It’s the same guitar I’ve had since I was fifteen. It has been with me on the bicycle, riding back and forth between my house and the music store, for flamenco lessons. There were countless hours of practice and folk songs in my room; the Kingston Trio, Harry Belafonte, The Limelighters, and even the Beach Boys. There were shared songs with brother David, John B, and Dan Murphy. There were even a few performances. At a High School talent show, Danny and I brought the house down with “Blood on the Saddle”. (They didn’t make us clear our selections before the show.)
When I came home on leave after a year on Okinawa in the Army, the guitar went back with me, only to get sent to Viet Nam when I did. The whole time in Viet Nam I never drew a paycheck. What little opportunity there was to spend money was covered by someone passing the hat for me while the guitar and I played in the beer tent.
When it was time to come home, there was no way to send a guitar separately, and nowhere to put it on the plane, so it rode standing up on the floor between my knees for fourteen hours. After the Army, my attention wandered to other things for many years and it survived that neglect until I rediscovered it a few years ago. My faithful companion is a little worse for wear. Not that that’s a problem; we all have scars and blemishes.
Well, my longtime friend John B; not only did he grow up to be the Red Baron, he also builds and repairs guitars now. When I mentioned that my guitar was getting more difficult to play in its old age, he volunteered to give it a tune-up. He said bring it by and he’d see what could be done to restore the action without compromising the rich tone and considerable character this instrument has accumulated.
Yesterday, he brought it back, not so much good as new, but condition intact and noticeably easier to play again.
Another joy in life.
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