Garbage Guitar

Turned out my neighbor's son stepped on his guitar and snapped the headstock off. We were at curbside where he was putting it with the rest of his garbage. Would he mind if I took it? I can't bear to see a musical instrument thrown away. "You really can't fix that," he said. But he was throwing it out, after all. And I'd seen him strumming a Martin on his stoop, so it wasn't like he was hurting for an axe. What could he say? I took the crippled six-string home.

I took it out of the case and looked it over. The decoration was really nice, and the workmanship seemed good. The case was solid and I ran my fingers through the plush lining. When I flipped open the storage compartment I recognized that I'd stumbled into private territory. I found some seeds, tiny bits of weed and one of those tiny ziplock bags - no doubt the remnants of my neighbor's teenage stash.

What was garbage a moment earlier suddenly became invested with meaning; this guitar part of someone's life, an emotional piece of this guy's coming of age. I could imagine him jamming with his buddies and the good times he must have associated with the guitar. I understood why he might have been hesitant to let me take it. I doubt he remembered what was tucked deep inside, but no doubt he wanted to move on, and I bet it took some doing to let the guitar go.

The guitar is a Cortley copy of a Gibson Dove, and it looks like the actual Gibson that Elvis is playing in the picture. I even found a website dedicated to the copy guitar! People said nice things about it online, and I was inspired to fix it. I got me some Gorilla Glue and a clamp, did as good a job as I could gluing it back together. A bit cruder of a repair than I'd hoped. But when I strung the guitar up, it held.

And when I tuned it up and began to play, the guitar sounded with a warmth that made me smile.