Saturday, May 03, 2008


Ray and I went to Scottsdale for my birthday and stayed in a hotel and did some shopping. The trip was great, however there was one thing that was kind of bittersweet.

For my birthday Rach planned on getting my guitar fixed (repaired, not neutered). See, its been all over the world and has been thrown in trailers, vans, RV's, busses, cars, truck tool boxes and airplanes and has been played for hours and hours and hours and it has started buzzing when you play it. I assumed that it was just needing a new fret board.

So Rach was surprising my for my b-day by getting my guitar fixed (one of the best birthday presents ever) and when it was taken to the repair shop she found that its almost beyond repair. There is something funky in the neck and the guy said it would cost at least $500 and there was no guarantee that it will completely fix it, THAT SUCKS SO BADLY.

To me this is more than just a faded/scratched/played out guitar, this is MY guitar. I learned how to play on this guitar, I've played for church, schools, bars, camps, conferences, Americans, Africans, Mexicans, Bosnians, Croations, friends, family and strangers with this guitar and to know I can't fix it hurts me (I get teary thinking about it and I am not one to cry often).

The really tough thing is that Pat gave it to me. For you who don't know, Pat is my aunt and she pretty much raised me. I moved in with her when I was in middle school and she was the world to me. She was like my best friend and even when I moved out for college we spoke all the time. When I was touring here in the states we spoke on the phone every day as I was driving the RV. She was the best.

However, Pat died a few years ago from cancer and as silly as it sounds this guitar was kind of that last close connection I had with her. I don't mean like I see her face in the faded finish or it says her name when I play a bar chord, but just that it means more to me than any other object on Earth. I planned on playing this guitar forever.



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