Where Do Old Guitars Go to Die?

It’s generally accepted that fine, handmade instruments get better with age, and if you’ve ever played a 50’s or 40’s Martin dreadnaught, you’d be hard pressed to disagree with that premise.

But what about instruments that are old and broken down, but not of a sufficient quality to warrant repairing?

When I was 10, I decided to be a guitar player, and my parents encouraged me so long as I promised to take lessons and practice.   I came upon this life altering epiphany upon being lent a cousin’s guitar, and hearing simply that low open E string.  I loved the sound of it. LOVED it.  But it was a barely playable instrument, and once my folks elicited the promises of lessons and practice (secret code words for commitment), they bought me a new guitar.

If memory serves, it cost about $70, a not inconsiderable sum in those days.  And the guitar was beautiful to behold.  It was a little small (as I was), and it was so shiny, with wonderful woodgrain. It was easy enough to play, and it said Contessa across the peghead. 

What I really wanted was to learn rock’n’roll and play electric guitar, but I knew I needed to know HOW to play and I was willing to wait until I was a virtuoso to get my first electric guitar (I figured 2-3 weeks, tops).    But right away, I found it was going to be a long slog.  The lessons were methodical and dull.  However, I didn’t display any natural talent to indicate that a more accelerated curriculum was in order. 

Eventually, I got an electric guitar (a 2 pickup Teisco), and the Contessa was relegated to the back of the closet, for the most part.  When I moved away from home, though, it came with me, and made every move for the next 30+ years.  Over time, the plastic-based finish cracked all over it, its shiny finish reduced to a bizarre mosaic, and the bridge pulled away from the body.  My buddy Gene fixed the bridge, and it became what my sons would call The Guitar That Stays At Grandma’s House.  It was nice to have it to play whenever we went to my Mom’s house.

It found its way back to my house, and then eventually my oldest son’s house.  Recently, though, he called and said it had broken again.  Split again, and it doesn’t seem like there will be a repair this time.  So, now it sits in my extra room, no strings, cracked, crazed and forlorn.  Picking it up, I can instantly recall the thrill of when it was new, the little piece of green felt my guitar teacher (Mr. Dingley) had me glue near the nut to remind me to keep my thumb still, and the pain as my fingers slowly built up the callouses that are a permanent part of my fingertips.  Through that guitar, I learned that diligent hard work will make a difficult song playable, and yield very pleasing results.   That little guitar changed my life – what in heaven’s name will I do with it?  What would I do without it?