“And if I don’t get to heaven and I go down there below,
Better be a guitar when I get there, or I will refuse to go.
Once there was a time I was hungry, and I’d find
- Once There Was a Time, by Alvin Lee
Once, I had six electric guitars.
I sold the last one Sunday, so I’m now down to one old, beat-up Sigma acoustic with no strings on it.
My reasons for selling off my guitars are somewhat personal so that I won’t share them here, but it was a difficult decision.
Selling the last guitar was like seeing my youngest child adopted by some stranger and taken to a galaxy far, far away.
I had arranged to meet the buyer at the Lake Oconee News office next to Publix. Coincidentally, when I arrived and pulled the guitar out of my truck, a man was lifting his daughter out of a nearby car. The little girl was crying.
I felt that wave of melancholy that comes when you know you are about to make an irreversible decision, like leaving a job or signing divorce papers.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
But I went through with the sale.
It’s been a long time since I had an electric guitar, so now the blues may start collecting inside me like mud in a stopped-up pipe.
Without a guitar, I’m a bit like a ‘57 Chevy with a bad voltage regulator—its electrical system gone haywire, its battery overcharged until it swells, warps, and leaks acid before finally exploding.
Music in general, and the guitar in particular, have always been my refuge when I felt helpless or hopeless.
I did find some comfort in the Good Book this week, though, as I always do.
The Bible (Psalm 46:1–3) says, “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will not fear, though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea; though the waters roar and be troubled, though the mountains shake…”
You need comforting verses like that when you are tempted to surrender to the darkness and trouble all around you. Surrender can sure look attractive at times.
But I still have the keyboard I bought a while back. I’ve learned a 12-bar blues progression with my left hand, at least. I have a newfound respect for piano players.
I also have a ukulele, and I could learn to play Israel Kamakawiwo‘ole’s version of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” That would be sweet.
And let’s not forget the Sigma. We have a long history together. I’ve got some new strings for it and a new set of gold bridge pins.
I remember when my mama bought it for me, and I should be ashamed for letting it collect dust for so long.
It’s definitely time to string it again, and I’ll only need five of the six strings I bought because of a vow I made 15 years ago. A woman I adored died young at the age of 44, and I was crushed, y’all. So crushed, I wrote something about her that wound up on the program passed out at her memorial service:
“I remember how rooms lit up when you walked into them and how people fell all over themselves to impress you, but they were all just trying to absorb some of that magic you carried with you, to rub against some of that heavenly fabric that God saw fit to drape around you when you were born.”
I brought out the Sigma to help me cure those deep blues, and as I was trying to write a song about her, I broke the high “E” string.
Since her name was Elizabeth, which starts with “E,” I decided I would never put the “E” string back on it. And I never did.
I just learned an alternate tuning—like I’m trying to do with my life right now.
Selah.
(My customary sign-off, “Selah,” is used three times in Psalm 46. Those verses are meant to be sung.)