Guitars and Those Who Love Them

There’s a bond between guitars and those who love them. Most of us need help expressing feelings and interpreting experience. A good instrument is a powerful accomplice in that process. Whether the music is sad or recounts sweet memories, judgment is never incurred for being brutally honest.

The company of a guitar helps sort through life’s difficulties. Music has a way of soothing irritations, both large and small. Sessions together are like private conversations between close friends. Joys set to music are magnified. Troubles diminish when condensed to song.

Through the years a dozen or so homegrown compositions resulted from our collaboration. Most came into being at significant points in life’s journey as acts of commemoration or commiseration.

The instrument I’m fond of is a Gibson Blueridge acoustic manufactured in the late 60’s. The sides and back are laminated rosewood, which makes for a beautiful exterior. Some say guitars of this construction lack the interior resonance that solid wood provides. Still, it plays like a dream with the gentlest of pressure between frets. In the days of my youth I did not know anyone blessed with a finer six string.

My brother and I were around 15 years of age when Dad located the used Blueridge. He offered to pay half the negotiated price if we would pay the difference. A second instrument of the same model was located later and we struck the same deal.
　
I didn’t understand what Dad was up to at the time. Just before his sons left for college he relinquished his half interest in both guitars. He wanted us to have an instrument to take to school.
　
The selflessness of that gift is one of the most treasured memories of my father. The gesture was made knowing the joy it would bring his sons and that was all the compensation he required. Dad never thought of the guitars as belonging to him at all. From the day they were purchased, he intended for us to have them.


Daily playing sessions at college often lasted for an hour or better. A simple finger style accompaniment for singing grew out of the days when I played five string banjo. An old pecan tree stood next to the football practice field with a low slung limb. I’d climb up, lean back against the trunk and spend warm afternoons suspended in the open air playing for nobody in particular.

Over time, the glue used to adhere the inner bracing to the guitar’s top darkened the outside wood. You could see the faint shadow-like pattern on its surface. This made the instrument distinct if not desirable. Guitars are a lot like people. Each has its own personality. Time is required to understand their unique attributes. Once you do, they can be appreciated for what they are instead of what you wish they were.


The only rough patch we ever worked through began one day when returning to the dorm room to play between classes. As the case was opened the headstock fell out dangling by the strings. The neck was severed by a ragged diagonal break running through the nut.
　
I don’t know if there was a fatal flaw in the wood or if this was the result of plain meanness on someone’s part. The former would be an event rare enough to be unbelievable and the latter malicious enough to make you question humanity. Had someone confessed, there might have been some closure. No one ever did.

Dad and I shipped the guitar off to Gibson’s Kalamazoo plant for repairs which were less than impressive. When it returned, the logo on the headstock was painted on instead of being inlaid in mother of pearl. Prior to the repair I never picked up a easier guitar to play. Post repair, every chord brought grief. The sound was not as full and mellow as before.
　
The bad neck job was confirmed when the top began to bow up around the bridge and the guitar became unplayable. It was shipped to Gibson a second time and the inferior work acknowledged. A new neck and top were required to right the wrong and were installed at no further charge.
　
For a long time I complained that the Blueridge didn’t sound or play like it once did. These days I suspect that if “what it was” could be placed alongside “what it has become” you might discover the action and tone are different, not necessarily worse.

Life is like that. Uninvited sorrows and difficulties change us over time in unexpected ways. The destinations on which we set our sights are not always the places to which we arrive. Some events and experiences leave life forever altered. The life that results isn’t less precious, just different.


A good guitar only gets better with age. After 40 years the Blueridge is now entering its prime. The top and bindings have darkened and taken on the warm amber color of a mature instrument. We’ve both endured some wear and tear along the way. Hopefully it’s not the only one improving with age.

Instruments are inanimate objects that resonate with life in the hands of a musician. Sympathetic vibrations produce a welcome environment where the stories that shape who we are can be expressed and explored. They facilitate thinking, feeling, hearing and telling in ways that enhance understanding. Their unique voice helps us find ours.

The music they create accompanies our journey. We employ the beauty they supply to preserve memories collected through the process of living. If we are fortunate, others will reflect on these stories through the music we leave behind. For these reasons, thinking of a guitar as dear friend comes easy.


These days I play mostly for my own amusement and edification. The pleasure derived is considerable. The guitar’s capabilities exceed my own.

One day my half interest will be passed on to someone who loves guitars. I don’t know who that will be since my children don‘t play. The thought of it sitting alone in someone’s closet for decades is unsettling.

That would be no way to treat an old friend.