It was loud in my living room last night — Stanley Cup playoff on TV, three Xbox Live gamers, three middle school girls semistudying.

Earlier in the day, though, during the time of puttering and gardening with occasional hydration breaks, it was much quieter. My son was in guitar practice mode, and had his Ibanez in his lap at the computer and his acoustic leaning against the basement door frame. I thought it could be a foot or so to the left, but he thought it was stable.
You know how there are distinctive sounds? A bad starter, maybe, or your own baby’s cry.

I’ve gained a few over the years. My cat has an odd, almost musical hairball sound. I’ve added a few car sounds to the aural dictionary, too, including the dreaded blown torque converter.

From the kitchen, I heard the first echoing, stringy thud. I hoped it would be the only one. There were more, creating the new unmistakable sound of an acoustic guitar going down a flight of stairs.

There was panic. There was denial. There was running down the stairs, a few cautious plucks – “it looks OK” – and then 10 minutes of babying on the couch, plucking and tuning and muttering.

This morning the gamers are in crash mode – one of them only about 10 minutes ago – and the guitar remains near the basement door … but about a foot to the left.

This post originally appeared on ourMidland.com, the online home of the Midland (MI) Daily News. Republished with permission.