New life for my childhood guitar

When I was 8 years old, I wanted to play the piano. That in itself was a little strange since no one related to me had any interest in playing a musical instrument. We didn’t have a piano, so they sent me to a neighbor to practice. I wore out my welcome there pretty quickly and so my folks bought  me a guitar.

It was a three-quarter-size nylon string. For some reason I remember mom and dad paid $29 for it, but since that’s about $300 in today’s dollars, I kind of doubt they would have paid so much for such a “basic” guitar.  I named her Hazel for some reason.

In any case, I took some lessons and learned my cowboy chords so I could play simple folk songs. The first song was “Down in the Valley.” The second was “Go Tell Aunt Rodie.”  My best friend John was also taking guitar lessons. His teacher was trying to teach him to read music and, coincidently enough, he was learning to play the melody to Go Tell Aunt Rodie. Hey, we thought, we can play together! But it didn’t sound good. Maybe because I was playing in D and he was playing in C.  Despite that assault on the ears, John and I remain friends today.

As some point my guitar must have started to fall apart. My dad tried to fix it. There was a hole through the outside of the heel where he put a bolt through and the inside of the guitar was slathered with the hot melt glue my dad used to fix everything. He was a respected mechanical engineer. He was not a woodworker.

At some other point,  maybe when I was 11 or 12, I added insult to injury when I decided I was going to refinish the guitar. I removed the tuning machines. I sanded poor Hazel much too aggressively. Then I tossed her in the back of my closet. And there she remained, forgotten for the next 40 years until it came time for Mom to sell the house.

Of course I could not throw Hazel in the trash. And so she just hung around my office collecting dust for another 20 years. Then about three years ago, after I had built a few guitars, my eyes fell on old Hazel and I had a thought: What if I could make her play again 60 years after I made her mute?

So I got some cheap tuning machines. I took the back off. I learned on line that alcohol releases hot met glue from wood. I carved some new braces. I put her back together and even redid the binding. There was not enough wood left to sand Hazel further, so I just shellacked her. Hazel looks very steam punk.  She can actually make music.

My grandson Ethan was 8 years old at the time so I decided to give the guitar to him in the hopes that two generations later she might teach another young boy his cowboy chords.

“This guitar hasn’t been played in 60 years,” I intoned as I handed Hazel to Ethan.

“Yes it has,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“You just played it now.”

So now Hazel sleeps again, this time in Ethan’s closet. He’s getting good on the clarinet.