Little Epistle Old Friends

Posted by: Duane Hiatt in Commentaries Add comments

The other day I took my friend Martin, Martin Guitar in for a tune up, the sort of thing you do with your car every 20,000 miles or so. For Martin this would be, I suppose his 100,000 song tune up.

The guitar builder and repair master met me with a smile. “Well let’s take a look.” He opened up the case, then stepped back with a start, “Wow this is an old one.”

Sixty one years and counting,” I answered. His name is Martin.

“We’ve played in Canada, Korea, Japan, Vietnam, the Caribbean, Mexico, and every state including Hawaii and Alaska. Every state that is but North Dakota. I don’t know why we haven’t been invited there.

“Martin took a hit when we landed on the deck of an aircraft carrier. The tail hook snagged us and we stopped so fast it bulged out our eyeballs, and Martin went flying past my head and crashed into the bulk head of the plane, but he survived.

“He suffered a few cracks in Portland Oregon when the baggage handlers thought it would be a good idea to put him on the bottom of the pile. I wore out the frets and had to have them replaced. The black stuff on the top is charred from my blazing picking speed.” The guitar man didn’t believe the last line.

“Not exactly a museum piece.” He paused. “Or maybe it is.”

“Maybe he and I both are,” I said.

Beauty is in the eye, and the memory of the beholder. I was picking with my cool dude Grandson Stockton a while back. He has a beautiful new guitar. He looked at Martin and said, “I want my guitar to look just like that someday.”

A young man of exceedingly good taste I thought.

“Keep picking,” I counseled.

When my first wife Diane died, and I was blessed to marry Sharon she said, “We have a wonderful marriage except for one thing. We don’t have any memories.”

We took care of that problem in the last thirty years, and she like Martin, only more so, has grown even more beautiful to me with the years.

Guitars, friends, loved ones, good reputations, fine cheese, grandchildren; some things can only be purchased with the currency of time.

The other day I took my friend Martin, Martin Guitar in for a tune up, the sort of thing you do with your car every 20,000 miles or so. For Martin this would be, I suppose his 100,000 song tune up.

The guitar builder and repair master met me with a smile. “Well let’s take a look.” He opened up the case, then stepped back with a start, “Wow this is an old one.”

Sixty one years and counting,” I answered. His name is Martin.

“We’ve played in Canada, Korea, Japan, Vietnam, the Caribbean, Mexico, and every state including Hawaii and Alaska. Every state that is but North Dakota. I don’t know why we haven’t been invited there.

“Martin took a hit when we landed on the deck of an aircraft carrier. The tail hook snagged us and we stopped so fast it bulged out our eyeballs, and Martin went flying past my head and crashed into the bulk head of the plane, but he survived.

“He suffered a few cracks in Portland Oregon when the baggage handlers thought it would be a good idea to put him on the bottom of the pile. I wore out the frets and had to have them replaced. The black stuff on the top is charred from my blazing picking speed.” The guitar man didn’t believe the last line.

“Not exactly a museum piece.” He paused. “Or maybe it is.”

“Maybe he and I both are,” I said.

Beauty is in the eye, and the memory of the beholder. I was picking with my cool dude Grandson Stockton a while back. He has a beautiful new guitar. He looked at Martin and said, “I want my guitar to look just like that someday.”

A young man of exceedingly good taste I thought.

“Keep picking,” I counseled.

When my first wife Diane died, and I was blessed to marry Sharon she said, “We have a wonderful marriage except for one thing. We don’t have any memories.”

We took care of that problem in the last thirty years, and she like Martin, only more so, has grown even more beautiful to me with the years.

Guitars, friends, loved ones, good reputations, fine cheese, grandchildren; some things can only be purchased with the currency of time.

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