The old guitar pictured above, “The Don,” is a 1937 Harmony archtop. My uncle bought it from a local pawnshop between tours in Vietnam in the late ‘60s. He left it with my mother during his time overseas, but by the time he returned home after his final tour of duty in 1968, he had lost interest in it and told her to keep it. It sat in a closet in my mother’s house collecting dust until 1973 when she gave it to me. By that time, the guitar was showing signs of age and neglect. I cleaned it up the best I could and put a new set of strings on it, but the high action made it difficult to play, especially for a beginner. I put it aside with intentions of having it repaired and made more playable at some point down the road not knowing how long that road would wind.
For the next 47 years, I carried the guitar with me every time I made a move always intending to get it repaired. However, life and family priorities kept it in a corner of my bedroom collecting more dust while dead strings popped, the top and back separated in places, and a couple of cracks appeared due to irregular humidity, and I am sorry to say neglect. I could have thrown it in the trash, and considering its condition some might have said it would have been the merciful thing to do. It certainly would have been the cheapest thing to do, but getting it repaired and hearing it play again had become a dream – maybe even a bit of an obsession.
Through it all, the old guitar refused to completely fall apart as if held together by hope it would someday be brought back to life. It sat in its lonely corner day after day through the years as the children were born and grew up, I moved from job to job seeking a better life for the family, and it sat in that same corner after my retirement reception staring back at me. Like the old guitar had become years before, I was undone – without purpose. I remember staring it down, feeling useless, and forgotten like it had probably felt for so many years. Its resurrection as well as mine never felt so unlikely. My wife had long tired of having the ugly beat-up carcass of the old unplayable guitar cluttering her bedroom, and now, here I was more useless clutter.
Through writing and travel, I soon found avenues that gave me a healthier outlook, and the old guitar once again faded into its lonely forgotten corner for several more years. Finally, in May of this year, I approached a luthier who had impressed me with work he had completed on a couple of guitars I played regularly. I showed him the old guitar and asked if it was salvageable. He said it would be a challenge, but he felt if the wood did not break and crumble due to age and dryness, he could bring it back to life. For the first time in nearly five decades, the old guitar left my home and became his project. The first thing he did was rehydrate the guitar, which was probably the most delicate and crucial task he had to undertake. Over the next three months, the guitar was rehydrated (successfully), the fretboard was reconditioned, it received a complete re-fret, a re-radius of the fretboard, neck joint reset, two cracks repaired, setup, and restrung with Elixir 12’s. The goal was not to completely restore the guitar but to make it playable. Liking the old instrument’s rugged appearance, a look I felt gave it character, the only cosmetic work undertaken was cleaning and buffing.
Finally, the long awaited day arrived, my luthier called and said the project was complete. When I opened the case, I could not believe the transformation. It was an acoustic resurrection! The old guitar still proudly wore its battle scars, but its deep wounds had miraculously healed. Best of all, it played easily with its own unique sound. There are still a couple of small things needing attention such as rebuilding the pick guard and maybe/maybe not replacing the eight decade old tuners to make it easier to tune, but for now, I am simply enjoying a piece of history brought back to life by a very skilled artist.
Eighty-three years young and still kicking – that is pretty amazing! “The Don” no longer sits in a corner collecting dust. It sleeps in a warm humidified case and by day sits in my lap with my fingers caressing its strings. We remind each other that age is just number, especially if you never stop dreaming.
JL
©Jack Linton, December 17, 2020
I Don't Mean to Offend, but . . . . 