I did the can on the string, the crystal radio, I had a little electronics set with a telegraph you could stretch about 50 feet. It was cool but who could learn Morse code? Not me. I started taking things apart and not being able to put them back together about this time.
My dad had a Fender Tremolux with a cheap little guitar my mother bought for him when they were seniors in high school (1957). He never played it by the time I noticed it but it was in my brother and my closet. I would bring it out and make the reverb tank explode often and be amazed.
I had a number of uncles who played professionally--John who was a bass player for Leon MCauliffe and Johnny Lee Wills and others in who Bob left behind when he went Hollywood. He used to strap his doghouse on top of his volkswagen bug until the day left the bug and bass parked on the railroad track.The sheriff showed up at my great grandparent's house the next morning to notify them of his death only to have him walk into the kitchen cussing that all the noise woke him up. He sobered up and moved to Seattle to work for Boeing before I was born or I'd have learned something from him besides the stories.
My favorite uncle played folk in clubs around Tulsa like the "Dust Bowl" in the '60s. He gave me my first guitar and showed me G, C, and D. He also had a two track reel deck with "sound on sound" capabilities which sparked my fascination with recording.
In a few years, I traded my Dad's Tremolux for a totally wasted Ampeg v-4b rig with a giant 2x15 cab. I never understood why the output was almost nil because then needed new tubes. I was afraid to take it apart and traded it for a Peavey TNT 100 which I still have, still works, and never sounded as good as the tremolos or the v-4b could have with new tubes.
From there, it was a billion bad garage bands, a few decent college bands, some ad hoc recordings with rented gear and a variety of rehearsal spaces, a development deal with Geffen which lasted way too long but got me into real studios, a million nights on the road without enough gas money to get to the next gig, etc, etc, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.
Now I'm happy to still have fingers to play and press record on DAW in my humble corner of the den crammed full of guitars and gear my wife wishes I'd move to the attic.
I'm still "beginning."
I can't complain.