The New Guitar

I’ve been looking for a new guitar for quite a while, not wanting to spend a lot of money but feeling picky because I didn’t think I could adequately replace my old guitar. I tried some used ones I found online, but I didn’t care for them. And I went to many guitar stores, but I didn’t like anything I saw. All I had to do was grasp one by the neck and place my fingers on the strings, and I knew it was not what I wanted.  

Yesterday, Sylvia came with me to another store to try a Fender that was on sale. Fender has a good reputation, and this model looked pretty in the ad with a mahogany finish. Plus, the price was right. We went into the store’s guitar room, with its wooden floors and wall paneling, to try it. It may have looked good, but it was disappointing, with fretting that deadened the third string. I picked up another one, the same brand and model, and danged if it didn’t have the same issue with the fretboard. 

I was ready to walk out the door when I saw a Yamaha, the brand of my old guitar. The price was a little higher than I wanted to pay, and it wasn’t as pretty as the one I had originally come to try out, but what the heck? I could at least play it a bit. 

I don’t know how to say it other than it felt “right” when I sat on the stool and held it in my arms. It was good-looking in a simple way, with a nice finish, and while it seemed smaller than my old guitar, it had the same mellow tone. We became old friends the moment we met.

I took my time tuning it.  The clerk offered me one of those electronic tuners that everyone uses these days, but I’m old school and preferred to do it by ear, adjusting and readjusting the strings, strumming a chord repeatedly, listening to the harmonics, and getting acquainted with my new/old friend.  

My breathing slowed and deepened as I played, and I was swept up in memories connected with my old Yamaha that I’d bought when I was thirteen. I remembered the sweet smell of its finish and feeling beyond lucky to find such a lovely instrument. One of my first memories is of sitting at a campfire and playing it for a church gathering. I went on to play it for school performances, church services, religious retreats, nursing homes, weddings, and funerals. I played with friends at musical gatherings. And I played it for my babies.

 

Fifty years later, I still have it. It bears the scars of travel, time, and repairs, and it’s no longer pretty to look at. However, it still sounds mellow and sweet, but I haven’t been able to play it since leaving my old life.   

The memories associated with it were infused with angst and confusion, so it has sat quietly in my study. Occasionally, I would pick it up, thinking, what a shame I don’t play anymore, but I’d put it down quickly, unable to face the music of my past.

But holding this new instrument in the guitar store gently opened the door to that lifetime of memories without the pain. I remembered how much I loved the people I played for and how fortunate I was to be able to participate in music in general.  

Sylvia offered to pay half the cost. I couldn’t talk, but I nodded in gratitude. She asked if I wanted to get rid of the old guitar now that I was getting this one. No, I may not be able to play it, but I couldn’t let go of the memories associated with it. It was better to let it stay and rest with me in this new life.

We brought the new Yamaha home, and I started playing it in the living room. For now, I’ll play just for Sylvia and me. My fingertips have grown tender, but they’ll toughen up again. I’m remembering chords and progressions. I’m thinking about playing music that is not associated with religion, although the whole realm of music remains spiritual to me.

Both guitars sit side by side, showing that my life has continuity after all.