I stared on in amazement as he signed my guitar, and then handed it back to the man. Afterwords, I had my picture taken with him, and then exited the tent and then went with Pawpaw as he put the autographed guitar in the trunk of his car, and finally back to the food court. We bought some nachos, and I sat down near a small stage in the food court to eat. Having lost my appetite in all the excitement, I mainly listened to the people on the stage. The people performing were singer song writers who were just starting their careers as musicians. I told myself that I would be up there one day. When it was time for Joe Walsh to play, I went back over to the stage. I enjoyed that show more than any other performance that I had ever seen.

To this day, I still don't know exactly why he chose to sign my guitar. But because he did, that very same guitar, which I have named Joe, is now a beacon of inspiration to me.