The strum of open strings on a guitar transports me to a house on Lake Hartwell, where stringed instruments hang from a board on the wall.The room smells like the stone fireplace that stretches to the ceiling. But the sounds are of my nana playing guitar.In most of my memories, she’s playing songs she wrote herself — about family, faith or both. There’s a sad one about my grandpa’s “poor Uncle John” and another about an ancestor’s cane.