there's many ways I could go with a title like that, but here it is:
My 1978 Yamaha G-231 classical guitar. It was the first real guitar I ever owned, and got it for my 8th birthday. It's been scratched. It's been dropped from heights of at least 5 feet. It's survived countless smoky campfires. It has red candle wax (carolling, no doubt) stains on the front. It has the initials of an old girlfriend carved into the back of it with a pocket knife.
But mostly it's been played. Malagueña as best I could at nine. Then A'Soalin'. Then Packington's Pound. Sloop John B. Study in Am. Hornpipe. Thank God I'm a Country Boy. Particle Man. Hey Now (Don't Dream it's Over). I could go on.
But in recent years it sat quietly while I played my Martin, Kay, and other instruments.
I took it in a few weeks ago and had them replace the old nut (the smaller bridge near the headstock) with one made of bone. And I had my guitar tech tighten everything up and do a setup and restring it (what a luxury!). D'Addario Pro Arte strings. I used to use only St. Augustine reds. But I digress. To me, this guitar smells like United Methodist Maundy Thursday services. It smells like Baptist youth group talent shows. It smells like my old classical guitar instructor, Leslie Lyons, laughing at my naïveté (politely) and saying "far out" when I told her there was this gospel rock song called "God gave Rock & Roll to You." I blushed, knowing even in my teenage years it was corny.
I also finally bought a solid travelling case for it.
See, I haven't loved it with the love it deserved. A symbol in my life, if you will, for all the people I haven't loved with the love they deserve. Not even enemies. Friends N Family.
This is just an approximation of her, but here she is:
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